What ends up happening is that Rachel and I get something to eat and watch the crowd thin. I try to engage my fellow mourners in conversation but get basically nowhere. Eventually I suggest to Rachel that we check out the pool area, where some of the remaining guests have wandered.
The pool is larger than those at many a hotel and is situated on the waterway that leads to Biscayne Bay. It boasts a feature I’ve never seen before: a grassy mound of an island with a couple of palm trees springing from it. I’m gazing back toward the main house when a motion in a second-story window catches my eye. It’s Paloma, half-hidden behind a shuttered window. She’s peering in our direction. I raise my hand to acknowledge her and she steps back.
I sigh. She seems so alone. I doubt this event has brought her any solace. Nor has it brought me much by way of useful information.
Trixie texts that she and Shanelle are nearby so Rachel and I trudge back toward the house. We’re walking past an older woman dressed as a housekeeper when I get an inspiration. Without pausing to reconsider, I ask her to inquire if Paloma might allow me to offer my condolences before we depart. She scurries off and returns bearing the news that indeed Señora Famosa de Lopez will see me.
“Wonderful.” My spirits lift. The afternoon may not be an investigative bust after all. I turn to Rachel. “Tell Trixie not to worry. I’ll make my own way back.”
“Señora would like to see the young lady, too,” the housekeeper tells us.
“I’d like to meet her,” Rachel says, and so it’s arranged that the housekeeper will invite Trixie and Shanelle to wait for us inside the house.
We’re led down a few corridors to another singular feature of the property: a two-story library. “Wow,” Rachel breathes. “Can you believe this?”
The room is warm and inviting, with lovely wood paneling and cozy seating, including a rocking chair. The second level is all bookshelves stacked with volumes.
“Boy, would I love to do my homework in here!” Rachel cries.
I hear a throat-clearing behind us. I turn to see Paloma, once again the picture of control. She’s kind of a diva but I like her. Plus I feel so darn terrible about the heartache she’s going through, which she’ll have to endure the rest of her days.
Rachel walks up to her with her hand outstretched. “I’m Rachel Kilborn. May I call you Doña Paloma?” She pronounces that beautifully, complete with a roll on the N in Doña.
I’m one proud mother hearing that, I will tell you.
“I’m really sorry about your daughter,” Rachel goes on. “I met her at the Teen Princess of the Everglades pageant. Not that I was competing. But she seemed like a really good person.”
Paloma blinks a few times. For a few moments she can’t say a thing. Then, “Thank you. And of course you may call me Doña Paloma. Do you study Spanish?”
“I’ve been taking it since fifth grade. And next year instead of going to college I want to go overseas, probably to Latin America, and really get immersed in Spanish. Also teach kids there to speak English. I’ve already applied to a program here in Miami that’ll let me do that.”
“You should consider going to Spain. That is my country.”
“Maybe you can tell me more about it. I’m very interested in other cultures.”
Paloma then turns to me. “I know what it’s like to have an intelligent daughter. You must be very proud.”
“I am. I’d prefer she go to college next year but I admire what she wants to do.”
“Everything in its time,” Paloma says, and her mood grows even more solemn.
I can guess why: she’s thinking now was not the time for her daughter’s life to end. Not so soon, not when Peppi was so young. I walk forward and take Paloma’s hands. “I’m so very, very sorry about your daughter.”
She nods again, we clasp hands for a moment, and the housekeeper returns with a tea service. We sit down. I’m preparing to proceed with a delicate inquiry or two when Rachel plunges right in. I’m afraid she gets that from me.
“Doña Paloma, I don’t know if you know but my mom has solved two murders. Nobody thought she could do it but she did. She’s like famous for it. I want her to figure out what happened to your daughter so you can get justice.”
Paloma turns an astonished face in my direction. “Is this true?”
When I confirm that it is, she wants to know precisely what I did on Oahu and in Vegas. Since Rachel is within earshot I provide an expurgated version of events, during which Paloma grows more and more animated. At the end she slaps the arm of her chair. “You make more sense than that stupid detective! Do you know what he told me?”
“That he thinks the killer is Don Gustavo’s former trumpet player?”
“I never heard such crazy talk! Only one person could have done this and you saw him at this house only one hour ago.” She points toward the door as if Hector might be standing there even now. “Hector hates Peppi, hates her! And he is blind with jealousy about what she had coming when my Gustavo is gone.”
I lean forward. “Can you explain that to me?”
“I will tell you the whole story. My husband changed his will, more than a year ago. He knew his mind was starting to weaken so he talked to his lawyer. He talked to everybody in the family. It was no secret.” She counts on her fingers. “He talked to Hector. And Chickie. And Peppi.”
Rachel pipes up. “So he changed the will in a way that made Mr. Hector mad?”
“He changed it to leave most of his fortune to me and to Peppi. To Peppi much more than to his other children.”
I can see how that might tick off the older two. “Why was that?”
“Because he admired Peppi! He saw himself in her. Because she worked hard, she had ambition, she wanted to do things with her life. She wasn’t always that way, I confess to you. But she grew up. She matured.
“Hector and Chickie, they don’t want to work for anything! They expect everything to be handed to them. They think because they have a famous father, they don’t have to lift a finger.”
“That’s like Mariela,” Rachel says to me.
“We’re not talking about Mariela now, Rachel. Please go on, Paloma.”
Paloma hesitates, then, “There is another reason Gustavo did what he did.” She has to stop to collect herself. Then, “I am the love of my husband’s life.” She raises her chin in a show of defiance. “And he is the love of mine. He was married to Inez for years, decades, and I will not lie to you. What he and I did was wrong.”
I know what she’s telling us. That she and Don Gustavo got together when he was married to Hector and Chiquita’s mother Inez. Then Don Gustavo divorced Inez and married Paloma, who was much younger. And a year ago he delivered another blow to his first family when he decided to leave most of his earthly goods to his second. That sure could fuel an intense resentment of Paloma and Peppi on Hector and Chiquita’s part.
Paloma goes on. “It started because Gustavo and I shared a passion for music. But it grew from there. We both knew what it meant to work hard and to come up from nothing. Hector and Chiquita, they are hypocrites. They waste their lives but they have the nerve to criticize Peppi and me.”
“Do you suspect Chiquita as well as Hector?” I ask.
Paloma waves a dismissive hand. “Not Chickie. She is in Atlanta with her rich husband. And she and Hector have been feuding for years. I don’t even know why they are so angry at each other anymore.
“Hector is the guilty one!” Again she slaps the arm of her chair. “He knows his father is up there dying”—she points at the ceiling as again tears threaten to overwhelm her—“and that every day could be his last. That is why Hector did this now to Peppi. He had to get rid of her before his father was gone. Otherwise it would be too late.”
This is a tricky situation, I’m realizing. Paloma has more in common with Detective Dez than she thinks. Both of them are focused on one suspect and one suspect only. I believe Paloma’s suspicion of Hector is well grounded but I must consider othe
r possibilities as well. “Paloma, I understand why you’re so suspicious of Hector,” I begin.
“Because he is the one who killed my Peppi!” she shrieks.
“He may well be but I’ve met a few other people I’d like to ask you about. In the interest of being thorough,” I add as I see that she’s about to explode. “For example, Alfonso Ramos, the other weather person at Peppi’s station. Did Peppi ever talk about him to you?”
“Never heard of him.”
“He might have wanted Peppi’s job.”
“So what?” she demands.
“Okay then, what about Jasmine Dobbs?”
“Her partner in the boutique. Everything was fine between her and Peppi. They had no dispute about anything.”
So either Peppi wasn’t sharing those details with her mother or Jasmine was feeding her landlord false information about why she was behind on the Sugarbabies rent. “Any boyfriends Peppi might have been having trouble with?” I ask.
“No!” Paloma cries. “They all loved her! You have to understand, my Peppi did not make enemies. There is only one person who could have done this. And you, Happy Pennington”—she jabs her finger at my face—“you must prove it!”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“How are you going to do it?” Paloma demands a second later. “What is your plan?”
More often than not, this beauty queen has no plan. She wings it. But I will not divulge that lame but winning strategy to Paloma. Or give it voice in front of my daughter, who’s gazing at me with confident eyes.
“How does Hector spend his time?” I ask.
Paloma throws out her hand. “Wastefully! He spends money and he cheats on his wife.” She pauses, then, “He also does some sort of fishing. He has a boat for that. He does no work, God knows. Nothing like that.”
“Do you know which marina he keeps his boat at?” I have a vision of hanging out there. I know what Hector looks like. I could—
“Come to think of it, he wants to sell that boat.” Paloma frowns. “To buy a bigger one, probably, now that he’s murdered Peppi and thinks he will get her money when my Gustavo dies!”
Something occurs to me. “I could pose as a buyer for his boat.”
Rachel claps her hands. “Great idea, Mom!”
Paloma’s expression lightens. “I know the broker Gustavo used when he bought his yacht. I will call her and tell her you are a friend of mine and you want to buy Hector’s boat. But she must pretend you and I don’t know each other.” She makes a spitting sound. “I have been on that accursed vessel! May it sink into the deep blue sea!”
Not while I’m on board, I hope. And since I am as much a seawoman as I am a welder, I will need coaching before I embark on this escapade. Right now I have no idea what to ask Hector the Boat Owner. Maybe Sebastian Cantwell will help. My pageant owner has crashed a powerboat or two. He must know something about them. Now to broach another delicate subject …
“Paloma, would you agree to go with me to Peppi’s home or apartment so I—”
“She lived here! Upstairs. She was saving money to buy a place of her own. That’s how responsible she was.” She eyes me. “You want to go to her room?”
“If you’ll let me.”
Paloma looks away. Then, “No. I’m not ready for that.” She turns back to me. “There is only one thing you must think about and that is Hector! Find what you need against him and forget everybody else.”
“Will you let me go through Peppi’s computer or cell phone? There might be messages from Hector that would help us.” Not to mention communications from other people of interest, I add silently.
“That detective has those things. Her handbag, too.”
Peppi’s handbag might well be carrying the notebook with the alleged top five list. If a case builds against Consuela, that could be an important piece of evidence. “So you’re not aware of Peppi arguing with anyone of late?” I ask.
“No.” Paloma’s answer is instant. “Nothing of the kind.”
“Nothing causing her any stress?”
“No! No stress but Hector.”
Rachel looks at me. I wonder if she’s thinking what I’m thinking.
This picture of Peppi seems a little unreal. No boyfriends, no drama in her life, no friction with a living soul. Only work at the TV station and work at the boutique. For an attractive, spirited woman in her twenties who only a few short years ago was getting into catfights at Heat games? Come on.
I can see why an adoring mother would have this picture of her daughter. But I’m not sure I’m buying it.
“Peppi was working so hard!” Paloma tells us. “That boutique goes to show you how ambitious she was. Doing the weather on TV was not enough for her. She wanted to be a businesswoman, too. She wanted to be like J Lo, with her hand in every pot. She wanted her station to make her an anchorwoman someday.”
“Really?” Rachel says.
“She even starting doing, what are they called, investigations. To prove how serious she was. She was working on one for later this month.” Paloma walks to the desk and returns with a DVD. “This is her first one. Take it. I made copies for all my friends.”
I stand up. “Paloma, I promise I’ll try as hard as I can to find out what happened to your daughter.”
“You get me proof,” she says, and I know of what. Paloma will not be satisfied until I establish Hector’s guilt. “I will call that boat broker tomorrow,” she adds as she leads Rachel and me back to the foyer. She slows with every step, which baffles me until I realize why.
The house will be much quieter once Rachel and I are gone. Paloma will be alone with her dying husband. She will never again hear her daughter’s spritely footsteps on these immaculate hardwood floors. She knows that no loud TV, no pounding music can fill the hollowness of a grieving house. She puts on an imposing front but I know her heart is broken beyond repair.
Rachel pipes up. “Doña Paloma, could I ask you a big favor? My school is letting me stay in Miami this week and I wonder if you’d help me with the special project I’m supposed to do. Maybe it could have something to do with Spanish culture …”
As Rachel rattles on, I see a light return to Paloma’s eyes. Which is ironic, because I’m getting tears in mine. My daughter isn’t only smart; she’s perceptive.
“It is possible I could find the time to help you,” Paloma says, and suggests that Rachel return in the morning.
Shanelle and Trixie rise from a sofa in the living room. I make the introductions, and after another delivery of condolences, we take our leave. I hug Rachel on the way to the minivan.
“Was your daughter especially special today?” Shanelle wants to know.
“You bet she was. And now we have a new suspect to investigate.”
Rachel and I relay the afternoon’s events.
“But killing his half sister?” Trixie drives us out of the gated community. “Even though there’s a lot of money involved I find that hard to believe.”
“Believe one thing,” Shanelle says. “You best put the pedal to the metal if we want to change clothes and get ourselves to Jasmine Dobbs’ penthouse by 5 o’clock.”
“Fun!” Rachel cries before I’m forced to douse her enthusiasm.
“This is adults only, Rach. Cocktails.” And, I hope, a wide variety of gossipy revelations. Because while Paloma is convinced Hector is our man, I still think Jasmine might be our girl. And I intend to further that line of inquiry tonight.
Back at Mario’s house, I put on a strapless floral dress with a tight sweetheart bodice and flowy skirt. I know Mario hasn’t left for the airport yet because I see his laptop on the island in the kitchen. It makes me sad that he’ll leave town when we’re so at odds with each other.
I’m out by the pool enjoying a moment of leisure while Trixie and Shanelle get dressed when I hear the roar of my father’s hog on the driveway. It sputters to a stop and in short order his cell phone rings. I frown. Since when has his ring tone been “Born to Be Wild”? That h
as girlfriend Maggie’s fingerprints all over it.
I hear him answer the phone. We’re not far apart distance-wise but we can’t see each other as the property’s tall perimeter wall rises between us.
“Like I told you before I’m not ready to make a decision,” I hear him say. Pause. Then, “It has most of what I’m looking for but there’s a few other areas I want to take a gander at.” Pause. “I’ll call you after I look around some more.”
What is he talking about? Why don’t I like the sound of it?
Trixie barrels toward me. “Sorry to be so slow, Happy.” She looks adorable in bright pink skinny cords paired with a black A-line camisole featuring a velvet floral motif. Shanelle appears in slim black ankle pants and a leopard-print chiffon top with split sleeves. Of course we’re all wearing sky-high heels and evening makeup.
“You guys look good,” Rachel says as we pass her on the way out the door. “Can we do Chinese takeout when you get back? I’ve gotten Grandpa to like it.”
“Sounds good to me.” It’s only too bad that I have to delay twenty questions with my father until later.
Jasmine’s penthouse is on the 40th floor of an extremely snazzy high-rise condo building. She greets us wearing a long halter dress in a bold blue geometric print with a crossover neckline and an asymmetric hem. Her earrings feature three huge platinum rectangles that hang down to her shoulders.
“Hello, girls,” she trills, “this is my BFF Tia,” and we meet another very stylish African-American woman wearing long teal-colored feather earrings to go with her short figure-hugging cocktail dress. “She’s also in the league,” Jasmine says, which now I understand means Tia is married to an NBA player. “Brandi couldn’t make it. Some shady situation with her ex.”
“No news there,” Tia says as she floats back into the living room. “But she’ll miss something tonight! We brought in a bartender to make us a cocktail I had in New Orleans once. Called a Sazerac.”
I trail Tia dazzled in more ways than one. Who hires a bartender when she has “a few girls over for hors d’oeuvres”? And who can do anything in this designer condo but gape at the view? As the setting sun turns the heavens delicious shades of purple and peach, the floor-to-ceiling windows provide the drop-dead spectacle of downtown Miami, Biscayne Bay, and the Atlantic Ocean splayed in all directions. Out of the corner of my eye I see a bartender doing complicated things with sugar cubes and Old Fashioned glasses but I have trouble keeping my attention indoors. I’m handed a gorgeous red-orange concoction with a twist of lemon peel.
Ms America and the Mayhem in Miami (Beauty Queen Mysteries No. 3) Page 11
