He produces a weak smile. “What’s that other thing people say about boats? They’re nothing more than holes in the water you throw money into.”
The boat does another roll to the left and this time it’s so sharp I grab Hector’s arm to steady myself. The wind has undone my ponytail and is whipping my hair into my face. I swear I feel a raindrop or two. Or three.
“I don’t like the look of these clouds,” Hector declares.
I don’t like the look of Hector’s face, either, which has gone pretty pasty.
He leads me back inside. “You head back to the salon. It’s time I talk to the captain.”
I’m on board with that plan. I’ve had just about enough of this seagoing adventure. “I’ll do another tour of the staterooms. I want to make sure there’s plenty of closet space before I make an offer!”
But my attempt at levity appears to fall on deaf ears. “You really don’t know much about boats, do you? On board a boat, closets are called hanging lockers. And please wait for me in the salon,” he repeats and this time doesn’t bother to smile.
I intend to head for the salon—really, I do—but somehow I find myself tiptoeing into the main stateroom. It’s so pretty with all the shiny cherrywood and the cute little drawers where you can store things and the luxurious linens on the queen-size bed. It occurs to me I might attempt a little snooping but I don’t get far because immediately I get waylaid by the so-called hanging locker. I wonder how much of my wardrobe I could fit on a boat like this? Hector returns to find me holding up a gold sequin bustier dress with a skirt overlay in black chiffon.
“What are you doing with that?” he demands, and grabs the dress from me. “I told you to wait for me in the salon!”
“I just wanted to look at the clos—I mean, the hanging lockers. These clothes are stunning!” I wag a finger at him. “Your wife has spectacular taste.” Or maybe his mistress does. Whoever these clothes belong to, judging from the size their owner is not a little wisp of a thing.
Hector puts the dress back and slides the hanging-locker door shut as again the boat flounders. His face turns a whiter shade of pale, as the song goes. He lays a hand against the wall then spits out, “Let’s go sit down.”
“Good idea,” I agree.
But we’ve barely made it into the salon when the boat starts pitching so crazily that it’s hard to sit down. My backside completely misses the settee and crash lands boom!—right on the floor.
“Are you all right?” Hector cries but he makes no move to help me. He’s clutching the settee as if his life depended on it.
And maybe it does, because by now the boat is swaying madly as if a demonic sea monster has gotten a hold of us and is having a grand old time trying to shake us loose into the ocean itself. Much more of this and he’ll succeed. Wind and water are lashing at the windows like in those movies where the old seafarer who’s seen it all starts screaming We’re going down! Abandon ship!
“How the heck did this storm come up so fast?” I scream at Hector from my position on the floor. “Those waves must be ten feet high!”
“More like fifteen,” he whimpers.
“Why the heck didn’t you let us go back when I asked you to?”
“My bad,” he pushes out through clenched teeth. No more is Hector the suave and debonair yachtsman. Now the man looks petrified.
I soon realize he’s not just scared. From the pinched look on his face and the way he’s bending over on the settee, I am rapidly getting the idea that Hector may not have a cast-iron stomach.
I get confirmation of that theory a minute or two later when he rises to his feet and scampers unsteadily across the salon half bent over with his hand over his mouth. I suspect he’s heading for what I now know is called the head but it’s really terrible news for both of us that he doesn’t make it that far.
I turn away so I can’t see but unfortunately I can’t stop my nose from smelling. Or my ears from hearing. Or my mind from imagining. The picture I get in my head is all too vivid.
“I’m so sorry, Harriet,” Hector calls between bouts.
“That’s all right,” I assure him. I wouldn’t wish this kind of nausea on anyone but I do think that Hector’s repetitive retching in this enclosed space pretty much evens us up on some cosmic scoreboard. True, I lost Hector’s fishing gear overboard. But now he’s created a stench I have to suffer. And even though I was never serious about buying this vessel, if I had been I’d be darn worried about the colossal fumigation that will be required to render it once again habitable.
The trip back to the marina seems to take about a thousand years but eventually we make it there. And wouldn’t you know it, once we do it’s as sunny as can be. It’s as if the storm never happened.
I feel like kneeling and kissing the dock once we’re off the boat but I restrain myself. By this time Hector has changed clothes and cleaned up. If I’d gone through what he just did, I wouldn’t feel like myself again until I’d soaked in a tub for about a day and a half.
Our goodbyes are brief, which isn’t much of a surprise. “Bonnie will be in touch,” I say, which is about as much as I can promise.
Hector nods. “Let’s talk soon,” he says, but I get the feeling his ardor for me has dimmed. That’s no blow to my ego. Hector will forever associate me with hurling his brains out. That’s a heck of a lot for a guy to get past.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Rachel leaps into the Durango the second I appear at Don Gustavo’s homestead. “Guess what? Dad got asked to pose for a men of NASCAR calendar!”
“He what?”
“Well, it’s not really men of NASCAR. It’s more men of NASCAR pit crews. But it’s the same idea. Can you believe it? He refused to pose in his underwear but he said he wouldn’t mind posing shirtless. I guess he’s been working out constantly.”
I wave at the security guard as we exit Paloma’s gated community and head for Mario’s, trying to digest this latest 411. “Did he call to tell you this?”
“I called him and it came up. Isn’t it cool?”
“Why do you think it’s cool when you think my competing in pageants is so uncool?”
“Because Dad didn’t go after this. It just happened. It’s more organic.”
Organic or not, it comes as a shock. Jason is a good-looking man, don’t get me wrong, but he hasn’t exactly been Mr. Discipline in recent years in terms of his eating and workout habits. I will admit that I’ve noticed a change since he started the pit-crew training. I guess I’m not the only one who noticed.
I also note that Rachel knows about this before I do. That just goes to show that Jason and I still have a ways to go to make up from Saturday’s phone fight about my investigating. We have texted and chatted since then but it’s all been pretty cursory. “Is he excited about it?” I ask.
“He pretends like he isn’t but I think he is,” Rachel reports. “You know what he’s like.”
Yes, I do. Which is another reason I find this surprising. Jason has never been one to seek the spotlight. That’s been more my bailiwick. I wonder how much attention he’ll get from this. And from whom. Who buys beefcake calendars, anyway? Gay men, I would imagine, and straight women. Hmm …
“Guess what else I found out today?” Rachel goes on. “Doña Paloma has a sewing room and she’s going to let us use it. I don’t know why she has a sewing room because I don’t think anybody that rich would ever sew. It’s got a big table where you can lay out your patterns and a gazillion colors of thread and everything anybody would ever need.”
“That sounds great but are you sure it wouldn’t be an imposition?” I have to focus on what she’s telling me because I’m still distracted by this calendar development.
“I really don’t think so, Mom.” Rachel grows serious. “I think Doña Paloma wants the company. She keeps saying she’s really busy but she was with me all day except for a little while when she was with Don Gustavo. We didn’t talk constantly but we were together constantly.”
“She’s helping me, too. I learned a bunch of new words in Spanish. You want to hear them? But first tell me what happened on the boat.”
By the time we reach Mario’s, Rachel has been brought up to speed on my seafaring escapade and my own Spanish has improved considerably. I have a new worry when I see that my father’s hog is absent from the driveway. I wonder what mischief he’s getting up to.
Rachel bounds away to share the sewing-room news and I find Shanelle on a chaise lounge by the pool. She’s pulled her hair into a bun and is wearing a tank maxi dress with accordion pleats in a red-on-black tropical print. I settle on the chaise lounge next to hers and kick off my stilettos. Given all that occurred during the day, it takes a while to finish the download.
“I almost feel bad for Hector puking like that!” Shanelle chortles. “Kind of ruins his Don Juan image. So now that you’ve met him, where does he stand on your suspects list?”
“Still on it for sure. I’m trying to figure out how to get the Hotel Roca to confirm his alibi.”
“You probably need Detective Dez for that,” Shanelle opines, which is what I think, too.
“I wonder if the valet parking guys keep a record of when a car goes in and out of the garage. Or if there are cameras in the lobby that videotape the comings and goings.”
“If it’s a big enough hotel, I bet there are. And where do you stand on Consuela?”
“Still on the list.”
“Girl, you just got it in for her!” Shanelle cries. “I cannot believe that hot mama killed Peppi over a top five list.”
“Maybe not. But she’s hiding something.” I pull out my cell. “Let me see if I can get Detective Dez on the Hotel Roca bandwagon.” Unfortunately he doesn’t pick up and I am forced to leave a voicemail.
“Hope you can still eat after what you witnessed this afternoon.” Shanelle stands up and smoothes her skirt. “Because I for one am ravenous.”
“Oh, I can eat.” I’ve put Hector’s impressive display of regurgitation skills behind me. My ancestors are Polish and my stomach is made of cast iron. “You know where I thought we could go?” We stroll back into the house. “The restaurant owned by that judge I replaced. It’s in South Beach and Lasalo Dufu said the food is really good. Alice’s on Jefferson, it’s called.”
“You would want to go there,” Mariela says, not bothering to look up from her laptop.
Shanelle sets her hand on her hip. “What the heck’s wrong with it?”
“That lady Alice who owns it is bulimic. Which is revolting. So nobody goes there anymore. I couldn’t believe she was one of our judges.”
Rachel plunks down on the sofa next to Mariela. “How do you know she’s bulimic?”
“Everybody knows. It was in Dateline Miami. And since you won’t know what that is, I’ll tell you. It’s a magazine. And everybody reads the social column. My mom’s been in it a bunch of times.”
“Just because the lady’s bulimic doesn’t mean the food isn’t good,” Rachel says.
“Yuk!” Mariela squeals. “How could you possibly eat there when you know the lady who made your food is in the john sticking her finger down her throat?”
“All right, girls,” I say. “I think we get the picture.” Sadly, vomiting seems to be the theme of the day. “Mariela, if you don’t want to come with us, you don’t have to. There’s plenty of food in the house.”
“You got that right,” Shanelle says. “So will you girls help with the sewing when we get back?”
“I will!” Rachel cries.
“I’ve got a lot of homework to do,” Mariela says.
“Is that what you’re doing now?” I ask.
She doesn’t meet my gaze. Then, “Yes.”
“You are such a liar!” Rachel cries. “You’re looking at camcorders!”
“Maybe that has to do with my homework!” Mariela yells. “Maybe I have a project to do!”
“As if!” Rachel screams.
I raise my voice over the ruckus. “Enough! Rachel, wash your hands and then get in the Durango. Mariela, are you sure you’ll be all right here alone?”
“Why are you even asking me that? I am not a child.”
No, she’s a teenager. Meaning she could get into trouble times ten. “I would like you to stay home and do your homework. Will you do that?”
She hesitates, then, “Maybe.”
That’s as good as I’m going to get. A few minutes later—after I’ve freshened up and changed into a jersey wrap dress in a paint-splatter print—I’ve got everybody in the Durango but Pop and Mariela.
“Your dad told me he’d be home by Monday Night Football,” Trixie says as we set off. She’s wearing a shift dress in a black and aqua psychedelic print that creates a ‘70s retro effect. “So you don’t have to worry about him, Happy.”
Would that it were so easy.
“I found Dateline Miami,” Shanelle reports, trolling through her cell phone. She chuckles. “Whoa. The gossip columnist has one fun name. Iris Flower. Okay, here’s a story about the funeral lunch at Peppi’s house.”
“Does it mention Doña Paloma screaming at Mr. Hector and accusing him of murder?” Rachel wants to know.
“No,” Shanelle reports after a while. “Hector’s name doesn’t even come up.”
I pipe up from the driver’s seat. “Consuela seemed peeved that he didn’t make the guest list but Rachel and I did.”
“That’s because girlfriend believes she should attend every important social event in town,” Shanelle says.
“Probably so she can be in that gossip column,” Rachel adds. “It just goes to show how superficial she is. Like daughter, like mother.”
I eye Rachel in the rear-view mirror. “Young lady, what happened to your vow to be nicer to Mariela?”
Rachel sighs. “I just hate that she lies about everything.”
“Someday that’ll catch up with her,” Trixie predicts.
“Look for the column about Alice’s on Jefferson,” I urge and in short order Shanelle finds it.
“Dang! Look at this picture,” and she hands around her phone. A thin, haggard-looking blonde wearing a white chef’s jacket is shown emerging from a small bathroom. Her hair is stringy and she’s got big bags under her eyes.
“Why are her cheeks so puffy?” Rachel asks.
“That’s what happens,” Trixie says. “Bingeing and purging can make your glands swell. You get dehydrated so your body tries to hold onto water any way it can.”
“It’s a disease,” I say. “You ruin your teeth and your skin and your digestive system. It’s bad for you all around.”
Rachel scrunches up her face. “How do you guys know so much about it?”
“We’ve all read about it,” I say. “It’s a problem for a lot of women. Actresses and models and beauty queens because they’re under so much pressure to be thin but regular women, too.”
“Why would a chef care about being thin?” Rachel wants to know.
“None of us can answer that question,” Shanelle says. “There’s a big psychological component to it.”
“If that’s what’s going on with Alice Dilling,” I say, “I feel sorry for her. She needs help. What does the column say, Shanelle?”
“It quotes an anonymous worker at the restaurant who says that everybody there hates Alice Dilling because she’s a tyrant. And everybody knows she’s purging. Then there’s a follow-up that says that after the first column came out, Alice did a mass firing because she couldn’t pinpoint who tipped off Iris Flower about her bulimia. It also says the restaurant used to be popular but now is in real trouble.”
“That sure looks to be the case,” I whisper a few minutes later as we stand in the restaurant’s attractive but nearly empty interior. “Mariela didn’t lie about nobody coming here anymore.” Personally I find its homey look appealing: brick walls painted white, open beam ceilings, rustic wood tabl
es, and muted lighting.
“Maybe it’s quiet because it’s Monday night,” Trixie murmurs.
“The other restaurants around here are hopping,” Shanelle points out.
“It sure smells good,” Rachel says.
I have to agree. And I find a number of the menu items tempting. Rachel and I decide to share the southern fried chicken with cream gravy while Shanelle opts for skirt steak and Trixie mac and cheese with truffle oil.
“I’ve never had truffle oil before,” she whispers. “Fancy.”
We’re toasting with iced tea and Mexican beer when I spy Alice peeping out from the back to survey her culinary domain. She’s in street clothes and looks better than she did in the gossip-column photo, though she is very pale and scary skinny. Wardrobe-wise, she’s got sort of a Palm Beach socialite thing going: straight jeans in a pink and teal floral print paired with a pink top and a string of pearls around her neck.
I rise from my chair and the motion catches her eye. She walks over with a wan smile on her face. “Please, sit down. Thanks for coming in tonight.”
“It’s our pleasure.” I introduce our quartet. “Lasalo Dufu told me your food is terrific and so we wanted to try it. I’m the judge who replaced you at the Teen Princess of the Everglades pageant. And Shanelle came into town to fill in for Peppi Lopez.”
“Wow. I see.” She sort of reels then clutches the back of my chair. “That was such a shock, what happened to her. I still can’t believe it.”
“It really was terrible. I know you had to leave right after the orientation lunch but did you happen to notice any friction between Peppi and anyone?”
“Friction? Oh no, nothing like that.”
“And there was no friction between the two of you, I take it.” I don’t put much stock in it but I do remember Consuela’s claim that she saw Peppi and Alice fighting outside the ladies’ room at the orientation lunch.
Alice seems flustered at the very idea. “Of course not!” Our entrées arrive and she steps back until the serving is done. Then, “Come to think of it, I did notice one thing. Peppi got a call that seemed to stress her out and when I asked if everything was okay she said it was a problem at work.”
Ms America and the Mayhem in Miami (Beauty Queen Mysteries No. 3) Page 15
