Wow. How coincidental is that? One would think there’s a confab of Peppi Murder Suspects on the ninth floor. I know what Hector is doing in a guest room at the Hotel Roca at 12:17 on a Tuesday afternoon but what the heck is Consuela up to?
A few minutes later I too ride up to the ninth floor. I glance down the two shadowy corridors that lead away at sharp angles from the elevator bank. The one to the left is partially blocked by a housekeeping cart but otherwise there’s no sign of life.
I know what I’d do if I were in a hotel room in the middle of the day for a clandestine rendezvous. I’d hang out my DO NOT DISTURB sign.
I stroll down the corridor to my right and count three such signs. The corridor to my left boasts five.
I dawdle near the elevators ruing how the next hours will drag, then embark on another casual amble down the left-hand corridor. Going past the room that’s being cleaned, I peek past the portly middle-aged maid to see a luxuriously appointed interior with a drop-dead ocean view. Further along I lean close to one of the DO NOT DISTURB doors. Nothing. I don’t hear a peep. Either the occupants are the quietest lovemakers in the western world or they’re asleep or reading or doing work or something. I try the same ploy at another door and hear a soap opera blare from the TV. If it were The Young and the Restless I might linger for a while—I’m dying to know if Sharon and Nick will ever get back together—but since it’s not, I move along.
As I plaster my ear against yet another door, I hear something I recognize all too well: the voice of one Consuela Machado.
“—we go to Brazil in January? It would be so much fun! Just imagine. Rio … Sao Paolo … Copacabana …”
I hear her giggle flirtatiously, much the way she does with Mario. Who the heck is she in there with?
Then I have a thought that, I will admit, causes my spirits to sink. Maybe she’s in there with Mario! Maybe he came back from L.A. and the two of them wanted to hook up but they couldn’t at his house because we’re all there and they couldn’t at her house because Mariela might return at any moment. And so they thought of the Hotel Roca, which is apparently notorious across Miami as THE place for midday couplings of a non-spousal nature.
And these days Consuela is so serious about reeling in Mario that she’s proposing they embark on international travel together. That is so like her! I press my ear even tighter against the door. Yes, I do believe I hear the low register of a male voice. It probably belongs to Mario. I wouldn’t bet my tiara on it but I’d lay odds. I don’t want to listen to this. I know—
“Hola, miss!” an accented female voice bellows behind me.
I spin around to see the maid I spied before striding in my direction.
“Miss!” she brays. “Do you need help?”
I drop to my hands and knees, tearing off one of my silver and mother-of-pearl earrings and flinging it down the corridor. “Oh,” I say quietly, trying to wave her away, not to mention pipe her down, “I’m fine. My earring just fell off. I’ll find it.”
“I’ll help you, miss!” she vows in a voice so loud they can probably hear her in Palm Beach.
“No, really—”
“Is right there!” she yowls, pointing a chunky finger at the spot where my earring perches in a very obvious manner right in the middle of the carpeted corridor.
“What the devil—” I hear a male voice say from inside Consuela’s room, and then to my horror that door opens.
I crouch in place wishing I had that magic ring the hobbit has that makes him disappear when he puts it on. Did I bungle this or what? I am such a twit! I am more embarrassed than I’ve ever been in my life. Mario is already half convinced I’m batty and this will erase all remaining doubt.
I manage a fearful glance back over my shoulder. To my astonishment—and, I will admit, relief—it’s not Mario I see looming in the doorway. It’s Hector.
Hector?
His eyes bug out at the sight of me. “Harriet? What are you doing here?”
Since I have no clue how to answer that question the maid pipes up. “Miss lost her earring!” she supplies helpfully but I don’t expect that answer to satisfy Hector’s curiosity.
I will say that in these early moments he doesn’t look so much angry as amazed. I’m surprised he’s not freaking out in a big way. I certainly am though I’m doing my darnedest to hide it. Hector and Consuela? Who knew?
In short order the lady in question appears behind Hector. Her eyes blaze. “You!” she shrieks as I scrabble to my feet. “Are you some kind of crazy stalker or what? What’s wrong with you?”
“You know Harriet, too?” Hector inquires of Consuela.
“Her name is Happy, not Harriet! And since when do you know her?”
“I met her yesterday. When she came to see my boat.”
“Why did she come to see your boat?” Consuela screams.
“Because she’s considering buying it,” Hector replies in a reasonable tone.
“She doesn’t want to buy your boat! She has no money!”
Hector turns his eyes to me as if expecting me to deny this allegation. “It’s not true that I have no money,” I say, which is, in fact, a true statement. Since I am once again upright, I feel a tad feistier and decide that offense is the best defense. “How do you know Hector, Consuela?” I inquire.
She rapidly blinks her heavily mascaraed eyes but doesn’t say a word. For once it appears I’ve shut her up.
And I know why. Now I know something about Consuela that she wishes I didn’t. And that gives me power over her. Which she doesn’t like at all.
“We met at a party,” Hector says into the silence, then chuckles as if a delightful memory comes to mind. “I learned that night that Consuela is an expert pole dancer.”
I bet it didn’t take Consuela long to display her other talents to Hector Lopez Nieto, the son of one of Florida’s wealthiest men.
“You didn’t say why you’re here, Harriet. I mean, Happy.” A beat later Hector sidles closer. “Though I think I know,” he adds quietly and gives me a knowing wink.
“I am done with all this!” Consuela declares. She lurches closer to me. “Don’t you say a word about this to anybody,” she hisses, low enough that only I can hear. “If you know what’s good for you,” she adds with a menacing glare, then turns and spins back inside her room. “Hector, get back inside here.”
Hector gives me another conspiratorial wink then obediently shuts the door behind him. As I reattach my earring, I hear him speak to Consuela in a wheedling tone. Good luck with that, is what I’m thinking.
I walk past the maid, who is reunited with her cart and keeping her gaze averted, and make my way back down to the lobby, thoughts whirling in my head like dervishes.
Whoa. This is a lot to take in. Hector’s mistress is Consuela.
Meaning … two of my suspects are romantically linked with each other.
Meaning … it’s possible they’re in cahoots.
In the lobby I sink into a chair behind my favorite shoji screen. Hector and Consuela both have a motive to murder Peppi. If they trust each other, why wouldn’t they team up to get the job done?
The way I look at it, Consuela’s relationship with Hector gives her a stronger motive to want Peppi dead. I would bet big money that she is angling to have Hector divorce his wife and marry her. In which case a wealthier Hector—who’s gotten a larger inheritance because of his half-sister’s untimely demise—is better than a poorer Hector.
I find it hard to believe Consuela is in this affair just for sex. She could have sex with the pool boy. Call me cynical where she’s concerned but I think that if she’s hooking up with a wealthy, high-status man like Hector Lopez Nieto, it’s for what she can get out of him. And the biggest prize is marriage.
Not that Hector seems all that eager for a divorce. He told me on the boat that he loves his wife, that she understands him. And if memory serves, he also divulged that he’s been with his mistress for a while. If he hasn’t divorced his wife to marry
his mistress yet, why would he now?
Either he hasn’t been forthcoming about all of this with Consuela, or he has and she’s chosen not to believe him. She wouldn’t be the first woman to make that mistake.
I’m pondering all the fascinating possibilities when Hector reappears in the lobby. Since I’m no longer taking care to hide myself, he sees me and walks over. He sits next to me and takes my hand. I’m about to say something when he lays a gentle finger on my lips and shakes his head. “No, querida”—he gazes into my eyes—“you don’t need to say a thing. I completely understand.”
“You do?”
“As soon as we met on the boat you were hoping we’d get to know each other better, am I right? You gave me a fake name and everything, to add to the thrill. Such devotion you show me. Following me to this hotel, where you knew I’d be today. Going to such lengths to see me again.”
Well, I did go to some lengths, but it wasn’t out of devotion to Hector, I can tell you that.
“Probably you wanted to see my mistress,” he goes on. “To size up the competition, as they say.”
“I can’t deny it.”
“Consuela said some things about you but they’re too preposterous to believe.” He chuckles as if he’s enjoying the prospect of two brunettes fighting over him. “I had the feeling on the boat that you were falling in love with me. You were so overwhelmed you couldn’t even hold on to your rod and reel.” He shakes his head in joyous wonderment. “It made me angry at the time but now I find it charming. And a woman who could fall in love with a man after what she saw on that boat”—he pauses to kiss my fingers, ringless again today as a precaution—“it says a great deal about her character.”
Or her imperviousness to hurling. One of the two.
“That sort of devotion, Happy”—he pauses to give me another meaningful gaze—“it makes me think I could share my deepest secrets with you.”
My heart skips a beat but not for the reason Hector supposes. “You have deep secrets?” I croak.
He lays his hand on his heart. “Only one. So help me God, I have one very deep secret.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“Share it with me, Hector!” I implore. “It will bring us even closer.”
He glances around the lobby. “Now is not the time.”
Darn it!
“But the time will come,” he adds. “Now I must go.”
“I hope I haven’t ruined your afternoon with Consuela,” I lie.
“She’ll be fine. She wants to go sun on the beach.” He brushes my fingers with one last kiss. “May I offer you a lift somewhere?” he asks as he rises to his feet.
“Is your car here?” I ask, though I know. When he affirms that it is, I pose another question. “What kind of car do you drive, Hector?”
He frowns. “Why do you want to know that?”
“I ache to know every last thing about you,” I breathe.
Hector is undone by such lovesick dedication. This time he kisses my forehead. If Consuela were a witness to this display, she’d fling her crocodile overnighter at my head. “It’s a Maserati.”
“There’s more than one model, right?”
“Mine’s a Quattroporte Sport GT S.” He lowers his voice. “Someday I’ll take you for a ride.”
“I would love that. But what I would love even more is to know the most intimate secrets of your heart and soul.” I bat my lashes a few times for effect.
He lays his hand on his heart and takes his leave.
The second Hector squeals away in his red Maserati, I approach the valet parker who brought out Hector’s car. It happens to be the same young man who checked in the vehicle when Hector arrived. “Isn’t that a Maserati Quattroporte Sport GT S?” I ask him.
The valet looks at me with admiration. “It sure is.”
“I find those so much less ostentatious than the Grancabrios, don’t you?” I made good use of the last few minutes by doing some research on my cell phone. “And I’ve never believed their performance suffers by comparison to the Granturismo Sport.”
“It performs good enough for me!” the valet agrees.
“Are there a lot of red Quattroportes in Miami or was that the same one I happened to see here Friday?”
“Oh, it’s the same one,” the valet assures me. “It’s here every Friday.”
“Really? Does the owner ever come and go while he’s here? Like maybe go to lunch somewhere and then come back?”
“If he has lunch, he has it here.” The valet winks at me. “Just be here noon on Friday if you want to see it again.”
“Maybe I will.” I give him a smile and sashay off.
So Hector was here at the Hotel Roca, per usual, when Peppi was killed. And the valet asserts he didn’t take his car out again until he left the premises. That doesn’t preclude Hector from using different transportation to get to the pageant venue, for example Consuela’s Mercedes. I wonder if her car was valeted, too, and if so, was it in the hotel garage the whole time. That seems to me something for Detective Dez to ascertain. I’ll try to get him on it … as soon as I finish up with Ms. Machado.
The Hotel Roca’s private beach is one glorious stretch of sand dotted with oversized tangerine and white striped umbrellas. I find Consuela lying on her back in full sun wearing a teeny-tiny tribal-style bikini with bead detailing. I get her attention by standing between her and the orb she’s worshipping.
She rises to her elbows and shades her eyes. “You again! I told you not to follow me! This beach is for hotel guests only so you can just go!”
I ignore that. “So Hector is what you’re up to in the middle of the day Friday when you claim to be teaching class after pole-dancing class.”
“What’s it to you?”
“I think it’s interesting that you find it necessary to lie about your activities.”
“You are completely loca, you know that? I told that to Hector! You little crazy detective, you’re so convinced I had something to do with what happened to Peppi! I bet you think Hector did, too!”
“He stands to inherit a lot more of his father’s estate with Peppi out of the picture,” I point out. “Which is better for you if you can get him to marry you.”
“Why wouldn’t he marry me? I’m beautiful, I’m young, I’m fun … all the things his sourpuss of a wife isn’t!”
So Consuela does want to marry Hector. “Seems to me Hector’s in no hurry to get rid of his wife. What does Mario think about this affair of yours?”
She hesitates a beat too long. “He doesn’t know about it,” I conclude. “And you don’t want me to tell him.” Of course if I were Consuela, I wouldn’t tell Mario, either. If you’re making a play for a guy, don’t let him know you’re making a play for another guy at the same time. In my humble opinion, that’s not the sort of thing they like.
“Go ahead and tell Mario! What do I care?” Consuela sits up straighter and jabs her finger toward my face. “You sicced that detective on me and what good did it do you? So blab your mouth to Mario. He’ll think you’re crazy just like Hector does.”
“Well, Hector must like crazy women because I got a real strong impression just now in the lobby that he’d love to add me to his list of mistresses.”
She throws out her hands. “Ay Dios mio, why did I put Mariela in that stupid pageant? I wish Hector had never said a word about it! Then I never would have had to see that ugly face of yours!” She grabs a silver bell lying next to her beach blanket and rings it madly. A handsome young man wearing board shorts and nothing else scampers over carrying a small silver pail.
“What’s in there?” I ask him.
“Fiji water,” he tells me.
“Don’t talk to her!” Consuela shrieks, turning onto her stomach. “Do my butt and then get her off this beach! She’s got no right to be here! She’s not a guest at this hotel!”
“That’s all right, I’m done here.” I walk away after I watch the young man carefully upend his Fiji water over Consuela’
s behind to get off the sand.
Now that’s service.
Once back in the Durango I give Detective Dez a ring. With the revelation that pole-dancer Consuela is conducting an affair with Peppi’s half brother, I am able to interest him in investigating both of their alibis.
“I’m looking forward to that cocktail you promised me,” he whispers huskily.
“You share that information with me, we’ll have that cocktail.” That’s a promise I’m willing to keep.
Once again I’m running late so I punch the address of my next appointment into the Durango’s GPS and speed across town. Again today my goal is a dance studio, but this time it’s not Luscious Lady Pole Dancing. It’s Salsa Addiction. And my instructor is Alfonso Ramos.
He’s waiting for me, dressed all in black with his satiny shirt open halfway to his navel. I get an early clue that his mood matches his dark clothing.
“You’re late,” he informs me as I race inside and deposit my handbag on one of the chairs pushed back against the wall. It’s a high-ceilinged brightly lit space with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the street and a huge dance floor. People are milling about, some practicing dance moves and others chatting. Salsa music fills the air.
“I’m really sorry,” I say. “But I’m here now. And I’m so grateful for your offer to teach me.”
“Your dress is too long. How are you supposed to dance in that?”
That didn’t occur to me when I chose my black and burgundy maxi wrap dress this morning. “It’s really easy to move in this dress. I don’t think it’ll be a problem.”
He grunts. “Whatever. We’ll have to make it work. Watch me first and then you try it,” and he proceeds to demonstrate the most basic salsa move: forward with the left foot, return it to the middle position, back with the right foot, return it to the middle position. All this while the hips and arms sway in a sensual manner.
Ms America and the Mayhem in Miami (Beauty Queen Mysteries No. 3) Page 17
