It looks easy until I try it. On my first few attempts I feel out of balance. “Saturday night I thought I could dance,” I giggle.
“Do you want to laugh or do you want to learn?”
I’m guessing “both” isn’t the right answer. “I want to learn,” I declare.
“Then try it again. And this time don’t bounce. Keep your chin up and check your movements in the mirror to keep your body level all the time.”
On my second attempt I must show some improvement because Alfonso mutters a terse “good.” “The not bouncing is important,” he tells me, “because any move you do transfers to your partner. Now let’s try this,” and he teaches me a variation on the basic move. It’s not all that different but still it takes a while for me to feel natural doing it.
We go at it for about twenty minutes before he suggests a break. He hands me a bottle of water and takes a swig from his own.
“When do you need to get to work?” I inquire. It’s well past 3 and I know his station has a news show around 6.
“I’m done with work today.” He slams his water bottle down on the counter. “You want to talk or you want to dance?”
Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the Everglades this morning. “I want to dance,” I say, and we move on to another set of moves. They wouldn’t be so challenging if I weren’t flummoxed by Alfonso’s statement that he’s already done with work. Did he get fired? Is that why he’s in such a foul mood?
He leads me through some arm movements, and trying to coordinate those with what the rest of my body is doing is no joke. “You don’t want your arms hanging at your sides like that,” he says. “They look like limp fish. Bend your elbows at a 45-degree angle so your wrists stay centered around your torso.”
Between trying to move my arms in unison with my feet and each arm with the opposite leg, I feel like my brain is getting a workout, too.
“Think of the arm movements this way,” Alfonso says as I pant to a frustrated halt. “Pretend you’re drawing small circles with your elbows.”
Believe it or not that tip actually helps.
“Good!” he eventually says. “The movement should look easy and effortless. You’re getting better with the hips, too. You don’t want to look too proper.”
In other words, forget everything the nuns taught me in Catholic school. “How about another break?” I suggest a few minutes later. Alfonso seems a mite less sullen. Maybe I can pry some information out of him.
This time we sit down with our water bottles. We chitchat for a bit before I dive in. “I’m surprised you don’t have to go to work later. Don’t you work nights?”
“I used to work nights.”
“Then what happened?”
“Then I got moved back to mornings. So she could work nights.”
“Who’s she?” I ask, though I hardly need to.
“Perpetua Lopez Famosa.” He almost spits out all nine syllables.
“The woman who got killed?” I draw in a horrified breath. “She took your job?”
“She used to be a dancer for the Heat. So our news director got the bright idea to call her in to audition for the morning weather job. Can you believe that?” He glowers at me as if I were the boss who had that brainstorm. “Like being a dancer meant she knew something about doing the weather.”
I resist the impulse to point out that Alfonso has the same two items on his resumé. “You’re saying she wasn’t qualified?”
“She couldn’t spell meteorology. All she knew was how to get on her back.”
I feign astonishment. “You don’t mean she slept her way into your job?”
“I have to spell it out for you?”
I’m not sure I believe this accusation. Alfonso wouldn’t be the first man who preferred to think that a woman bested him at work only because she slept with the boss. I hesitate, then, “I’m still confused. You said she auditioned for the morning job but you also said you got moved back to mornings so she could work nights.”
“That’s what makes it even worse! Not only did they hire that”—he stops himself from calling Peppi by some vile epithet or other—“they gave her my job! My job at night! How am I supposed to go clubbing if I have to be at work every morning before the crack of butt?”
“It would be impossible,” I agree, though I don’t think that’s the sort of thing most employers worry about. I also suppose Alfonso could go straight from clubbing to work. I wouldn’t recommend it. Can you imagine how exhausted he’d be? He wouldn’t be able to tell one end of the weather maps from the other. He’d be forecasting snow for Miami. “It might be rude of me to ask”—I lower my voice—“but do you think you might get your nighttime job back now that the weathergirl got killed?”
“I should, right?” he demands, without the tiniest hint of chagrin at Peppi’s murder. “And I was sure I would. But guess what that brainiac news director is doing tonight? He’s having the weekend weathergirl fill in!”
So that’s why Alfonso is so snarky. I make a good show of being shocked and appalled but really I’m not. Why shouldn’t the news director investigate other options? Especially since Alfonso Ramos strikes me as a less than ideal employee. He’d better watch out or he might find himself with no job at all.
“Did you have to talk to the police when they came by the station?” I assume interviewing the victim’s coworkers is standard procedure but with Detective Dez as the lead investigator you never know.
“That was a waste of time.”
“Did they want to know where everybody was when she got killed?” I make myself sound excited. “What are they called? Alibis? Sorry to ask but the whole thing’s like a TV crime drama!”
“Yeah, alibis.” He looks away. “I went straight home from work to get some sleep. That’s what everybody on the early morning shift does.”
Unless somebody can confirm that scenario, that’s not much of an alibi. Alfonso could have gone anywhere straight from work—like the pageant venue.
“I’m sick of talking about that snob,” he goes on. “She deserved what she got.”
It’s hard not to shudder hearing that. “I think I read that her family has lots of money,” I manage to say.
“They’re richer than God. She didn’t even need a job. And then that idiot news director let her start doing reports, as if she had any business doing that.”
I’ll keep to myself that her nail-polish exposé seemed pretty good to me.
This conversation really drives home how deeply Alfonso resented Peppi. He had even more motive than I realized to get rid of her. He didn’t like her personally. He resented her wealth. In his mind she was to blame when he lost his nighttime job. And he was sure he’d get it back once she was out of the picture. I bet he was humiliated by how she upstaged him, and so publicly.
It’s hard not to conclude that murdering Peppi would achieve all Alfonso’s goals. He’d get her out of the way and exact the ultimate revenge.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“One more move and I’m done for the day,” Alfonso declares.
“Okay,” I agree, even though I may be even less in the mood for salsa than he is. For one thing, it’s hard to feel comfortable dancing with someone you think might be a murderer. And for another, my feet are killing me. Advice for the future: metallic slides and salsa do not go together.
“I’ll teach you an open break to an underarm turn,” Alfonso says.
It sounds complicated. And it is. It’s got seven counts. Anything more than three seem like too many at the moment.
“It’s easy,” Alfonso insists when I’m having trouble. “All you have to do is a solo turn to the right.”
“I’m trying.”
“One more time. Back. Replace. Together. Forward. Turn. Replace. Close.”
We’re in two left feet territory now. I feel like I’ve never mastered a dance routine in my life. I try to loosen up and the result is that I let fly a turn that launches me straight into Alfonso.
&nbs
p; “That’s it!” He scowls at me. “I’m done.”
“I’m sorry. You really did teach me a lot, though. I’ll be much better the next time I’m on a dance floor.”
He nods, eyeing me. Then he edges closer. “So you ready to show some appreciation?”
Uh oh. I wonder what form he expects that to take.
“I know a guy who throws very exclusive parties.” His voice is suddenly so quiet I can barely hear him above the salsa music. “You have to be real special to get in. It’s for the rare few. And it just so happens he’s having one of those parties tomorrow night.”
“And you think I’m one of the rare few?”
“You could be.” He runs his eyes over my body. “You might make some nice new friends if you play your cards right. Friends who might be real valuable.”
This is sounding very bizarre. “And why is it good for you if I go?”
He chuckles. “Let’s just say the host is always grateful if I introduce him to lovely ladies who have the right attitude. Discreet ladies with an open mind who like to go wild every so often and have some fun. You like the nicer things in life, right?”
“Sure,” I say, even though I’m getting a picture here that I don’t like one bit.
“That’s what I thought.” He’s so close to me now that I feel his breath on my face. “You go to this party ready to have some fun and before you know it you’ll be able to get yourself some of those nicer things. You with me?”
When I don’t immediately answer, Alfonso takes me in his arms again and runs me through our salsa moves. But this time he does it faster and more powerfully. “You’re letting me lead, right?” he whispers when we whirl to a stop. “That’s all you have to do tomorrow night. Let the man lead you wherever he wants to go.”
I can’t believe I’m hearing this. Alfonso is pimping me. What other explanation could there be?
Clearly he senses my hesitation. “You owe me.” Now there’s a note of belligerence in his tone. “I spent a lot of time on you.” He lifts my chin with his finger. The motion is gentle but it freaks me out just the same. “Don’t worry. You’ll be amply rewarded. Just dress up real nice. Show a little skin like you did Saturday night. Then just let what happens, happen.”
“Give me the address,” I croak.
“Good girl.” Quick as a flash he hands me a business card. “That’s for you and you only. And remember. What happens at that party stays at that party. It’s like Vegas in Miami.” He gives me a smarmy grin. “You won’t regret it.”
He spins away. I grab my handbag and make for the exit. Once I’m back in the Durango I have to sit for a while before I can stop shaking.
I was wrong to think Alfonso Ramos was giving me a salsa lesson for free. There’s nothing free about it. He talks about me being “amply rewarded” but clearly someone will compensate him for bringing me to this so-called party.
I wonder how long he’s been doing this. I wonder how many women he’s roped into it.
I wonder if Peppi was one of them.
Eventually I’m calm enough to drive. By now the sun is setting and the sky is glorious shades of purple and orange. I take no joy in it. Not tonight. I fight my way through the commuter traffic longing to see my daughter and my dad and my BFFs and to shower off the disgust I feel from spending the afternoon in the arms of Alfonso Ramos.
He is a revolting individual. I cannot believe he goes to clubs and recruits women to do this. No wonder he’s always clubbing. For him it’s a moneymaking proposition.
I find Rachel in her bikini when I get to Mario’s. I grab her in a hug.
“You wanna try out the hot tub?” she asks, extricating herself.
“Sounds good to me.” A long therapeutic soak will help cure what ails me. “Where’s your grandpa?”
“Out for a ride,” she calls over her shoulder.
I have no difficulty cajoling Trixie and Shanelle to join us. As I put on my bathing suit—a black maillot with halter straps and ruching at the sides—I worry about my father. I’m wondering if “out for a ride” is a euphemism for “at the bank signing real-estate documents.”
I secure my hair on top of my head with a butterfly clip and slap out to the hot tub in my flip-flops, whose cutest feature is berry-colored rhinestones. “Is Mariela home?” I ask Rachel as I lower myself into the bubbling water. I know I’m not responsible for Mariela but still I feel as if I am.
“Maybe she does have some school project because when we all got back from Doña Paloma’s, the UPS truck had just delivered her some big box and she took it upstairs to her room. She screamed down at me to leave her alone but what else is new?”
Trixie and Shanelle appear in bikinis bearing plastic glasses of white wine. “No glass in the pool area,” Shanelle says as she hands me one.
“You could serve it in a water bottle tonight and I wouldn’t care.”
Shanelle arches her brows. “There’s a story there, girl.”
“You’re not kidding. I’ll tell you about it later.” I’m dying to unload about the day’s events to Shanelle and Trixie but I don’t want to do it within Rachel’s earshot. I sip the wine, resisting the impulse to down it in one gulp. “Did Doña Paloma start to feel better as the day wore on?” I ask Rachel.
My daughter nods. “I took her to get her hair and nails done. Usually she has a lady come to the house but I thought it was better if she got out. Tomorrow she promised to show me all her flamenco dresses. I want to get her to model them so I can take photos and write an essay about flamenco dance for my school project.”
“That sounds really good, Rach. And how did the sewing go?”
That query launches both Trixie and Shanelle onto a rave about the glories of the sewing room. I hear how many opening-number outfits have been finished, how many still need to be made, and how even Doña Paloma threw herself into the effort.
“I can’t believe it’s Tuesday night already,” Trixie concludes. “I don’t know how we’re going to get everything done by Thursday. I feel pretty good about the opening-number choreography, though, and maybe I can finish a few more outfits before Jasmine’s party.”
“That’s tonight!” I shriek. I totally forgot about the Sugarbabies launch party. Any notion I had of a productive evening during which I kick up my stilettos and cogitate about my murder suspects is shot.
Then again, I’ll certainly make an effort at the party to find out more about Jasmine and Peppi’s relationship.
I’m in my room admiring my dress selection for the evening—a pink cap-sleeve sheath with a lace overlay and a bateau-style neckline—when the doorbell rings. I hastily zip up the back and run to answer. The last person in the world I expect to see is standing there. “Jason!” I cry.
Except for his less-than-delighted expression, he looks fantastic. He’s wearing jeans and the raspberry-colored button-down sportshirt I bought him before he set off for pit school. Between the deep tan, dark longish hair, recent training regimen, and natural good looks, I can easily see why he’d be picked for a beefcake calendar.
We hug. It’s not as exuberant as our hugs usually are but given the chill between us over the past few days, it’s not bad.
In the back of my mind I’m worried, though. Did he come all the way to Miami to resume our fight about my investigating? So we could have a knockdown, drag-out in person instead of over the phone? “I can’t believe you’re here!” I cry.
“You’re not happy?”
“I’m just surprised! Come on in. Rachel!” I call in the direction of the hot tub. “Guess who’s here!”
She careens toward us dripping all over the pristine hardwood floor. “You made it!” she screeches.
So again Rachel knows what Jason is up to before I do. Then I remember that he had to get Mario’s address from somebody and he didn’t get it from me.
Jason and Rachel hug tight. Over her head my husband eyes me. “You must have plans tonight,” he observes.
Rachel pipes up. “One o
f the murder suspects is throwing a party to open her boutique and Mom’s going. Don’t get mad,” she adds but I doubt it’ll have much effect.
The commotion draws Trixie and Shanelle from their room. After another round of squeals and hugs, I offer Jason a beer and we settle around the kitchen island.
I watch my husband take in the luxurious surroundings. I’m glad at least Mario’s Z8 is in the garage so Jason doesn’t have to envy that, too. “Mario here?” he asks.
“No, he’s in L.A. on a shoot,” I say.
“Dad has a shoot, too,” Rachel crows, and fills in Trixie and Shanelle about the pit-crew calendar.
“They’re shooting 22 guys,” Jason says. “I’ve done the math.”
“They’ll pick you,” Rachel asserts. “They’d be stupid not to.”
Trixie and I exchange a glance. Since I asked if she’d let me ride with her back to Charlotte, she knows even better than Shanelle does how Jason and I have been on the outs lately. “Did you fly down or drive down?” she asks Jason.
“I flew. I heard one of the drivers was coming here for an overnight so I asked if I could tag along.”
So Jason wanted to see me sooner rather than later. Just like I wanted to see him. And he exerted real effort to make it happen.
Rachel screws up her face. “Tag along? Does that mean he bought your ticket?”
“No, we came in his private plane,” Jason answers, “my first time,” and that sets off another round of oohs and aahs.
It hits me how resourceful Jason had to be to get here. He’s changing, too, I realize, just like I am. He’s getting bolder. His world is expanding through his pit-crew training, just like mine is through my Ms. America win.
“How long are you in town for?” Shanelle wants to know.
“Only one night. We’re doing chassis alignment and I don’t want to miss too much,” he adds as Rachel noisily objects to the short stay. “Plus Zach is flying back tomorrow and I need to hitch that ride.”
“You two have such little time why don’t we give you a chance to catch up?” Trixie says to me.
Ms America and the Mayhem in Miami (Beauty Queen Mysteries No. 3) Page 18
