When we reach the Durango, I hold out the keys. “Somebody else please drive.”
Shanelle narrows her eyes at me. “You have too many Hot Melons, girl?”
“I only had one. I need to think. And I have so much to think about that I can’t drive at the same time.”
Shanelle grabs the keys without further ado. Once we’re buckled in and she’s got the Durango flowing with the traffic, she issues an order. “Okay, Ms. America. Spill it.”
I bring Shanelle and Trixie up to speed on everything I learned that day. It’s an impressive assortment of information. One: that Jasmine’s secret moneymaking scheme is to sell Donyell’s memorabilia—and jock straps—on eBay, forging his signature all the while. Two: that Hector’s mistress is none other than Consuela, and now Detective Dez will investigate both their alibis. Three: that Peppi took Alfonso’s nighttime weather job, demoting him back to mornings; he hated her for it; and he earns money on the side by roping women into attending exclusive parties where the male attendees pay the women for sexual favors. Four: that Peppi had a drug problem that landed her in rehab. And five: that Alice Dilling and Peppi weren’t strangers at all but best friends who might have met in rehab because Alice, too, was fighting an addiction, hers to diet pills.
I ask Shanelle to park outside Mario’s gated community so we can discuss all this. I know once I’m back at the house Jason will not want to delay our “reunion” so I can sit around with my gal pals dissecting the latest 411.
We’ve got the Durango’s windows down so the sea breeze wafts through the vehicle’s interior in a very pleasant manner. The waters of Biscayne Bay lap just yards away, serene now but alive with pleasure craft in the daylight hours.
“I’ll tell you one thing,” Shanelle says. “That gossip columnist makes sense. I bet Peppi did get murdered by some drug lowlife.”
“And Happy has no idea who that person might be,” Trixie points out.
“I can believe that scenario if Peppi was still on drugs,” I say. “But if she got clean years ago, I don’t buy it. Her strangling was a crime of passion. It doesn’t show planning or forethought. It had to do with something that was going on right then.”
“I love it when you talk like a real detective,” Trixie breathes.
“I wish I understood things like a real detective. Every time I learn new information, I just get more confused.”
“You always figure it out.” Trixie reaches from the back seat and rubs my shoulder. “You will this time, too.”
“I wish I had your confidence. Anyway, I know one thing. I need to find out more about Peppi’s drug habit. Like whether she kicked her addiction or was still fighting it.” I throw my head back against the rest. “And you know who would know that? Paloma.”
“That won’t be an easy conversation, girl,” Shanelle warns. “No mama wants to talk about the flaws in her child. That’s true of a live child, let alone a dead child.”
We’re silent for a time, pondering that truth. Then Shanelle wants to know if any of my suspects has a good alibi.
“Not really. Jasmine says she was alone at Sugarbabies, Alfonso says he went straight home from work to sleep, and apparently Hector was at the Hotel Roca with Consuela. By the way, Iris thinks Hector is too passive to have killed Peppi.”
“Hector may be passive,” Shanelle says, “but Consuela sure isn’t.”
“You got that right,” I agree. “And Consuela may have skipped out of the Hotel Roca to go strangle Peppi while Hector stayed behind. They’d each have an alibi the other would back up. And if she went by cab, how would I ever know?”
“Security video from the lobby,” Shanelle says. “Chances are she’d have to cross the lobby to exit the hotel. Get Detective Dez to go after that.”
“Good thinking.” I make a note to remind myself to ask him.
“I can’t believe Peppi and Alice were friends!” Trixie cries.
“There’s something wrong there,” Shanelle adds.
“No question about it. Alice is hiding something.” When I thought Alice and Peppi met through the pageant, I didn’t suspect Alice for a second. I put her in the same category as Lasalo Dufu: somebody with too limited an acquaintance with Peppi to be in serious conflict with her. But if Iris Flower is to be believed, Alice and Peppi shared a long, fraught past. “New topic,” I go on. “Jason wants me to buy a gun.”
Shanelle gasps but Trixie surprises me. “He’s not the only one,” she says. “Ever since Oahu, I thought you should get one.”
“And you never told me?”
“I didn’t think you’d like the idea.”
“I don’t. But I understand Jason’s reasoning. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“I know what I’m going to do.” Shanelle turns the ignition and the engine leaps to life. “Play like Scarlett and think about it tomorrow. Tonight all I want to do is get in my PJs and find me some milk and cookies.”
We find Jason and Pop in Mario’s media room, beers in hand, watching SportsCenter on the massive flat-screen TV. I resist suggesting we watch Mario’s show instead. America’s Scariest Ghost Stories is on Tuesday nights and I made sure earlier that the DVR was set to record it. Jason showily checks the time on his watch.
“I know,” I say. “I’m sorry. We stayed later than I thought. But I found out lots of good stuff. Where’s Rachel?”
“Asleep. On an air mattress in Lou’s room,” Jason adds with a meaningful look.
“And Mariela hasn’t escaped?” Shanelle wants to know.
“Not unless she climbed out her bedroom window,” Jason says. “That girl’s a trip.”
“I have a friend whose 13-year-old fell off the roof climbing out her bedroom window,” Trixie says. “Broke her leg. Thank the Lord it wasn’t worse.” She spins out of the room. “I’m going to put on my nightgown.”
After I’ve changed into my cotton pajama bottoms and tank top, I pad into the kitchen for some water. I find Pop filling a glass from the SubZero’s dispenser. I watch him and start to feel bad. This week is a wonderful opportunity to spend more time with him and I’m making zero use of it. I give him a little nuzzle, vowing to do better. “Did you have a good day?”
“Not bad.” Then he eyes me. “You’re gonna get your wish.”
“How do you mean?”
“I’m not gonna buy a condo down here.”
My heart would leap were it not for the fact that he looks so sad. “Why not?”
He shrugs. “I haven’t seen one that grabs me. Plus Jason said a few things that made sense.” He pauses, then, “You put him up to that.”
“He doesn’t like the idea of you moving in with Maggie any more than I do.”
“So for now I’ll slow down.”
“Thank you, Pop.” I kiss his forehead. “I love you,” I call after him as he shambles away. Moments later, back in the media room, I plop next to Jason on the couch and ask what he said to my father.
Jason lowers the volume on the TV, now tuned to local weather. It appears it will continue to be warm and sunny. “I told him that if he’s not sure he wants to marry Maggie he shouldn’t move in with her. That he’s holding all the cards and should take his sweet time.”
“Was he hard to convince?”
“Not really.”
That gets me to thinking. “You know how Mom always got on Pop’s case, calling him a pushover? Maybe he kind of is. After all, she pushed him around. I’m worried Maggie does. And we kind of did, too, with this.”
“If he really wanted to move in with Maggie, he would. He might be glad we’re giving him an excuse not to.”
“Maybe. But he looked so sad just now. He’s probably lonely.”
Jason turns off the TV and rubs my leg. “You worried about him?”
“A little. You know, Mom thought that was why Pop never got promoted. Because he couldn’t stand his ground.” It would be sad if my dad’s shortcomings were the reason he failed to achieve his dream of becoming a homicide
detective. Then again, I suppose it’s always our failings that impede us.
I feel Jason’s eyes on me. Then all of a sudden he rises to his feet. “I’ll go get the Kleenex,” he says just as the first tears drop from my eyes. I realize as I start to weep in earnest—over my parents’ divorce and how lonely I know both of them to be—that no one will ever understand where I come from the way Jason does. He knows all the history. He lived through most of it.
When he comes back and I finally stop sniveling, I give him a good long kiss. “You want to go to bed?” I ask.
He kisses me back. He doesn’t say a word. But I hear his answer.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
It comes to me in the middle of a fitful night. Pepper spray. That’s the answer.
I don’t want to buy a gun. But I do want a way to protect myself. And pepper spray will help me do that.
I crawl out of bed, careful not to wake Jason, and crouch on the floor clutching my cell phone and doing a wee bit of research. I get excited when I learn pepper spray can be purchased in pastel-colored cylinders the size of lipsticks, complete with sequin detailing. Those have my name all over them.
I return to bed calmer. When I wake up for good, there’s no sunlight outside my windows but nevertheless I’m alone. A note on the duvet informs me that Jason has gone for a run.
So my husband is now a man who jogs before dawn. Wow.
I find Pop sitting at the kitchen island nursing a mug of coffee. He was an early riser when he was a cop and he still is in retirement. We exchange sleepy greetings. I’ve downed a few restorative sips of java when he jolts me fully awake. “I think I’ll head back today,” he says.
“No! Why? I thought you wanted to stay through the pageant!”
He shrugs. “I’ve already stayed longer than I expected to.”
“But I don’t want you to go!” I know I sound like a petulant 6-year-old but that is how I feel. And if he leaves I’ll lose my chance to make up for how little time I’ve spent with him here in Miami. “In fact, I was thinking you could help me with something.”
“What’s that?”
Since I’ve already told him the basics about Peppi’s murder and my suspects, I jump right into explaining who Alice Dilling is and how she hid her friendship with Peppi. But even before I get around to asking his advice on how I might approach Alice, he starts shaking his head.
“I don’t like you getting involved in that stuff, Happy. You know that.”
“I know but—”
“It’s nasty. It’s ugly. It’s not the sort of thing ladies should be thinking about.”
I throw up my hands. “Pop, that is such an old-fashioned way of thinking! You know how many women are in the police force now? How—”
“I’m old-fashioned then. Fine by me. Seems to me you should keep your eye on what’s really important. Jason and Rachel.” He sets his jaw in a stubborn line.
“They are front and center. That hasn’t changed.” This is a battle I’m not going to win. I should just give up. “But at least say you’ll stay in town. Let’s do something fun later.”
He’s mumbling something noncommittal when a panting Jason returns from his run. “What’s up with him?” Jason wants to know when Pop uses the interruption to slip out of the kitchen.
I sigh. “It sounds like Pop’s ready to bolt back to Ohio. Plus he doesn’t want to help with my investigating. And he kind of told me I’m neglecting you and Rachel.”
Jason props his hands against the island so he can stretch out his Achilles’ tendons. “He doesn’t really think you’re neglecting us.”
“Do you?”
He grins. “I didn’t think so last night.”
I give him a playful slap. “Now don’t get mad but I’m about to say something you won’t like.” I explain my preference for pepper spray over a pistol.
“You’re right, I don’t like it. But as a first step I’ll take it. Especially since I got no time. I gotta hit the showers and get to the airport ASAP.” For his private-jet flight to Charlotte with a NASCAR star. This is not the Jason of old. “Drive me?” he asks.
Not long after, I’ve thrown on workout gear and am dropping Jason off at an executive airport about a half hour southwest of Mario’s manse. We stand outside the Durango and hug, the wind whipping our hair. I find myself not wanting to let him go. It’s like when we were teenagers and Happy Pennington’s life began and ended with Jason Kilborn.
“You gonna take care of yourself?” he asks me.
“On the way back to the house I’ll buy pepper spray.” The cute sequined kind will have to wait. For now I’ll procure a no-nonsense, unadorned canister.
“I love you,” he murmurs and we get to kissing but good. Now it’s really hard to let him go.
But let him go I must. I watch my husband sling his duffel over his shoulder and make for the low-slung hangar-like terminal building. He looks very dashing, I will tell you. Even my mother might give him that. He turns to wave and I mouth another I love you. Even if I’d yelled it, he never would have heard me above the roar of a private jet streaking into the sky from the runway beyond.
I do as I promised and become a pepper-spray owner. The clerk takes me behind the store to train me in the proper way to use it. I also stop by the bagel shop and pick up a dozen, though by the time I return to the house everybody else has eaten and my father has disappeared. I scarf a toasted sesame seed bagel slathered with butter while re-reading Iris Flowers’ columns about Alice Dilling.
“I can’t just accost Alice Dilling about Peppi,” I tell Shanelle when she swings into the kitchen adorably outfitted in cropped white skinny jeans and a sheer black print chiffon blouse with an elastic-banded peplum.
“That girl won’t tell you diddly,” Shanelle agrees. “Especially if you go talk to her with all those seeds stuck between your teeth.”
Dislodging sesame seeds is another thing long fingernails are good for. I can’t believe people say they’re impractical. “You remember how Iris’s column said that Alice fired most of her staff because she couldn’t figure out who spilled the beans about her bulimia? I wonder if Iris will tell me who tipped her off. Whoever did must have a beef with Alice and might give me really good info.” Then the trick will be to figure out how much of it is true.
“All you can do is ask. By the way, we’re all ready to leave for Paloma’s. I cannot tell you how much sewing we still got to do.”
“I cannot believe today is already Wednesday.” That means tomorrow we move back to the pageant hotel. Meaning out of Mario’s. Sob! “I’ll see you at Paloma’s later. I need to ask her about Peppi’s drug problem.”
Shanelle grimaces. “Better you than me, girl.”
Iris buoys my hopes by answering my call. “I was taken by your information about Jasmine and Peppi,” she tells me, referring to the tidbit that Peppi failed to honor her financial obligations to Sugarbabies. “Have you learned anything new?”
“I’m hoping you can help me with that,” I begin, and plead my case.
For a while Iris balks. “I haven’t divulged my source to anyone. Including Alice, who was irate that I wouldn’t tell her.”
“I’ll give you the inside track on whatever I find out.” I have to promise that three times before Iris finally caves. She informs me that Alice’s former sous chef Ned Silver was her source and that I can find him at his new gig, a South Beach restaurant called Bistro Chardonnay.
“Alice hates Bistro Chardonnay,” Iris whispers. “The food is excellent.”
Even though I’ve just finished breakfast Iris’s recommendation gets me thinking about lunch. I shower quickly and select my black skinny jeans and a white square-neck stretch-knit tee with elbow-length sleeves. Again I festoon my ear lobes with my dangly Tahitian-style earrings and my feet with black stilettos. Talk about footgear that goes with everything.
My first stop is Paloma’s home. I drive there at the speed limit but lament every passing mile. I decide I must be g
entle but upfront with Paloma about her daughter’s drug problem. I don’t see any other way to approach it. Plus I’ve never been the type to hint around.
Raoul waves me through the tall iron gates per usual. Once I arrive at the house, Paloma’s housekeeper escorts me to the second-floor sewing room. Shanelle, Trixie, Rachel, and the mistress of the house are all there.
Like the rest of the home, the space is magnificent: cheerful mint green walls; a picture window providing not only a Biscayne Bay view but plenty of natural light; inventive shelving for fabrics, threads, and notions; and two large tables perfect for measuring, cutting, and pinning fabric. I find Trixie and Rachel behind gleaming white sewing machines and Shanelle and Paloma in rocking chairs sewing buttons onto nearly completed outfits. The four of them are a picture of happy productivity.
Which Happy Pennington is about to disturb.
We chat for a while about their progress and then I ask Paloma if she and I might catch up in the other room. She is dressed entirely in black but seems less distraught, which makes me feel slightly less awful about the topic I’m about to broach. “How are you doing?” I ask as we settle in the two-story library.
“Every morning I get out of bed. That’s the most anyone can expect of me.”
“I really appreciate you letting Rachel spend so much time here, and now Trixie and Shanelle, too. I hope that hasn’t been too much of an imposition.”
“We do what we must.” She gives me a penetrating look. “I hope you’re here to tell me you can prove what Hector has done.”
“Not yet. But I’m making progress.” She does not look pleased. I forge ahead. “Paloma, I need to ask you about a very difficult subject.”
“That is all I have in my life now. Difficulty.”
I take a deep breath. “I understand your daughter had a drug problem. Serious enough that—”
“Perpetua had no drug problem. You are misinformed.”
Ms America and the Mayhem in Miami (Beauty Queen Mysteries No. 3) Page 20
