Ms America and the Mayhem in Miami (Beauty Queen Mysteries No. 3)

by Dempsey, Diana

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Total denial. Okay. I clear my throat. “I know this is a painful topic—”

  Paloma grows more animated. “Who told you this? Hector?”

  “No, not Hector.” I don’t want to reveal that my source is Iris Flower the gossip columnist. That makes me seem kind of kooky, even though Iris might well have her information right. “Are you saying Peppi never spent time in a rehab facility?”

  “Someone told you hateful lies! I demand to know who it was!”

  I notice Paloma dodged my question. I try a different tack. “How well do you know Peppi’s friend Alice Dilling?”

  “I should have known!” Paloma looks like she’s about to spit fire. “Do not speak that name in my home!”

  “I’m not saying that Alice Dilling told me—”

  Paloma slaps the arm of her chair. “You are wasting my time! What did I tell you to do? Prove that Hector killed my Perpetua! Now I’m hearing crazy talk that I don’t want to hear!” She pauses and her lips tremble, then she catapults from her chair and points her finger at my face. “It’s time for you to go. And don’t come back until you are ready to tell me what I want to hear.” She sweeps from the library.

  It’s safe to say that did not go well. In seconds the housekeeper scurries in to escort me to the front door. At least I’m the only one being kicked off the property.

  I get back in the Durango and point it toward South Beach. What did I learn from that interchange? That Paloma knows Alice Dilling—or knows of her—and doesn’t like her one bit.

  Unfortunately this talk produced no information about Peppi’s purported drug problem. I can’t put any stock in Paloma’s denial. If anything, her defensiveness makes me more convinced that Peppi had a drug habit. I have the same reaction I did Sunday when Paloma spoke in such glowing terms about all things Peppi. Her account struck me as unrealistic. Whitewashed, even. It was a mother’s love speaking and not a clear-eyed appraisal of Peppi’s life.

  I wonder if I can probe Hector on this subject. Now that he thinks I’m in love with him, he might be willing to share intimate family secrets. But I fear his judgment of Peppi will be as falsely negative as Paloma’s is positive.

  I soon find myself at my next stop: Bistro Chardonnay. What a fine name for a restaurant. It may be in South Beach but it looks like an eatery you’d find in Manhattan: narrow, deep, and dimly lit, with small tables huddled together on a black and white parquet floor. To me it seems terribly stylish, in the best of all possible ways.

  Even though it’s a tad early for the lunch crowd, the door is propped open. A young man is busily setting upturned chairs back on the floor. He asks if he can help me.

  “I’m hoping Ned Silver is here.” I did a little research on sous chefs and figure Ned must be in the kitchen overseeing the prep work. I gather the sous chef is pretty much the right arm of the executive chef and runs the place when the big dog isn’t in.

  “I’ll get him for you. And you are?”

  I give my name and nothing more, hoping curiosity will draw out Ned Silver.

  It doesn’t take him long to emerge. He is tall and skinny with a receding hairline and circular wire-rimmed glasses. Though he’s wearing a white chef jacket I can easily imagine him poring over a beloved stamp collection with a magnifying glass.

  I give him my brightest smile and warmest handshake. “I won’t keep you long. I know you’re busy.” I urge him away from his hovering coworker. “Iris Flower gave me your name. Please don’t be angry with her. I’m helping with the investigation into Peppi Lopez’s murder and I know she and Alice Dilling were good friends.”

  “You must be a private detective,” Ned says, and sends me a look of admiration.

  I decide not to disabuse him of that pleasant notion. “Can you tell me anything about the friendship between Alice and Peppi?”

  “Not really.” He grimaces. “I couldn’t believe it when I saw that poor woman was killed. I saw her around the restaurant a few times and she seemed perfectly nice. It’s hard for me to believe a viper like Alice had a friend like her.”

  “Why do you say that? Alice is hard to get along with?”

  “That’s putting it mildly. The woman is a tyrant. A slave driver. A money-grubbing cheat.”

  I watch him get worked up. I hope he doesn’t start foaming at the mouth.

  “She’s a controlling you-know-what,” he goes on. “She can’t stop screaming, pays her people nothing, and expects total loyalty. I’m so glad I’m out of there.”

  Boy, Ned Silver may look mild-mannered but he hates Alice Dilling with a passion. “I see you’re not high on her but why did you tell Iris Flower about her bulimia? You had to know that was going to hurt the restaurant.”

  “I couldn’t stand her ego anymore! She wants people to think she’s got everything all buttoned up but nothing could be further from the truth. You know who makes things work? The people who work for her, and she treats them like dogs. And while they’re busy cleaning up her messes, she’s sucking up to customers and reviewers.”

  “It sounds like you feel she stood on your shoulders to make the restaurant a success.”

  “Exactly! And did I ever get one word of thanks? All I heard from her was you’re fired!”

  I nod. I’ve come to the right place if I’m looking for somebody willing to dish the dirt about Alice. “You called her a cheat, too. What do you mean by that?”

  “She’s the kind who, if she can get something by you, she will. Her employees, vendors, you name it. She thinks everybody in the business does that. Worship the almighty dollar. She still owes me back pay. I’ll never see it.” He pauses to take a deep breath. “Sorry. I’m just babbling. I wish I could tell you more about her friend. I know that’s what you’re really here for.”

  “Did you ever see any friction between Alice and Peppi?”

  “Not really. Though it’s hard to believe Alice gets along with anybody.”

  “The other day, before I knew those two were friends, I mentioned Peppi to Alice and she acted as if she barely knew her. I can’t figure out why that would be. Do you have any idea?”

  “Not a clue.” He pauses to think. “I do know it was Peppi who roped Alice into judging that pageant. Alice will do anything that’ll get her good P.R. She even helps out at a senior center.” He shakes his head as if that’s too hypocritical to be believed.

  “In the end, though, Alice pulled out of judging the pageant because of a crisis at work.”

  “I’ll say! Like trying to keep the restaurant afloat.” He lets fly a nasty laugh.

  I’ve gotten as much out of Ned Silver as I’m going to. “Well, thanks so much for your help. And congratulations on your new job! Iris said the food here is terrific.”

  He gives me his card. “Let me know when you want to come by and I’ll set you up. It can be hard to get reservations.” He winks as he walks away.

  I’m getting the idea that getting fired by Alice Dilling was one of the best things that ever happened to this guy. I’m thoughtful as I meander back to the Durango.

  There can be no doubt why he took the bulimia story to Iris. He felt used and abused by Alice. As far as he’s concerned, his hard work helped her restaurant succeed but not only did she give him zero credit, she fired him and cheated him out of money he was owed.

  But I also have to remember that Ned must feel competitive with Alice. He probably wants to be in her position someday: a head chef with his own restaurant. Maybe that explains why he’s so harsh on her.

  And Alice is a woman in a male-dominated business. Maybe she’s overly tough to prove herself. Or maybe she’s just perceived that way because she’s a woman, and the exact same behavior from a male boss would be respected.

  I settle myself in the Durango, pondering what I’ve discovered. I realize I harbor sympathy for Alice because of the bulimia. I’ve known so many beauty queens who suffer from eating disorders and they are so hard to beat. Plus Alice seemed nice whe
n I met her. Then again, I was a customer at her restaurant so I would have been someone she “sucked up to,” according to Ned.

  One thing I still can’t explain. Why did Alice act as if she barely knew Peppi when in fact they were close friends? Was it because of a shared history in rehab, no doubt a part of her life Alice does not care to revisit? Addiction and rehab do not jibe with the “everything is all buttoned up” picture that Ned said Alice wants to create.

  That leads me to a shocking thought. Maybe Ned invented the bulimia story to try to bring down his reviled boss! If the addiction/rehab story is true, maybe he figured everyone would believe that Alice Dilling has a bulimia problem. Maybe that’s how competitive he is.

  Wow. It’s not just murder that’s ugly. Business can be, too.

  Before I pull out into traffic, I put in a call to Detective Dez. I was unable to reach him earlier but this time he answers his cell. In the background I hear music so I conclude he’s not at the station, unless Miami P.D. headquarters is really festive.

  “I have an appointment. I can’t talk now,” he mutters.

  I ignore that. “Have you been able to get the information we need from the Hotel Roca? About whether Hector checked in Friday and—”

  “Meet me at Serenata Restaurant. In two hours. Not before. You can find it?”

  Now I hear the hum of conversation and the clink of dishware. “You’re telling me you got the info?”

  “What do you think I’m telling you?”

  “Then I can find it.”

  “See you then,” he breathes.

  I hope he’s not lying. I’ll find out soon enough. Anyway, a girl’s got to eat.

  A girl knows what else she’s got to do. Think. Stare at her Suspects Spreadsheet and think.

  I do some cell phone research and find out that Serenata Restaurant is upscale, Mexican, and downtown. I make my way there, slide the Durango into a metered space, and head for the Starbucks a few doors beyond the restaurant. A cappuccino is likely to aid the thinking process. A vanilla almond biscotti is almost certain to.

  I’m strolling past Serenata’s large front windows when who do I see inside at a front table throwing back her head and laughing?

  Consuela Machado, that’s who! Next question: who in the world might she be lunching with?

  You guessed it.

  Detective Dez.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  No wonder that smarmy excuse for a homicide detective told me to wait two hours before showing up at Serenata’s! He didn’t want me to witness him enjoying a boozy repast with the pole-dancing vixen he’s supposed to be investigating for murder.

  And boozy repast it most assuredly is. Half empty margarita glasses perch on the table next to the basket of tortilla chips and bowl of salsa.

  Consuela stops flirting and glances out the window. I enjoy the expression of astonishment that overtakes her perfect features. I watch her lipsticked mouth shriek the words Happy Pennington! After which Detective Dez’s blond head whips in my direction. His blue-tint contact lenses nearly pop off his eyeballs when he sees me.

  Never one to be shy, I prance inside Serenata’s. “Fancy meeting you here,” I say to Consuela. She is gorgeously turned out in a black and white stripe pencil skirt and a skinny white knit tee much like my own.

  She ignores me and turns to Detective Dez. “What do I have to do to get a restraining order? Because this woman is stalking me.”

  He laughs uncomfortably. “Now, now—”

  “And after I charge her with stalking I am going to charge her with whatever you charge people with when they go around saying bad things about you.”

  I’m guessing she means slander.

  “She is so loca,” Consuela goes on, “she is telling everybody that I am the one who killed Peppi Lopez!”

  “If anybody around here is going to get charged with anything, it’s you,” I inform Consuela. “There’s a very good chance you did kill Peppi. You had motive, means, and opportunity. Which would make you a suspect in the mind of any homicide detective who was remotely competent.” Which leaves you out, Detective Dez, I add silently.

  “That is a crazy accusation,” Consuela says, “as Detective Monaco well knows.” She throws me a look of triumph.

  Detective Dez clears his throat. “Ms. Machado has made me aware of several key facts such that I am now redirecting my investigation toward Peppi Lopez’s coworker, Alfonso Ramos.”

  “Really?” I say, though I too have Alfonso on my suspects list. “And what key facts might those be?”

  “That Alfonso Ramos stands to gain a valuable promotion from Peppi Lopez’s death.”

  I look at Consuela. “You certainly changed your tune. When I was the one saying that gave Alfonso a motive to kill Peppi, you laughed so hard you almost split your skin-tight skirt.” And in truth I myself now think that’s a pretty lame motive.

  “I don’t remember you saying anything like that,” Consuela lies through her pearly whites. “And by the way, Detective Monaco is not going to check into any of that silly stuff you want him to check into at the Hotel Roca.”

  It is amazing. Clearly this minx needed only a few minutes with our friend the oversexed investigator to deflect suspicion away from herself and her lover. Not only that, she got him to divulge the tactics he was employing to investigate them.

  Beauty queens have long understood the persuasive power of charm and beauty. There can be no doubt that Consuela Machado does, too. I think for a moment, then whip out my phone and snap a photo of this cozy tête-à-tête between suspect and investigator.

  “What did you do that for?” Detective Dez sputters.

  “I want to have proof of this lunch in case I go to the chief of police and list for him all the many reasons why you are not equipped to handle this investigation.”

  Consuela makes a good show of pretending not to care by cackling uproariously. But Detective Dez pales under his spray tan. “We should all just take a step back and talk about this.”

  “I’m not surprised to hear you say that. You’re probably already in trouble because of how long your investigation is taking. And now you’re consorting with suspects instead of investigating them? That’s the last thing the chief wants to hear.”

  “Consorting,” Consuela snickers. “What a fancy word.”

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, too, Consuela. My guess is Detective Dez will be off this case by dinnertime and his replacement won’t take the same view of it that he does.” I turn to her lunch companion. “If you want to rethink your investigative strategy, give me a call. If I’m not chatting with the chief of police, I’ll pick up.”

  I spin on my stilettos and take my leave. And dear reader, I will have you know that was not merely a show of bravado. Even though I find it hard to believe Miami’s chief of police would give me the time of day, I bet that threat scared Detective Dez. Maybe now he’ll get off his duff and start doing some genuine detective work.

  And none too soon. It’s Wednesday, pageant preps resume tomorrow, my ticket home says Sunday, and the two of us have a murder to solve.

  As I’m driving back to Mario’s—I decided to take my thinking party back there rather than hold it at Starbucks—I get more and more angry over Detective Dez. How did he get that job? It’s such an important position. I find it deeply upsetting that my wonderful father was never promoted to homicide investigator and yet this miserable excuse for a cop was. It is yet another reminder that life is rarely fair.

  At Mario’s, I head immediately for the kitchen. I am one hungry beauty queen. I’m foraging in the fridge when I hear footsteps overhead.

  I still. There’s somebody on the second floor. I thought I was alone in the house but clearly I’m not.

  I creep back to my room and slide my pepper spray out of my handbag. Already I have a use for it! Thus armed, I slip off my stilettos and silently mount the stairs.

  I pause when I arrive on the second floor. Someone is clattering around in Mariel
a’s bathroom, which is across the hall from her bedroom. Did she come home from school early? If her Fiat is in the garage I wouldn’t have seen it. The wench! I doubt she’s sick.

  I’m deciding that must be what happened when her bathroom door opens. But it’s not Mariela who emerges and streaks across the hall to her bedroom. It’s a teenage boy. A teenage boy clad in nothing but black Calvin Klein boxer briefs.

  He shuts the bedroom door behind him. Mariela’s 16-year-old self must be in there. I clutch my pepper spray with one hand and the banister with the other. Oh. My. God. What am I going to do?

  What any parent would do.

  I stomp to Mariela’s door, pound on it, and screech: “I’m coming in!” Then I open the door.

  Mariela, who’s on her bed propped against the pillows—wearing only her bra and panties—screams. The boy whirls around and gapes in horror.

  “What in the world are you doing?” I cry, which is a rhetorical question if ever I’ve asked one. It’s perfectly obvious what they’re doing. They’re about to have sex and film it. A camcorder mounted on a tripod is pointing toward the bed. “So that’s what you wanted the camcorder for! Oh my God!”

  “It’s none of your business!” Mariela shrieks.

  “Who the hell are you?” the boy demands.

  “It doesn’t matter who I am! Put your clothes on! Both of you.”

  Scrambling ensues. I march over to the camcorder and spring it from the tripod.

  “That is not yours!” Mariela yells.

  “You’ll get it back eventually.” If she were my daughter, she might not. And no way I’m handing it over until the memory is erased.

  “We’re supposed to make a tape,” the boy says. Now that he’s got his jeans on, he’s getting more defiant. I will add that he is exceptionally good-looking, kind of the male equivalent of Mariela.

  “You’re not making any tapes while I’m around,” I declare.

  “You are not the boss of me!” Mariela is getting saucier now, too. “Lots of celebrities have sex tapes. Kim Kardashian, Paris Hilton—”

  “Pamela Anderson,” the boy adds.