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

by Dempsey, Diana

  Mario set his hands on his hips. “Why not?”

  “Because who’s going to make sure I don’t go out? You’re going to be traveling again and she’s going to be gone”—she waves a dismissive hand at me—“and Mom’s always with—”

  “Mom’s always with who?”

  Mariela zips her lips and glances at me. On this, too, I remain silent. It’s not for me to inform Mario that the mother of his child is catting around with a married man. Although I can’t deny I would take a certain satisfaction in imparting that information.

  “With who, Mariela?” Mario demands.

  Then it all comes out and I don’t have to say a thing. “Hector,” Mariela mumbles.

  “Hector who?”

  “Hector Lopez Nieto.”

  Recognition dawns in Mario’s dark eyes, followed by shock. “The son of Don Gustavo?” Hector is well enough known that no doubt Mario is aware he’s married. As Jasmine once said, in some ways Miami is a small town.

  Mariela goes on. “It was Hector who told Mom about the pageant. ‘Cause you know his sister was supposed to judge it. Oh my God, the pageant!” she wails. “Am I grounded from that, too? I really need to win it now!”

  Mario continues to wear a stunned expression. “That’s off the table.”

  “No! Mom will be so mad! She really wants me to win that pageant and I wasn’t supposed to tell you about Hector!”

  Oh, boy. I watch Mario’s jaw clench. “Upstairs,” he orders his daughter. “Now. Go to bed.”

  She throws me a look of hate then disappears from the kitchen.

  “Did you know about Hector?” Mario asks in a quiet voice.

  I nod. “It’s not really my business.” Except insofar as it heightens Consuela’s motive to want Peppi dead.

  “Do you know who the boy is?”

  “I heard Mariela say his name.” I hesitate before I repeat it, though I agree that Mario must talk to his parents. “Theo.”

  “I know the one.”

  We lapse into silence. Then, “I’m so sorry, Mario. I know all of this is very hard to take.”

  “I can’t believe what’s coming out of Mariela’s mouth.”

  “She’s got some growing up to do—”

  “The ideas she has”—he throws out his hands—“this gibberish about celebrity! I thought she was smarter than that. And Consuela—”

  Yes. Consuela. I’m sure she’ll blame me for all this. But I’m not sure she’ll get away with it. “It’s late,” I say. “And it’s been a long day.”

  “I’m sorry you had to go through all this, Happy. But I’m so glad you’re here. And so relieved you’re okay. If something had happened to you—”

  That hangs in the air as we look at one another. I get the feeling he’s about to say more but then he looks away. “Sleep tight,” he says.

  I do. I don’t like fighting with Mario—I don’t like fighting with anybody—and I’m much happier now that we’ve made up. And while I hate to see him disillusioned about his daughter, it’s better he have a clear-eyed view of her. That’ll make him a better parent. Nor will I complain if all this gives him a more realistic view of Consuela, too.

  I don’t see Mario or Mariela in the morning. The rest of us sit out on the chaise lounges by the pool rehashing a watered-down version of my crocodile story and gobbling the bagels I procured after my pepper-spray purchase. Boy, was that a smart buy. And it was Jason who prodded me into it.

  “I hate to leave this house,” Trixie says, “but I am excited the pageant is finally here.”

  “Let me drive you to Paloma’s, Rachel.” I’m wearing my paint-splatter-print wrap dress, which is just long enough to hide the scrapes on my knees. “Maybe she’s simmered down enough to talk to me.” And if I’m really lucky she’ll allow me access to Peppi’s cell phone and laptop.

  An hour later I find out I was dreaming. At Paloma’s door, her housekeeper waves Rachel inside but shakes her head at me. “Señora would like you to go away.”

  I plead and grovel but it gets me nowhere. I’m forced to give up. I can only hope Rachel will succeed when she intercedes with Paloma on my behalf.

  Maybe all the crashing together of brain cells that I did the prior afternoon is good for something because I do get an idea as I cruise past Raoul at the guard gate. “You know the lists you have every day of who’s allowed in to each house? Do you still have last Friday’s for the Lopez Famosa house?”

  “I should. Let me see.” He finds it. “You want me to read off the names?”

  I’m glad I made friends with Raoul. “If you don’t mind.”

  None of them mean a thing to me until Raoul reads the name Jasmine Dobbs.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  I clutch the steering wheel. “Jasmine Dobbs was on the list? Who put her name on it?”

  “It was Miss Peppi,” Raoul says, shaking his head.

  “Did Jasmine Dobbs show up, do you know?”

  “I marked that she showed up. Came at 8:08 a.m. and left twenty minutes later.”

  So Jasmine lied to me. I carefully noted on my Suspects Spreadsheet that she told me she was “nowhere near” Peppi the day Peppi died. “Will you read the rest of the names to me, Raoul?”

  He obliges. None of them is significant. I thank Raoul and speed off. You may not be surprised that I do not pass Go on my way to Sugarbabies.

  There are several fashionable women perusing the goods when I arrive, which may explain Jasmine’s lighthearted mood. She’s outfitted in a purple-and-yellow floral sleeveless sheath with a partial peplum. Bright enamel bangles clatter up and down her arms. “Cute dress!” she trills when she sees me.

  I return the compliment. “Your launch party was fabulous. Thank you again for including me and my friends.”

  “That party did pop,” she allows.

  “Donyell sure came through.”

  “More than you know,” she mutters.

  I wonder what that means. I cock my chin toward the rear office and lower my voice. “Could we chat in private for a minute?”

  “Can’t do that. I got customers.” She smiles sweetly as one strolls past.

  “Then we’ll talk here. I know for a fact you went to Peppi’s house at 8 a.m. the day she was murdered. You told me you were nowhere near her that day.”

  Jasmine instantly goes from smile to scowl. She grabs my arm and hauls me to her rear office. “What is up with you always messing in my business?”

  “I want to know why you lied, Jasmine.”

  I watch her decide what to tell me. Then, “Look. I told Peppi she had one last chance to pay up her share of this boutique or I would let it be known she was stiffing me. It’s mortifying people thinking Jasmine Dobbs doesn’t pay her bills! She’s giving me a bad name.”

  “What did she say?”

  “That she couldn’t give me money she didn’t have. But that she’d get it eventually and then so would I.”

  “Did you argue?”

  “So what if we did? What kind of answer is that, you’ll get it eventually? I got a business to run now! The bills for that launch party? Those were huge!”

  “How did you cover those?”

  “How do you think? Donyell.” She shakes her head. “I had to swallow my pride and confess to him what’s been going on.”

  So that’s the other big way Donyell came through. “Did you confess everything to him?”

  “None of your business!” Jasmine gets in my face. “But I wouldn’t have any of these problems if it wasn’t for Peppi! And that girl never understood I’m the one on the front lines. She’s got a whole other job. And the more time goes by, the less time she’s got for the boutique. She’s reporting on this, she’s reporting on that. That’s all fine and dandy if she’s pulling her weight money-wise but she’s not!”

  “Why weren’t you upfront about this before?”

  “You think I’m dumb enough to go around telling people that my business partner and I nearly came to blows the morning s
he got herself strangled?”

  I see Jasmine’s point. But it’s hard not to remain suspicious of a woman who seems pretty darn comfortable lying. She lied to her husband. She lied to me. Who’s to say she’s not lying about Peppi?

  “Did Peppi have a drug problem?” I ask.

  “What?” Jasmine looks genuinely astonished. “I don’t know what you think I got for brains. Why would I go into business with somebody like that?” She spins on her heels. “Now come along. Unless you’re buying something I want you gone. Like I been saying, I got a business to run.”

  I stand outside Sugarbabies and put in a call to Detective Dez. I don’t know what’s happened in the interim but his tone is considerably less friendly than the last time we spoke. “So Jasmine Dobbs told you a fib or two,” he says. “Big deal.”

  “It is a big deal. Clearly Peppi’s strangling was a crime of passion and here’s her business partner lying about arguing with her just hours before!”

  “You haven’t given me a single lead that’s panned out. I’ve seen no sign that Peppi Lopez was on drugs. I went to a lot of trouble to check out that surveillance video at the Hotel Roca and guess what that got me? No return trips by Consuela Machado or Hector Lopez Nieto to the lobby.”

  “Well, isn’t that good to know?”

  “And Alfonso Ramos? I don’t know what you’ve got against him.”

  Here we go. I should’ve known. “Did he invite you to one of his parties?” My inquiry is met with silence. “Yes, I know about those. I also know that seriously illegal stuff happens at them. Peppi might even have been involved in it. So that’s why I’ve got something against Alfonso Ramos and why you should, too.”

  “I’ve got another call,” he claims, and hangs up.

  I return my cell to my shopper. Peppi Lopez has been dead nearly a week but sunny, sexy South Beach life continues unperturbed. I glance inside Sugarbabies, where Jasmine is laughing while ringing up a customer. No doubt at this hour Alfonso Ramos is sleeping off last night’s clubbing confident he’s on the good side of Miami P.D. Meanwhile Peppi’s mother won’t speak to me, I’ve got nothing on Hector or Consuela or Alice, and still don’t know for sure if Peppi had a drug habit.

  I think for a bit then call Hector. “I need to see you,” I breathe. “The last time we spoke you told me you had a secret you longed to share.” That’s a bit of an exaggeration but time is passing and this beauty queen can’t afford subtlety.

  He’s quiet. Then, “I think it is time to share it, querida. Meet me at the Hotel Roca at noon. At the bar,” he adds.

  I am delighted to agree. As I watch a barely clad young woman walk past wearing minuscule hot pants that read SOUTH BEACH across the butt, I remember that I am only a few blocks from Alice’s restaurant.

  Ned Silver may judge Alice too harshly but clearly Paloma dislikes her, too. And even though I dismissed it at first, Consuela did tell me she witnessed Peppi and Alice fighting at the pageant venue after the orientation lunch. Alice is bizarrely reticent about Peppi. Since my indirect attempts to gain information about their friendship have gotten me only so far, it’s time for a direct approach.

  The hostess looks disappointed that I want to talk to the chef and not eat. Only two diners are present, though it is still early for lunch. Alice emerges from the kitchen in a chef jacket and black pants with her lank blond hair in a ponytail.

  She smiles though her blue eyes aren’t terribly warm. “I’m sorry but I can’t quite remember your name?”

  “Happy Pennington. I’m your replacement at the Teen Princess of the Everglades pageant.” I lower my voice. “I know you and Peppi Lopez were friends. I’m trying to understand what happened to her.”

  She eyes me. “You asked me about her before.”

  “And you were very reluctant to talk about her. Why is that?”

  She looks taken aback. Granted, the question is bold, particularly coming from a stranger. Maybe because the hostess is keeping an eye on us, Alice leads me outside and around the corner. Her blue eyes fill with tears. She seems to have to struggle to get a hold of herself. Then, “I’ve already had to talk about Peppi with the police. The topic is extremely painful to me! Do you have trouble understanding that for some reason?”

  “So you and Peppi were close?”

  “We were very good friends.”

  “How did you meet?”

  She takes a deep breath. “I would rather not say.”

  “Look, I’m trying to understand whether she had a drug problem. Because if she did it could explain what happened to her.”

  Alice looks away. “That has to be what happened to her. There’s no other explanation. I did my best to keep her straight but I guess she didn’t listen.”

  “If that’s the case, why does Peppi’s mother dislike you?”

  “Because her mother wanted to think Peppi was a saint! I was a reminder she wasn’t.”

  This next part is tricky. “Somebody at the pageant told me you and Peppi were fighting the day you pulled out as a judge.”

  I half expect Alice to lash out at me but instead the waterworks resume. It’s a while before she can speak. Then, “We did argue. She did something that made me feel really betrayed and so we had a fight. I pulled out because I just couldn’t stand to be around her.” Alice’s voice rises to the point that she seems semi-hysterical. “And that’s the last time I saw her! I have to live with that for the rest of my life! I can’t talk about this anymore.” She spins around and sprints away.

  I walk slowly back to the Durango. What did I learn from that conversation? Alice confirmed her friendship with Peppi and said something I myself believe—that Paloma harbors an unrealistic view of her daughter. Yet Alice is still withholding something: how she and Peppi met and the details of that so-called betrayal. Could it have been big enough to murder Peppi over?

  As I head once again for the Hotel Roca, I realize I don’t trust Alice Dilling. I don’t know how much of that I can attribute to Ned Silver’s incredibly negative portrayal, but I too find her false. Maybe those were crocodile tears she was crying. If anybody should recognize those, it’s me.

  At the hotel I exchange warm greetings with my friend the valet parker. He gives me a sly wink. “Mr. Maserati arrived half an hour ago.”

  I wink back and hurry inside. I don’t want to keep Hector waiting or he might think twice about unburdening his soul. I find the bar, which is dimly lit and echoes the lobby’s vaguely Japanese design. Just before I enter, I stash my wedding and engagement rings in my shopper.

  I pause at the entry to look around. I don’t see Hector so stroll inside and pass numerous small tables, eyeing the midday drinking crowd. I still don’t see him, which is surprising because apparently he got here half an hour ago. I hope he didn’t leave. I’m starting to think he must have when—

  I halt by a table in the corner. I know it’s rude to stare but I can’t help myself. A woman with dark hair styled in a chin-length bob and beautifully applied makeup is staring at me just as intently as I’m staring at her. She’s wearing a dress I’ve seen before. I recognize it immediately. I saw it on Hector’s boat. In fact I held it up to better admire it. It’s a gold sequin bustier with a skirt overlay in black chiffon. Today it’s paired with a stylish black bolero jacket, probably because otherwise it would be too dressy for daytime wear.

  “It’s me, Happy,” the woman whispers. She, or should I say he, gives me a nervous wave with hands whose fingernails are painted a deep ruby red. They gesture to the seat opposite. “Please sit down.”

  I’m so stunned my behind nearly misses the chair. “Hector?” I croak.

  He nods and leans close, his expression a mix of hope and fear. “Now you know my little secret.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  “I’ve been doing this on and off since I was a teenager,” Hector confides after I’ve semi recovered. “I’ve always been fascinated by women’s clothes. I bought a pair of pantyhose when I was 13 and wore them under my
pants. It was hard to take them off the days I had gym class. Shall we order a bottle of champagne?” he asks as a server cruises past. “This is a big day for me, telling you all this.”

  Hector orders a bottle of the good stuff, speaking in a slightly higher voice than I’ve heard him use before. I have to say, if I didn’t know Hector was Hector and I saw and heard him like this, I’d have no trouble believing he was a woman. A somewhat husky square-shaped woman, but that occurs in those of us with two X chromosomes all the time.

  “What happened to you?” he asks when he takes in the scrapes on my arms that my concealer can’t quite hide.

  “Oh”—I decide to keep it simple—“I took a tumble in my high heels.”

  He nods knowingly. “Stilettos can be the devil to walk in.”

  “I have to ask, Hector. Does your wife know about this?”

  “Remember I told you we understand each other? She just wants me to keep it private.”

  “You’re not really doing that, though, if sometimes you drive up to the Hotel Roca in your Maserati as yourself and sometimes you drive up as—”

  “I’m always myself. This is just the other side of me. I get to escape the whole macho Latin thing and try something else. But no, I never come here dressed like this. I change upstairs. And I’ll change again before I leave. I have a different credit card, too.” He looks pleased at having thought of every detail. “It’s a game, you know? Who will guess? Who will I fool?”

  “You would’ve fooled me if I hadn’t recognized the dress.”

  He leans closer. “I didn’t want to fool you, Happy. I wanted you to understand me. Like my wife does.”

  Our champagne arrives. I am sufficiently rattled that even though it’s noon on a weekday I wouldn’t mind a glass.

  “To truth. And to trust,” Hector adds. We toast. “Somehow I felt I could trust you, Happy,” he goes on. “I hope I wasn’t mistaken.”

  “You weren’t.” Secretly I will admit to a certain disappointment. I was hoping for a revelation of a more homicidal nature. “Since we’re being truthful, Hector, could I ask you a personal question about your half sister Peppi?”