His expression grows somber. “I’ve been thinking about her more than I expected to. I told you we weren’t close.”
“Still, you’re related by blood. That’s got to mean something.”
“It does. More the older I get.”
“I know I shouldn’t listen to gossip but some people are saying that Peppi had a drug problem.”
He grimaces. “Gossip can be so malicious!”
“So it’s not true?”
He sighs. “There is truth to it. She was addicted to painkillers. It was years ago. She used to dance for the Heat and she took a fall and that’s when it happened.”
“Years ago,” I repeat. “So did she go to rehab or—”
He nods. “I have to give her credit for that. She kicked the habit. My father admired her for it, too. In the music business he ran across all sorts of people who couldn’t kick it. Peppi could.”
I sip my champagne. Hearing this, it’s hard to believe Peppi’s murder had to do with her addiction.
“You know a great deal about me now, querida,” Hector murmurs. “Does it change the way you feel?”
I think about that. “It’s a lot to take in but not really.”
“You’re so open-minded.” He gives my hand a grateful squeeze. “The way you’re reacting is giving me the confidence to tell Consuela.”
I ask a really stupid question. “Do you think she’ll react the same way I have?”
“She’s so unpredictable. That’s what’s so marvelous about her. I’ll just explain and ask her one simple question. Who does it hurt? I’ve told you and now I feel closer to you than ever.” He leans close. “I must ask, querida. Will you go upstairs with me?”
It’s safe to say I’ve never received a proposition like this in my life.
“It would be new for me,” Hector goes on. “Making love to a woman dressed as a woman. You know what I mean. In fact, it might be new to you, too.”
A little too new. I squeeze Hector’s hand. “Maybe next time.”
On my way back to Mario’s—for now I must collect my baggage and relocate to the dull and boring pageant hotel—I realize that I’m 95 percent convinced Hector did not strangle Peppi. Not only did he exhibit genuine emotion at her passing but according to Detective Dez he did not return to the Hotel Roca’s lobby last Friday until he checked out for good, which was after Peppi’s time of death. It’s possible he snuck out of the hotel via some hidden route but that seems a stretch.
I also buy his explanation of Peppi’s drug problem. That sounds plausible.
While I was chatting with Hector, I remembered something else: that at the Sugarbabies party Iris told me she chatted by phone with Peppi the day before Peppi was killed. I call Iris to ask if she remembers exactly when that call occurred.
“I keep a log of phone calls,” she tells me. “In my line of work, you have to.”
I wait while she searches.
Then, “Yes,” Iris says. “Peppi called me at 1:47 p.m. one week ago today.”
Right after the orientation lunch, when Consuela reported having witnessed Alice and Peppi fighting outside the ladies room at the pageant venue. An argument that flared up, according to Alice, because she felt “betrayed” by Peppi, so much so that she pulled out of judging the pageant because she “just couldn’t stand to be around her.” “Did Alice Dilling ever ask if Peppi was your source on the bulimia story?” I ask.
“No.” Silence. Then, “You’re not saying—”
“No, no,” I assure Iris. But while I’m not saying it, I am thinking it.
Maybe that’s the betrayal Alice referred to. Maybe Alice believed it was Peppi who told Iris Flower about her bulimia. Close friends like Alice and Peppi do confide secrets like those in each other. Maybe on the day in question Alice got wind that Peppi was chatting with Iris Flower and thought she put two and two together. After all, I know that Iris’s source on the bulimia story is Ned Silver. But Alice doesn’t.
I drive the Durango into Mario’s gated community, once again wishing I didn’t have to leave. Then my mind returns to Alice Dilling.
Was that imagined betrayal sufficient motive for Alice to kill Peppi? It may have been. After all, not only was Alice humiliated when the story came out, but her restaurant cratered. And it’s possible that in her mind it was all because someone she considered a close friend betrayed an intimate confidence. People have killed for less. And for all that Alice has seemed nice to me, and I have been sympathetic toward her over her bulimia problem, Ned Silver describes her in extremely negative terms. He called her a “viper” and a “tyrant.” It’s easy to imagine somebody like that committing a crime of passion.
Then a shocking idea hits me. Maybe the reason Alice pulled out of judging the pageant was because she knew she was going to kill Peppi and she wanted everyone to think she was nowhere near the venue when the murder occurred! If so, she achieved that goal.
I take a steadying breath and collect my thoughts. So while I can cross Hector and Nameless Drug Thug off my suspect’s list, and am close to erasing Consuela as well, Alice remains on it. Along with Jasmine and Alfonso. I still have so many unanswered questions, including why Peppi was going to those sex parties. And as of this afternoon I have to devote myself to the Teen Princess of the Everglades pageant as well as to my investigation. I am going to be one super-busy beauty queen.
Mario’s Z8 is on the driveway when I get back to the house. He’s in the workout room whaling away on the punching bag. He calls out to me as I walk past.
“Hey,” I reply. I try not to stare at his pecs. Shirtless, pumped-up Mario is even more delectable than fully clothed, calm Mario. And that’s saying something.
“How are you feeling today?” he asks me.
“Pretty good. I guess the only real casualty from last night is my stiletto.”
“Sounds like a shopping trip is in order.” He grabs a towel and starts to wipe down. “Mariela can tell you where to go.”
I bet she will, too.
“By the way,” he goes on, “I’ve given her the okay to participate in the pageant. I guess I’m susceptible to begging after all.”
“It’s hard to resist when it’s coming from your own daughter.”
“Her mother, too.” Mario sighs as he slings the towel around his neck and holds on to it with both hands. “She and I had quite the talk this morning.”
I think of how he was punching that bag. “How did it go?”
“She’s angry with all the people she shouldn’t be angry with. You, for telling me what Mariela was up to before telling her—”
“I did try to reach her first, just so you know.”
“I don’t doubt it. And me for suggesting that she’s setting a bad example for our daughter by having an affair with a married man.”
Ouch. Not that I don’t agree with him.
He goes on. “It’s bad enough that Consuela was lying to me, telling me she wasn’t seeing anybody. But to instruct our daughter to lie to me?” He clenches his jaw. “I’ve known for a long time what Consuela’s capable of but it’s still going to be hard to forgive that.”
“Maybe Consuela will do some things differently now.”
“Maybe.” He doesn’t look convinced.
It hits me then that Consuela has no shot with Mario romantically, and maybe she hasn’t for years. It doesn’t matter that she’s Mariela’s mother.
“I need to keep more of an eye on Mariela,” Mario is saying. “I need to be more of a parent instead of a friend.”
“You can be both. Probably more of a parent is better.”
“Will you check what’s on that camcorder? If anything’s on there, I want to know about it but I don’t want to see it.”
I promise I will. I hesitate, then, “You were right to worry that I might not be able to judge Mariela fairly, Mario. I shouldn’t have beaten you up for that.”
“At this point I could care less what happens at that pageant.” He steps closer. “But I was w
rong to lash out at you for what you were saying about Consuela. Though I still don’t think she murdered Peppi Lopez Famosa.”
“I don’t think she murdered Peppi, either. I wish I knew who did.”
“You’ll figure it out.”
“So you don’t object to my sleuthing anymore?” I say it lightly but I mean it seriously.
And Mario takes it that way. He steps closer still and speaks with solemnity. “There’s not a single thing about you that I would change, Happy.”
We gaze into each other’s eyes. We’re only inches apart. It’s breathtaking being so near to him. I have to force myself not to stare at his mouth but I don’t think it’s much safer to focus on his naked chest.
Looking down, he reaches out and takes my arm, then turns it so it faces palm up. With his other hand he strokes the bruised skin. I could fall over it feels so good. And I’m not even wearing high heels.
“I didn’t ask you to be a pageant judge so you’d give Mariela a crown,” he murmurs. “I asked so you’d have to come to Miami and I’d be able to see you again.”
I can’t say a thing. So he goes on speaking, this time raising his head and fixing those soulful brown eyes on mine.
“And it was no accident I was in Vegas when you were. I went so I could see you. My producer was ready to kill me. She had to scramble to find something to shoot. But I didn’t care.” His eyes flick down to my lips.
“Mario—”
He leans closer. He’s going to kiss me, my mind screams.
I lay my hand on his chest. Later when I think about it, I don’t know how I found the strength to stop him. My voice comes out in a strangled whisper. “You don’t want to do exactly what you’re mad at Consuela for.”
He stops. He straightens. As he turns away, I see real pain in his eyes. “I don’t know how I’m going to do this,” he tells me.
I force myself to walk away from him. I don’t know how I will, either.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Maybe it’s a good thing the Teen Princess of the Everglades pageant is once again swinging into high gear. Because if I weren’t crazy busy with teen queens and murder suspects, I wouldn’t be able to keep my mind off Mario Suave.
But if one teen queen demands a lot of attention, imagine how overwhelming 67 are. That’s how many sit before me now in the theater in which Peppi Lopez Famosa met her Maker less than one week ago. Organizer Colleen Wrightwood, Lasalo Dufu, Trixie, Shanelle, and I have spent the last half hour explaining the pageant’s three-day program to these fresh-faced beauties and their mothers and we’re still not done. It didn’t take me long to pinpoint Mariela and Consuela in the crowd.
Colleen is a bubbly blond a few years older than me. What she lacks in organizational skills she makes up for in enthusiasm. “So we’ll have a two-hour rehearsal for the opening number at 5 p.m. after all of you have registered next door at the hotel. Trixie, what musical number have you selected to open the pageant?”
Trixie looks dance ready in cropped black trousers, a crisp white blouse, and red and white polka dot pumps with a kitten heel. “I’ve chosen ‘Conga’ by Gloria Estefan and the Miami Sound Machine!”
Perfect, I think as we on stage and many teens and moms in the audience burst into applause and cheers.
“How appropriate!” Colleen trills.
“That song was released ages ago,” Trixie goes on, “but it was a smash hit all over the world, it’s got a great beat, and I’ve worked out simple but fun choreography.”
“And you girls will love the outfits Trixie not only designed but sewed!” Colleen burbles. “She and Shanelle did a fantastic job. And I hear Happy’s daughter Rachel helped as well. Let’s put our hands together for all three!”
I watch Mariela and her mother exchange rolls of the eyes as they add their half-hearted efforts to the applause.
“We’ll distribute the outfits before we begin rehearsal,” Colleen goes on. “Now we have one special treat for you contestants before you head over to the hotel.” She turns to me. “Happy, will you take over?”
“I would be delighted.” I step forward. “Contestants, when I was your age I was always eager for advice from beauty queens. I wanted to be the best version of myself that I could possibly be, which as we all know is what wins the crown. So in that spirit, Trixie, Shanelle, and I want to give you a few minutes of training on how to walk in competition.”
Excitement ripples across the auditorium.
“After all, a large fraction of your score is derived from the swimsuit and evening gown competitions, both preliminary and final, and how you walk during those competitions either wins you points”—I pause for dramatic effect—“or costs you points.”
“Very true,” Colleen interjects.
“So please form three groups and we’ll get started.”
Pandemonium ensues as the teen queens organize themselves. All but one teen queen, that is.
I watch Mariela sling over her shoulder her snazzy nude-colored Jimmy Choo Hobo—which I know for a fact retails for over a thousand dollars—and proceed with her mother up the aisle toward the exit. I sprint after them.
“Mariela,” I cry when I waylay them, “I thought you wanted pointers!”
“What good are pointers that everybody’s getting?” she wants to know.
“That means you’ll be at a disadvantage if you don’t participate! And you’re the only contestant who’s leaving.”
“Maybe I’m the only one who already knows how to walk,” she sneers. “That’s the last thing I need to practice.”
Consuela pipes up. “I don’t know why you even bother to hold this pageant! Mariela is by far the prettiest girl. It’s obvious who will win.”
“Unless this pageant is rigged,” Mariela says. “My mom better not see any top five lists before the finale.”
Consuela leans close to me. “You just remember one thing, and tell your friend, too. Mario didn’t ask you to judge so his daughter would lose. Come on, Mariela.”
I watch as mother, daughter, and their two gargantuan egos sashay out of the theater. I shouldn’t have tried to stop them. It’s such a joy seeing them disappear.
When I’m back inside and have the attention of my twenty or so teen queens, I explain that I base my walking training on the work of former Miss Venezuela Rita Verreos. “You may remember her from Survivor,” I add. “She’s also a beauty-pageant coach. I recommend you look up her instructional videos online.
“Anyway, when you’re walking in competition, it’s different from when you’re walking around your house or on the street. You want to project confidence, you want to strike a pose, and you want to command every second of attention that you possibly can.
“So first take a deep breath. Watch me.” A few seconds later, “Notice anything?”
“Your shoulders went back!” one girl cries.
“Exactly. Now I’m going to keep my shoulders back and walk in a curvy line, like so.” I demonstrate. “Pretend there’s an S curve on the floor in front of you. In fact, a good way to practice is to draw such a line, for example with chalk, and then walk on it. Your foot slides in and out. You’re creating a smooth S motion with your foot.
“Now let’s talk about the pivot turn. You get to the end of wherever you’re going and you strike a pose. Hold for a beat or two. Remember, you want that attention.” I am demonstrating all the while. “Then, start to pivot your body but keep your head in that same position. Only at that last second do you turn your head away.”
Applause and giggly chatter ring out.
“Okay, who wants to be first to try?” I start with a cute redhead and proceed from there. It is fun sharing the tricks of the trade, especially with such dedicated students.
The evening is a blur of rehearsals, getting settled in the hotel room—which I’m sharing with Rachel; this week Trixie is sharing with Shanelle, and Pop is in a third room—and a quick dinner with Pop, who’s tired after spending the day constructing a palm-tree
backdrop for the pageant’s opening number.
We’re in a ‘50s-style diner sipping beers and waiting for our hamburgers when I ask for advice. I’ll never stop trying to get him on board with my investigating. “What did you do when you were stuck, Pop?”
“You know I never did homicide.”
“I know. But you did other types of cases and I bet the process is the same.”
“Well, if you put it that way.” He settles back in the booth and rubs his chin. “I remember sometimes I’d write down everything I knew—”
“I’ve done that.”
“—and then ask myself if I was ignoring something.”
“What do you mean, ignoring something?”
“Paying something no mind because I figured it wasn’t important.”
“You mean sometimes something you thought didn’t matter proved to be the key?”
He nods assent. Our burgers are served and we dig in. It’s a good thing my father isn’t a chatty guy because what he said has got me thinking.
The following morning it finally hits me. I’ve finished a run and am in my room watching local news and rewarding myself with a Starbucks breakfast of cappuccino and coffee cake. I don’t know if it’s the endorphins, the caffeine, or the sugar—or all three in concert—but suddenly I get a flash of insight. “Oh … my … God,” I murmur.
“What is it, Mom?” Rachel wants to know. She’s sitting on her bed in her PJs nursing her Caramel Macchiato.
“I think I finally connected the dots.” I stare blankly at the TV. The local station is promoting a report it will air tonight: part two of Teen Porn Invasion.
Rachel comes to stand in front of me. She glances first at me, then at the TV, and then at me again. Her face assumes a stunned expression. “Mom, are you saying Ms. Lopez got into teen porn?”
“No. I’m saying I thought something wasn’t important when it was the most important thing of all.” I spring to my feet. “Get dressed, Rachel. We need to get to Paloma’s ASAP.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Ms America and the Mayhem in Miami (Beauty Queen Mysteries No. 3) Page 25
