He shrugs. He’d still rather I excel at being a beauty queen. “By the way,” he says, “Maggie has an idea for an appearance for you.”
The corn quesadilla I snagged stops halfway to my mouth. “Maggie does?”
“In Minnesota. Her hometown’s getting a big-box store and she thinks you’re just the gal to cut the ribbon at the opening.”
That’s the sort of event at which we queens routinely star. But I have zero desire to do so at Maggie’s side.
“It’d be next month,” Pop adds.
“Right before Christmas? Oh, that’s such a busy time—”
“We could meet the people she’s got up there. And I could do some ice fishing.”
“That sounds fun, Grandpa!” Rachel cries. “Aren’t you gonna eat, Mom?”
“You two go ahead. I want to make a quick call first.”
Back in the day I never would’ve called my mom at this hour because she’d be asleep. But nowadays she picks up. “Are you alone or is Bennie Hana with you?” I inquire snidely.
She lets that pass. “I’m watching that show about the true crime. You’d know something about that.”
“Why did you tell Rachel that you had your boss over for dinner?”
“Because I wasn’t sure you’d tell your father but I was pretty sure she would.”
I knew it! “Well, your plan backfired because now Pop wants me to go to Minnesota to do an appearance with Maggie. And to quote unquote meet her people.”
Now I’ve got my mother’s attention. “You better not go, young lady!”
“How am I going to stop it? You know what Pop’s like when he gets an idea in his head.”
“If you’re smart enough to figure out those murders, you’re smart enough to figure that out. Now I’ve got to go or I’ll never find out who killed the bridesmaid at that wedding in the woods.”
With visions of Minnesota in December dancing in my head, I join the buffet line and fill my plate with such delectable items as Feijoada—a stew made of beans, pork, and beef—and Tamales de Pipían—tamales filled with cheese and vegetables steamed in banana leaves. I’m not surprised the food is as sensational as the setting. This home is beautiful, and it’s lively tonight with dozens of teen queens buzzing about wearing evening gowns. It’s like prom night without the dates.
I find a chaise lounge next to Pop and Rachel and in no time am joined by Lasalo. “So tell me what happened to Peppi,” he says.
I relay the story with occasional breaks to feast. Mercedes does an excellent job freshening my piña colada. As we chat, Trixie and Shanelle join us.
“There’s one thing I still don’t understand,” Trixie says. “Alice told you Peppi betrayed her. Was that because she thought Peppi told Iris Flower about her bulimia?”
“Yes. The only person Alice confided in was Peppi. They did meet in rehab and they did share a deep bond. Alice told me she didn’t think Peppi would betray that confidence until after the orientation lunch when she overheard Peppi on her phone talking to Iris Flower.”
“So Alice jumped to the conclusion that Peppi was the source of the story,” Shanelle says. “Did you tell her who it actually was?”
“I told her it wasn’t Peppi but I didn’t tell her who it was. I didn’t think that was my place. But Alice is still mad at Peppi for inviting Iris to the Sugarbabies party. Alice thinks that if Peppi were a true friend, she would have had nothing to do with Iris since it was Iris who publicized Alice’s bulimia. And of course that caused her restaurant to nosedive.” I don’t know how accurate Ned Silver’s characterization of Alice is, but he’s certainly right that she demands total loyalty from the people around her.
“I’ll still eat at her restaurant,” Lasalo says. “The food’s still good.”
“When is Iris going to interview you about all this?” Shanelle wants to know.
“Tomorrow morning.” I promised her the inside track and now I must deliver.
Rachel pipes up. “Mariela’s mom is sure gonna be mad when she sees that gossip columnist write a long story all about you!”
No doubt Consuela will add that to her list of grievances. “It’s going to be mostly about Peppi, Rachel.” And I must leave out the details the police want me to keep secret as they build their case against Alfonso.
Without Detective Dez’s help, I might add. Mario told me he had a chat with Miami P.D. and they are less than thrilled with Detective Monaco’s performance. He may not lose his badge but he’ll likely get demoted from Homicide. I won’t object.
Across the pool I spy Mario with Mariela and Consuela. Mario gives me a smile but mother and daughter look more sulky than festive. “They came after all,” I whisper to Shanelle.
“You notice Mariela’s not wearing her sash.”
“She probably threw it out the car window.”
Trixie pats my leg. “Have we told you how proud we are of you, Happy?”
“About a gazillion times.”
“So this is a gazillion and one,” Shanelle says. “You done good, girl.”
“And you did it all on your own this time,” Trixie says. “We were so busy sewing we didn’t help at all.”
“You did so help. And so did Mario.”
“He just did what you told him to do,” Shanelle says.
“Well, if you’re proud of me, I’m proud of you, Trixie,” I say.
“I’ll say!” Shanelle cries. “That opening number kicked butt!”
Trixie allows a smile. “I have to say it gives me confidence that it turned out so well. And that’s been sorely lacking since I lost my job.”
“Who knows what exciting things you’ll do next?” I say. “And maybe in Savannah, if Rhett gets that job.”
Her hazel eyes shine. “It could be a whole new chapter for us.”
I set down my drink. “It’s time I visit with Paloma. If she’ll let me.”
She does. Mercedes escorts me to the stunning two-story library, softly lit by a silk-shaded lamp. Paloma is there in black trousers and top. She looks very, very tired. Like her housekeeper, she grasps my hands. “I didn’t give you the easiest time. I’m sorry for that.”
“No apologies necessary.”
She shakes her head. “I wasn’t fair to you, and you did so much for me. There are so many people I wasn’t fair to. Hector, for one.”
I encourage her to sit and take a seat beside her. “He wants to start over with you, Paloma. He told me so himself earlier today.”
“Maybe I should. Otherwise soon I’ll have no family at all.”
“Give him a chance. I think you’ll be happy you did.”
“Perhaps you’re right.” Paloma raises sad eyes to mine. “I wasn’t fair to my Perpetua either. I was always afraid her drug problem would come back. That’s why I didn’t want her to be friends with Alice. I thought she was a bad influence.”
“Because Alice had been in rehab, too.”
“And that’s why I cut back on the money I gave Perpetua. I was afraid she would spend it on drugs. So she had to live on the money she earned.”
Which was probably a fair amount but not enough to keep up her end of Sugarbabies. It sounds like Peppi over-extended herself financially.
“I will make sure Perpetua’s debts are paid,” Paloma goes on. “That way I can make it up to her a little.”
I know that will put Jasmine in a much happier frame of mind. “You’ve been so generous to my daughter,” I say. “I’m very grateful.”
“She is welcome at my home anytime. As are you, and your friends.”
This time I reach for Paloma’s hands. “You should be so proud of your daughter, Paloma. She would’ve become known as an excellent reporter, I’m sure of it. That report she was working on would’ve been a big deal. And the boutique will always be part of her legacy, too. She had grown into a strong woman and I know she got a lot of that from you.”
It is some time before Paloma can speak. Then, “I’ll need every bit of strength I’ve ever had no
w.”
I rise to take my leave. “Somehow you’ll find it.”
I’m in a pensive mood as I return to the party. I watch the teen queens flit around like so many butterflies and wish I could do more for Paloma. What she really needs I can’t give her. Nobody can.
I’m on the edge of the party looking out at the nighttime view of Biscayne Bay when Mario finds me. “I wasn’t sure you three would come to this,” I say.
“We almost didn’t. But Consuela wanted to see the house. I know she’s peeved Hector never brought her here.”
“How upset are she and Mariela?”
“If I hear one more time that the pageant was rigged I may kill somebody.”
We chuckle. I feel Mario’s eyes on my face. “You look wonderful,” he says softly. “But why should tonight be any different?”
“Mr. Suave, you have to stop being so charming. I don’t think I can take it.”
“I can’t stop. Not where you’re concerned.”
We look at each other. It is the strangest thing. It doesn’t matter where we are, it doesn’t matter who we’re with. When I’m gazing into Mario’s smoldering eyes, it’s always just the two of us. It’s just him and me.
He breaks our stare and looks out at the bay. “So where’s your next appearance?”
“I’m hearing talk of Minnesota. And if you show up there I’m going to know for sure you’re stalking me.”
“What? Me, a stalker?”
“I don’t think there are ghosts in Minnesota.”
“There are ghosts everywhere. Everywhere you are, anyway.”
Again our gazes lock. Then I hear Mariela’s voice behind me. “Dad, are you coming?” I wonder if Consuela sent her daughter to get him. It wouldn’t surprise me.
“I’m coming,” Mario calls. Then he takes my hand and raises it to his lips. The kiss he leaves there I’ll carry with me for a long time. “Till we meet again,” he whispers. And then he’s gone.
I don’t watch him go. That’s harder than it should be. I understand what Paloma means about needing all her strength. At this moment I feel a little like that, too.
But then I look out at the bay, glinting silver in the moonlight, and I feel the sea breeze on my face, and deep inside my heart swells. This beauty queen is strong, too.
She may even be strong enough for Minnesota in December.
Diana loves to hear from readers! E-mail her at www.dianadempsey.com and sign up for her mailing list while you’re there to hear first about her new releases. Also join her on Facebook and follow her on Twitter.
Continue reading for an excerpt from Ms America and the Whoopsie in Winona, the fourth Beauty Queen Mystery, which readers call “colorful,” “engaging,” and “fast-paced.”
MS AMERICA AND THE WHOOPSIE IN WINONA
(Beauty Queen Mysteries, No. 4)
Beauty queen Happy Pennington loves Christmas, but this year murder gets in the way of the tinsel and the candy canes …
In snowy small-town Minnesota—where Happy and her beauty-queen BFFs are cutting the ribbon at a new big-box store—Happy discovers that nothing, and no one, is what it seems. Society matrons worship Norse goddesses. Victorian mansions hide salacious secrets. And prominent families feud in the strangest ways. Maybe that’s why Happy’s host ends up dead.
Just in time, heartthrob Mario Suave swoops in to help Happy any way he can—especially under the mistletoe. That mystery, too, is Happy’s to unwrap …
CHAPTER ONE
Sadly, many people labor under the misapprehension that a beauty queen’s life is nothing but glamour from dawn till dusk. Yet here I stand, Ms. America Happy Pennington, dressed as a sexy Santa in a red velveteen monstrosity, preparing to preside over the opening ceremony for the new Giant W big box store in Winona, Minnesota.
If that doesn’t disabuse you of the all-glamour all-the-time fantasy, I don’t know what will.
The teenage girl manning the public-address system cranks it once again into life. “Sale on bloat-free suppository laxatives, aisle seven!”
My beauty queen BFF Shanelle Walker sets her hands on her hips. Like our partner in crime Trixie Barnett—the reigning Ms. Congeniality—she’s done up as a hot-to-trot elf in an emerald-green minidress complete with capelet and lace-up high-heel boots. I will say the color looks fantastic against Shanelle’s cocoa-colored skin. Their hats—green versions of my red Santa cap—perch awkwardly atop both Shanelle’s black waves and Trixie’s chin-length copper-colored bob.
“I swear,” Shanelle says, “if that infernal teenager makes one more announcement, I am going to boot-kick her all the way to the North Pole.”
“She is a little over enthusiastic,” Trixie agrees. “But this is a big night.”
From our vantage point behind a display of inflatable fruitcakes—yes, you read that right—I assess the gathering throng. “Half the town may show up to this thing.”
I am exaggerating. I’m told Winona boasts about 27-thousand residents. But I bet a few hundred are already massed on the other side of the cash registers, escaping the frigid temps and ogling the discounted merchandise. They won’t be able to get at it until 7 p.m. at least, when the speechifying is concluded and the opening ribbon cut.
Trixie squints her eyes at the crowd. “I don’t see your dad, Happy.”
“You see the couple who are both wearing two-foot-tall Christmas tree hats?”
“There he is!” Trixie cries. “Wow, does he look happy.”
I am forced to admit that even though he’s sporting the tackiest headgear this side of Minneapolis, yes, Pop does look happy. And it is largely due to Maggie Lindvig—Winona native, Cleveland transplant, and lady love. I watch multicolored lights blink atop Maggie’s longish brunette hair. She may be in her early sixties but she still favors a sex kitten look, with tight clothes and a shimmy in her walk. “Those hats were Maggie’s idea. Pop keeps telling me how many fun things she thinks of for them to do.”
“She sounds pretty different from your mom,” Shanelle observes.
“That must drive your mom batty,” Trixie says. “I wish she were here, too.”
“Apparently December’s a busy month in the used-car business. She claims she can’t get away.” Ever since my mother took a job as receptionist for Bennie Hana, notorious in the greater Cleveland area for executing a karate chop in his TV commercials about chopping prices, she’s become surprisingly slippery. I’m convinced only some of her elusiveness is due to her new 9-to-5 gig. The rest I attribute to her burgeoning social life, which also revolves around one Bennie Hana.
Again the P.A. system blares. “Santa toilet-seat cover and matching bath rug in aisle three!” the teenager chirps. “Trim the family throne with Old Saint Nick!”
I lay a restraining hand on Shanelle’s arm as I turn to Trixie. “I wonder what you’ll think of Maggie’s sister Ingrid.”
“She’s one of the people giving a speech, right?”
“I’ll be amazed if that woman lets anybody else get hold of the microphone,” Shanelle says. Like me, Shanelle arrived yesterday, so she has the lay of the land where Ingrid Svendsen is concerned.
“It sounds like Ingrid had a lot to do with convincing Giant W to put an outpost here in Winona,” I say.
“At least to hear her tell it,” Shanelle adds.
“She’s a big muckety-muck in town,” I go on. “Organizes a lot of social events, serves on all the committees—”
“—takes credit for everything,” Shanelle adds.
“I get the picture.” Trixie nods sagely then brightens. “Well, we should be thanking her because if Ingrid didn’t get this brand new Giant W for Winona, we wouldn’t be seeing each other again so soon!”
“Truth is, we have Maggie to thank for that, too,” I say. “She’s the one who suggested to Ingrid that we be part of the opening.” Ingrid made sure this is an official Ms. America appearance, organizing it with Atlanta headquarters, but it was Maggie who got the ball rolling. And I know why: s
he’s trying to get on my good side and thinks booking pageant gigs is a way to do it. It’s clear all she wants for Christmas is an engagement ring from Pop and she knows that’s more likely if I’m on her team.
Problem is I’m not ready to play ball yet, and I may never be.
“I can’t wait to look around Winona more,” Trixie says. “This town is so cute! Especially with all the Christmas decorations up.”
“I’m thinking we can get some of our shopping done here,” I say.
“Nothing like a small-town Christmas,” Shanelle says. “I put some bubbly in the fridge so we can kick off our celebrations as soon as we get back to Damsgard.”
Trixie’s hazel eyes widen. “We’re staying at a house that’s got its own name? That’s like Tara in Gone With the Wind!”
I bet Ingrid wouldn’t mind being likened to Scarlett O’Hara. “Damsgard isn’t that big but it is pretty impressive. It’s named after some mansion in Norway.”
“Lots of folks in these parts are Norwegian,” Shanelle says. “Like Ingrid and Maggie. And Ingrid’s second husband, who left her the house.”
“It’s awfully nice of her to put us all up,” Trixie says.
“And,” I add, “there are so many bedrooms we don’t even have to share.” Though the second those words leave my lips, I feel a teeny tiny bit glum.
The last time I was a guest in somebody’s house was last month in Miami, when we all stayed at Mario Suave’s Spanish-style manse. It may not have as many bedrooms as Damsgard but it’s pretty splendiferous. I don’t have to tell you, dear reader, that some large fraction of the appeal of Mario’s home’s derives from its owner—pageant emcee and host of America’s Scariest Ghost Stories—whose hotness, smartness, and all-around scrumptiousness continue to haunt my dreams. And, I will admit, sometimes my awake moments, too.
That would be A-OK if I weren’t married to Jason Kilborn, my high-school sweetheart and the father of my 17-year-old daughter Rachel. The self-same husband who just the other day threw me for a loop so big, I’m still spinning in circles.
Ms America and the Mayhem in Miami (Beauty Queen Mysteries No. 3) Page 28
