“Flat-screens again?”
He nods. “I’ve almost decided which one I want.”
An hour or so later, when Jason and I have left the fantasy of our Oahu suite behind, I dress, put a fresh bandage on my memento from Cordelia, and prepare to continue my investigation. After all, what did I tell Jason the night before? That I’d listen to him. I didn’t say I’d do what he asked.
With that reasoning, the sort my teenager would be proud of, I go down to the front desk to ask them to put a call through to Sally Anne Gibbons’ room.
The pretty young woman at Reception shakes her head. “She’s not in her room, Ms. Pennington. We found out this morning that she hasn’t been released yet from the hospital.”
“Oh no! Is she all right?”
“We were told she’s fine but to be on the safe side the doctors kept her overnight for observation.”
I get the directions for the hospital and stop off at the hotel café first to pick up a coffee and a muffin for Sally Anne.
“You want me to make you your breakfast drink?” the girl at the counter asks me.
“I’ll take it later, thanks.” Maybe I’ll have it for lunch. I’ve been eating so much high-fat food lately, it wouldn’t hurt to make my midday meal fruit and wheat germ.
The hospital is cheerier than most, what with the abundance of tropical plants in the main reception area and the sunlight streaming in every window. Sally Anne’s room is on the third floor. I find her not by inquiring at the nurse’s station but by homing in on the bellowing female voice I hear the second I step out of the elevator.
She may be supine in a hospital bed with monitors attached to her body but Sally Anne is still Sally Anne. Maybe that’s why she’s in a private room. The staff couldn’t bring themselves to foist her on another ailing individual.
“Happy Pennington,” she declares when she sees me. She pretty much looks herself, just somehow deflated, as people often do in hospital beds. Her eyes narrow. “What do you want? You wouldn’t be here without a reason.”
I set the brown paper bag on the rolling food tray and get it within Sally Anne’s reach. “Oh, I have a reason. I came to visit you.”
“Fat chance.”
I open the bag and extract the coffee and muffin. I see a flicker of interest in her eyes, which I couldn’t raise but my food offering can. “Did anybody ever tell you that you have an attitude problem, Sally Anne? If not, let me be the first.”
“My problem isn’t me. It’s the rest of the world.” Her eyes lower to the muffin.
“Lemon poppyseed. Trixie Barnett keeps telling me they’re the best of the lot.”
“How the hell would that string bean know? Unwrap it for me. And hand me that java before it gets cold.”
I hold the cup back. “You’re sure the doctors wouldn’t object?” I’ve noticed what appear to be cardiac monitors attached to Sally Anne’s copious bosom and don’t really care to provoke a caffeine-induced heart attack.
“They gave me coffee with that sorry meal they call breakfast. I couldn’t drink the crap. It tasted like well water.”
I’m not sure I believe her but I hand the coffee over anyway. Even a laid-up Sally Anne is a commanding presence. “So how are you feeling? I’m surprised they kept you overnight.”
“Racing heart beat.” She downs a swig, then shrugs. “I don’t mind. The bed at the hotel is just as empty as this one.”
I claim the bedside chair. “Did you suffer a bad burn?”
“Barely second degree. Thanks to that hunka hunka burnin’ love who doused the flames. Wouldn’t mind giving him a thorough examination.”
“It’s been done. Most recently by me.”
She almost chokes on the muffin. “He’s your husband?”
I raise my left hand to show her the rings. “Seventeen years.”
She looks chagrined, an expression I didn’t think she could produce. “Guess I should apologize.”
“No problem. I’m really glad he came through for you.”
She eyes me. Then, “Thanks for the grub. And sorry if I came on a little strong. Habit, I guess. Anyway, I’d rather you come see me than the damn police.”
Excitement pulses through me at the mention of the cops. “Have they been pestering you about Tiffany Amber?”
“That’s putting it nicely. Guess they got wind of the fact that that bitch changed the evening-gown registry on me and I didn’t exactly appreciate it.”
“Maybe not, but people argue all the time and that doesn’t mean they go around killing each other.” I make that comment to lead her on. I’m hoping she forgets herself and says something useful.
“Suppose I can’t blame the cops for asking questions. They’ve got to make a living, too. Believe me, that I understand.”
“But are you sure it was Tiffany who changed the registry? Maybe—”
“Oh, it was her. She as much as said so.”
“Really? When was that?”
“One time we were screaming at each other when nobody else was in earshot. Believe you me, that was no coincidence. So what if I did do it, she says to me. This is war! Talking about the pageant, of course.” Sally Anne jabs her index finger in my direction. “She wanted any advantage she could get, that snot-nosed bitch. She wanted to win bad. Can’t blame her for that, but who gave her the right to take me down so she could rise up?”
I notice a red light starting to beep on the monitor. I lean forward and lay what I hope is a calming hand on Sally Anne’s arm. “Don’t get riled up now.”
Her face is flushing now. And her massive chest is rising and falling at a faster clip. “Besides all that, if there was anybody she shouldn’t have messed with, it was me. I did that shrew a favor and what did it get me?”
“Sally Anne—” I rub her arm. The beeping’s more frenzied now. I’m wondering if I should go get a nurse. But at the same time I am curious about the tidbit she just let fly. “What favor did you do her?”
“I invested in that damn currency scheme of hers. You know about that?”
I realize I’ve clutched Sally Anne’s fleshy arm. “I do. You gave her money?”
“Twenty-five big ones. And do you think it worked out the way she promised me it would? With gains up the wazoo?”
“No?” I guess.
“No!” Sally Anne roars. “And after she screwed me on the registry, when I demand my money back, what’s left of it, you know what she tells me? You get the money when I win the pageant. Until then, keep your trap shut.”
On the monitor, a second light has gone on. To my credit, I stand up, preparing to run for a nurse. To my shame, I remain in place and ask a follow-up question. “Why was she even doing that sort of thing? Her husband’s a lawyer, right? He must make money.”
“Not even Donald Trump could’ve supported that broad. Money flowed through her fingers like sand through an hourglass.”
And with that timeless Days of our Lives reference, a siren blares from the monitor. That jumpstarts me into action. I head for the door but none too quickly, because Sally Anne’s still talking. Shouting, really.
“Every single dime is precious to me!” she yells. “And no beauty queen with half a brain will trust me to register her pageant wear now! That describes most of you, am I right? So where does that leave Crowning Glory? Where does that leave me?”
Nurses and orderlies rush past me into Sally Anne’s room. One of them glares at me. “What did you do to her?”
“Nothing. Just a little light conversation.”
They swarm Sally Anne’s bed. As for me, I skedaddle.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The second I get back to my room I boot up my laptop and create a spreadsheet. I label it: SUSPECTS IN TIFFANY AMBER’S MURDER. Then I start filling it in.
My fingers hover over the keyboard as I ponder whether Sally Anne’s revelations make her more or less likely to have murdered Tiffany. On the more side, she had not one good reason but two to be irate with Ms. Californi
a: the gown registry and the loss of money in Tiffany’s currency-trading scheme. But on the less side, wouldn’t Sally Anne have a better chance of getting her money back if Tiffany won the pageant? That quarter-million dollar prize would go a long way toward allowing Tiffany to pay off her debts.
I’m leaning toward less until something else strikes me. Sally Anne had no guarantee that Tiffany would pay her back even if she did win. But Sally Anne could assure herself sweet revenge if she knocked Tiffany off. That outcome she could control.
That pushes me toward more. But none of this is conclusive. Why is it that the more I investigate, the more confused I get? Maybe that’s how Momoa feels, too. I decide not to call and ask him.
I move on to Keola Kalakaua, he of the ever-present loincloth. He had money issues with Tiffany, too. He wanted a portion of her prize if she won. Keola said Tiffany told him no way and that I believe. That could be a motive for murder. But with him I have the opportunity issue. I find it highly unlikely that His Highness could have maneuvered around backstage during the finale with none of the queens noticing. Plus I think about him the same way so many people think about beauty queens: that he lacks sufficient brain cells to pull off a successful poisoning.
Then we have Rex Rexford, who had a financial arrangement with the victim. He stood to win 25 “big ones,” as Sally Anne called them, if Tiffany grabbed the Ms. America title. Like Sally Anne, he was left empty-handed by Tiffany’s death. But unlike Keola and Sally Anne, I have no reason to believe Rex was left with money troubles. In fact, given the likelihood he was the main heir to Sonny Roberts’ gargantuan estate, quite the opposite. And I have discovered no reason why Rex would harbor any resentment toward Tiffany.
I sit back and think about Magnolia Flatt and Misty Delgado. To my knowledge, money played no role in either woman’s relationship with Tiffany. But both of them had other motives to kill her, just as powerful. Rivalry, revenge, jealousy.
And Sebastian Cantwell? I know so little of his dealings with Tiffany. They might have involved money. Maybe she tried to blackmail him. He was richer than anybody else on my list and I certainly wouldn’t put it past Tiffany to have dug up something juicy on him that she could use to further her own ends.
I type Tony Postagino’s name into the spreadsheet even though he had no opportunity to get backstage to slip the poison into Tiffany’s lipstick. No doubt he would have been severely impacted by his wife’s big spending, whether he knew about it or not. I saw on Oprah that some husbands are oblivious to that sort of thing, though Oprah pried it out of one guy that, in fact, yes, he sort of knew, he was just in denial. I wonder to what extent Tiffany’s husband was aware of her financial machinations. Did he know about the currency trading? Maybe he was the one who came up with the idea. But somehow it seems more likely that Tiffany was doing it on the QT because she was trying to cover her spending.
I abandon the spreadsheet and go on-line. In short order I find myself at Tony Postagino’s website. I scan it carefully, just like I did the first time I visited. There’s nothing to suggest he’s not a successful personal-injury lawyer. His home page sports a few fancy logos to highlight his credentials—one from the American Bar Association and another from the American Association of Justice. There’s a section potential clients can fill in with their name and contact information and details of their situation. They are assured they will be rewarded with a Free Case Analysis. Sure, there are a few typos and grammatical errors in the encouraging text about how Tony P gets the most for his clients in the shortest possible timeframe. It’s not statue of limitations, for example. But I doubt ambulance chasing puts a premium on excellent language skills.
I eye the Hawaiian shirt Tony Postagino is wearing in the website photo and decide that it’s nicer than the campshirt I got Jason. It looks sleeker than most shirts of its type. It has white orchids on a red background but even with the bright color there’s nothing kitschy about it.
I can’t say the same about the photo’s backdrop, though. Tiffany’s husband is sitting in a room that screams Hawaii! in the cheesiest of all possible ways. There’s a ton of Polynesian paraphernalia around him—lamps with pineapple bases, rugs that look like surfboards, sofa pillows embroidered with the phrase Daddy’s Little Surfer Girl. Hanging on the wall is a big blue quilt with squares that tell the state’s story. In one is a map depicting the seven main islands. In another, three women are caught in mid hula. One block shows Mount Haleakala erupting; in another dolphins are doing backflips.
In front of the quilt stands a tiki totem pole that must be a good five feet tall. It’s carved out of wood, like they all are I guess, and shows two giant faces, one on top of the other, the top one grimacing fiercely, the lower laughing. I find the thing a little scary.
I’m staring at the totem when I get the funniest feeling I’ve seen it before. And the quilt. They’re both unique, to put it nicely. But I can’t for the life of me remember where. I haven’t seen them in the flesh, if you get my meaning. I’ve never been in that particular room. But they’re so dang familiar.
I work on the spreadsheet for a while longer, then flop onto the bed. On goes the TV. It’s a little before noon and the early midday news is on. Both the male anchor and the weatherman are wearing Hawaiian shirts, just like Detective Momoa always does.
I’ve just watched the weather report—which broadcasts the shocking revelation that every day will be sunny with a high in the eighties—when on comes a commercial for Ventura Aerial Tours. After some beauty shots of Oahu taken from a thousand feet, Dirk appears in his chopper’s pilot seat. He’s wearing a sand-colored short-sleeved safari shirt, aviator sunglasses with reflective lenses, and headset. He looks dark, brooding, and mysterious. From what I’ve seen of him, that’s his main mode. A second later he surprises me by cracking a smile, probably because the cameraman told him it would be better for business. Then the cameraman pulls back and we watch Dirk lift the chopper up, up, and away.
I wonder if Dirk and Misty ever did it in the chopper. That’s not where they were, though, when Magnolia videotaped them for YouTube.
Or did she videotape them for Tiffany? You be the judge.
Half a minute later a synapse fires in my brain. I leap off the bed and race back to my laptop. In seconds I’m staring at YouTube’s home page. The video of Misty and Dirk is still featured, though it’s fallen quite a bit down the list. I click on it.
The video begins just as I remember. And then …
Oh … my … God. There they are, clear as day, behind Misty and Dirk, who are grabbing at each other like they’re in a porn movie on its inexorable course to the main attraction.
But I’m not focused on the twosome. It’s what’s in the background that grabs my attention. The big blue Hawaii quilt on the wall. And the two-faced tiki totem in front of it. Not to mention all the other stuff cluttering the place.
How bizarre is that? Tony Postagino’s photo was taken in the same exact location as the Misty/Dirk video.
Where did Magnolia tell me she shot this? I wrack my brain. Then this, too, comes to me. At a B&B owned by Dirk’s sister. I grab my cell and make a call. It’s soon answered. “Trixie, where are you?”
“At the casual café in the lobby. Wanna join me?”
“Don’t move. I’ll be right there.”
The place is jampacked. I run inside, slamming into bodies as I go. One of them is Rex Rexford, wearing dark plaid Bermuda shorts and a black tee shirt.
“Where’s the fire?” he asks me.
“Sorry, Rex.” I spy Trixie by the counter, where she’s occupying one of the tall stools and eating a salad. She’s in her bikini cover-up and her copper-colored hair is damp. I stand next to her—there are no open seats—and tell her what I just learned. She’s as freaked as I am and nearly falls off her stool when I relay the good part.
“What is this telling us?” she squeals.
“I have no clue. I mean, it could just be a coincidence but don’t you think it
’s really weird?”
“It’s not a coincidence, Happy.” She slaps the counter to emphasize her point. “There’s no such thing as a coincidence, don’t you know that?”
“Uh … no.”
“Deepak Chopra, you know, the spiritual guru? He says that everything that happens is related to something else, that maybe you know about or maybe you don’t, or maybe you see it or maybe you don’t, but it’s there regardless, somewhere in the cosmos. So something that seems like a coincidence is really”—she grabs my arm—“a message.”
“Well, if it is, it’s in some dang code that I can’t read! Because the only thing I’m picking up is that Tony Postagino had his website photo taken in the same location that Misty and Dirk used for their rendezvous.”
Trixie nods. “Dirk’s sister’s B&B. What’s its name?”
“I don’t know. All I know is that Magnolia said it was about half an hour from here. And that it was funky.”
Trixie frowns. “Tiffany’s husband isn’t the funky type. He’s the regular businessman type.”
“Tiffany wasn’t the funky type, either.”
The girl working the counter refills Trixie’s lemonade and glances at me. “Can I get you anything?”
“Is it too late to get my breakfast drink?”
“Not at all,” she says and bustles away.
This time it’s me grabbing arms as a new idea occurs to me. I halt the progress of Trixie’s lemonade halfway to her mouth. “I thought of something. Remember how Keola told me that Tiffany told him that she was having an affair to get even with her husband because he was having an affair? What if her husband went to that B&B not with Tiffany but with the woman he was having an affair with?”
Trixie gasps. “And maybe she was funky. Because you know it’s always the woman who picks which B&B to go to. In fact, a man would never pick a B&B in the first place.”
“No. They’d pick a hotel.”
“Or a motel if it was”—Trixie wrinkles her nose—“you know, tacky, like an affair.” Her eyes widen. “You need to find out who he went there with.”
Ms America and the Offing on Oahu (Beauty Queen Mysteries No. 1) Page 15
