Ms America and the Offing on Oahu

by Dempsey, Diana

  An hour later, when I make it back to my room, Shanelle is there wearing a bright yellow sundress, which looks gorgeous against her mocha-colored skin.

  Her hands fly to her hips. “What did I tell you, sister?” Then I find myself being hugged even more vigorously than I was by Trixie. “I was about to lay a bet on you but you didn’t even give me time.” She pulls back and eyes my ensemble from bow to stern. “And who says rhinestones don’t go with a linen/cotton blend? You look sweeter than pie in summer.”

  “Thank you kindly.” I often get a little southern when I chat with Shanelle. I start taking off the suit. “I am whipped, though. Do you mind if I pull the drapes and have a long snooze?”

  She narrows her eyes at me. “You were awfully rambunctious last night. What was up with that?”

  “Well …” My addled brain tries to think fast. “Magnolia Flatt called me really early to come up to Cantwell’s penthouse suite.”

  “That must be a sight to see.”

  “It sure is.” I glance at the desk near the sliding glass doors. “Your laptop’s booted up, right?” Back home in Mississippi, Shanelle is some kind of computer geek. She’s on her laptop constantly, just like Tiffany was reputed to be. “Do you mind if I check out the news about Tiffany Amber before I take my nap?”

  “Be my guest.” She moves toward the laptop, clicks a few keys. “Our gal is a top story. Nothing like a beauty queen cut off in her first bloom. Or in the case of our pageant, maybe her third or fourth.”

  She chuckles and moves aside to let me sit in the desk chair. I’m now wearing the hotel’s fuzzy robe. With the tiara. For some mysterious reason I can’t bring myself to take it off. My eyes run down the first story. “So Tiffany sold real estate for a living. I didn’t know that.”

  “In Riverside County, California.” Shanelle moves away toward the bathroom. “Foreclosure central, from what I understand.”

  “It says here her husband’s a lawyer. So he must haul in the bucks.”

  The rest of the article tells me things I already know. I google Tiffany’s name, which brings up a bunch more stories with no fresh information. Then I google Tony Postagino. I don’t admit it to myself but I’m sort of investigating. One thing Pop often says: in a murder, always look first at the spouse.

  Tony Postagino didn’t have opportunity, though, because none of the husbands were allowed backstage. Almost no men were, because it was where we contestants changed clothes between competitions. It was like a women’s locker room.

  “The husband has a website,” I tell Shanelle, clicking on the link.

  She returns from the bathroom, mascara wand in hand, just in time to see a slick-looking website fill the screen. “Fine-looking graphics,” she remarks.

  Which spell out 1-216-GOT-TONY? NO RECOVERY, NO FEE. And Hablamos Espanol. “He does personal injury,” I say.

  “In other words, he chases ambulances.” Shanelle clucks her tongue. “Nice.”

  “And lucrative, probably. Although in the photo he’s wearing the exact same Hawaiian shirt I saw him in this morning.”

  Shanelle waves her wand in the air. “You cannot get a man to shop. Unless he’s gay.”

  “I feel really bad for him.” I turn from the screen. “His wife dies all of a sudden, in this really bizarre public way. And he’s got two little girls at home, both younger than five. Did you hear that some local guy got called in for questioning?”

  “Mark my words.” Shanelle points the mascara wand at me. “That girl had some nasty ghosts in her closet.” She sashays away. “And they’ll all slither out now, like worms after a rain.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I hear pounding on my door. I pull the pillow over my head but amazingly that does not make it stop. As dreamland slowly recedes, it occurs to me that I really should answer. After all, my status has changed in the last twelve hours. I’m Ms. America now. Maybe there’s an emergency in the pageant ranks to which I am called upon to respond!

  I leap out of bed yelling “I’ll be right there!” Thanks to the blackout drapes the hotel room is pitch dark, though the digital clock on the bedside table informs me it’s 4:37. I assume that’s PM. Shanelle is really a trooper if it’s four in the morning.

  Seconds later, encased in the fuzzy robe, I pull open the door to see a gigantic bouquet of yellow roses in the arms of a very short Hawaiian man. He holds them out toward me. “For you, Ms. Pennington.”

  “Thank you.”

  He smiles and nods and sets off down the corridor.

  I’m so in awe I forgot to give him a tip. There have got to be two dozen roses in yellow, my absolute favorite rose color. I push my nose into their sweet fragrance, set the vase on the desk, switch on the lamp, and extract the gift card.

  Congratulations, Happy! The pageant is honored to have you wear its crown.

  Since circumstances prevented you from receiving the traditional bouquet at the finale, hope you’ll enjoy these as a substitute.

  Mario Suave

  Wow. I stare at the roses. They look good in the glow of the lamp and even better when I pull the drapes and the rays of the sun make the blossoms appear even more golden.

  That is really nice of him. Extremely considerate. The comment Jason made flits through my mind. I saw that Mario Suave guy giving you the eye. I don’t really believe that’s the case, but if it is, it’s flattering. After all, I’m married but I’m not dead.

  Eventually I force myself off my duff and into the shower. It’s only after I’m dressed and admiring the cut of my orange and white geometric pattern halter dress that I run across, in my makeup bag, the pad of paper I pilfered from Tiffany’s hotel room.

  I carry it to the balcony. No question: there is definitely the imprint of writing on the top sheet.

  I remember a trick Pop taught me, and cut off a length of post-office shipping tape, whose presence among my possessions is not a mystery to you, dear reader. Then I lay the tape over the imprint.

  Yup, when I return to the balcony and hold the paper in the sunshine just right, the imprint becomes legible. 3-8-2-6-3-7.

  I don’t know the importance of that series of numbers to Tiffany. In fact, they could have been written by an earlier guest in her room. But I decide to hold on to the pad just in case.

  I make it outside for what I like to consider Showtime!—when the sun is about to set and the Royal Hibiscus celebrates with the ritualistic lighting of the tiki torches on the property. It seems to me that this is the hotel’s daily gift to its female guests, almost better than the twin mint chocolates it leaves on the pillows with the turndown service.

  The person doing the lighting is a man, a young man, a young tanned Hawaiian man with an Adonis-like body clothed only by a loincloth-type thingie that sort of flips open and shut as he runs, his torch aloft. I’m always half hoping those famous Kona winds will whip up as he performs this rite, making his loincloth swish open even more productively, if you get my meaning.

  At any rate, I always watch him with a fair amount of attention and enjoyment, and I know from the sudden silence that descends upon every other female in the vicinity that I’m not alone in my appreciation.

  Tonight he has the usual line of giggling kids running after him as he bounds from one torch to the next. As I walk in my strappy white sandals along the curving path toward the beach, I’m seeing him from the rear, which isn’t an A-1 viewing position for the reason cited above but still isn’t bad.

  I’m thinking a little stroll on the sand, then maybe a Mai Tai, some dinner, an hour of TV, and back to bed. I’ll call Shanelle’s cell, see what she’s up to. Probably Trixie’s out and about. I spoke to my mom and Jason earlier and begged off getting together, saying I needed sleep. Which is true, but still I feel guilty leaving my mom so much in Jason’s company. He is not exactly her favorite person. I’ll make it up to both of them tomorrow.

  It’s in that Scarlett O’Hara-like frame-of-mind that I pass Torch Man standing next to a palm tree. He’s at
a standstill, the kids are dispersing, and his torch is no longer held high. His duties must be concluded for the night.

  I’m a bit further along the path when I stop short, a scent I just picked up finally registering in my brain. I turn around to retrace my steps and there right in front of me I see the source of the unusual aroma I’ve encountered twice recently. Once at 4 AM in Tiffany Amber’s hotel room. And again out here as the tiki torches are lit.

  The scent is citronella.

  And the source is Torch Man.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  He’s alone now, leaning his forehead against a palm tree. He straightens and swipes his hand across his nose. He’s more Torch Boy than Torch Man now. For one thing I see that he’s really young, like 22. And for another, he’s crying. A few tears are running down the cheeks of a truly sculpted face, which I’m noticing for the first time is just as finely made as his body.

  I approach him. “Are you okay?”

  He jumps and moves a few steps away. “I’m fine.”

  “You look upset to me. Maybe you need somebody to talk to.” I’m winging it here. I have no idea what I’m doing.

  He shakes his head.

  “My name’s Happy. What’s yours?”

  He hesitates, then, “Keola.”

  “Did you know the woman who died? Tiffany Amber? Is that why you’re upset?” When in doubt, plunge in with both feet.

  His dark eyes widen. “How did you know? Are you a cop?”

  Bingo. “I was a friend of Tiffany’s,” I lie. “I was also in the beauty pageant.”

  He eyes me more closely. “Aren’t you the one who won? I think I saw you on TV this morning.”

  It’s fun, hearing that. Refreshing and new. “Yes, I’m proud to say I did win.”

  “Tiffany would’ve beat you if she hadn’t died,” he says. I get the feeling he’s not being snarky, just matter-of-fact.

  I can’t say I disagree with him. “She was a strong contender. Were you really close with her?”

  He looks away. For a second I expect the waterworks to resume. Then, “Do you know I’m famous, too?”

  “Uh … really?”

  “My family. The Kalakauas. We’re descended from royalty.”

  I’m starting to wonder if Keola is a few orchids short of a lei when he confirms that suspicion by reopening his mouth.

  “King Kalakaua was the last reigning king of Hawaii. People called him the Merry Monarch because he really enjoyed life. He revived the hula.” He chuckles. “I hula’ed for Tiffany once. She loved it.”

  I take in the pecs, the hips, the abs. I just bet she did. “Do the cops know that you and she knew each other really well?”

  “We talked about it.”

  “This morning? When they took you in?”

  “Yeah.”

  I’m starting to feel like a pro at this whole investigating thing. Then again, this is like taking candy from a baby. Keola Kalakaua seems so unguarded.

  I wonder if it was the scent of citronella that put Oahu PD on to him. There may have been other evidence in Tiffany’s room that led them to him that was gone by the time I got there.

  Keola pipes up. “I told the cops I didn’t kill her. If I knew who did, I might kill them. But Tiffany? No way. Never.” He looks away from me toward the ocean. He seems to drift into a kind of reverie, like he’s remembering their time together. I’m thinking a high percentage of it was spent horizontally.

  I stare at him. Boy, is it a blessing being a man. No woman could eat potato chips like this guy does and maintain that physique. For I have no doubt that he’s the one who was in Tiffany’s hotel room the prior afternoon, before the finale. Surely he’s the one who helped Tiffany unmake her bed, something fierce.

  I wonder why Tiffany had an affair with him. Was something wrong in her marriage? Or was she just letting loose while she was away from home, kind of a Hawaiian When-In-Vegas thing?

  Whatever, it was a crappy way to treat her husband. And her daughters.

  “Okay, bye then,” I say to Keola.

  He doesn’t acknowledge me. His head is hanging and I watch his hand reach again toward his eyes. His grief seems real. He doesn’t strike me as smart enough to fake it.

  Nor does he seem smart enough to have murdered Tiffany. It had to be someone pretty cunning who did her in. It can’t be that easy to get your hands on poison, then know exactly how to use it. If that is how it was done.

  I realize the sun has dipped into the sea and decide that it’s too dark now to walk on the beach. I head back toward my room, thinking of Keola.

  I hate when beautiful people are on the dumb side. Not to be snotty but it gives us all a bad name. It bothers me that everybody assumes we beauty queens are empty in the attic. Just once I’d like it if somebody appreciated me for my brains, too.

  The evening and night pass as I hoped they would. Quietly, with room service and TV and sleep. The next morning I’m down in the lobby sipping my breakfast drink and waiting for Trixie when I see Detective Jenkins, Momoa’s female sidekick, locked in conversation with Tiffany’s husband. Still flush with victory from my verbal probing of His Highness Keola Kalakaua, I pretend to be interested in the brochures by the concierge desk and sidle closer.

  Jenkins is speaking. I try to listen in. I feel kind of bad for her. From my dad I know how hard it is to be a cop: not enough pay for the hours and the danger. I imagine it’s even tougher for a woman, because it would be next to impossible to find a man who’d put up with the lifestyle. I notice she’s minus a rock on the left hand ring finger. Something about the straggly blond hair with the two inches of brown roots tells me she goes through life a trifle dispirited. The cop uniform doesn’t help. It was not designed to flatter the female form.

  “Let me make sure I understand,” she says to Tiffany’s husband. “You don’t want the items returned to you?”

  He mumbles something. I’m thinking that maybe he said he can’t look at them. His head is hanging like Keola’s was last night and he’s rubbing his forehead.

  “I understand,” Jenkins says. She seems flummoxed. Then, “Would you like me to ask the hotel to box everything and ship it to your home in California?”

  At that he raises his head. His eyes are so bloodshot it looks like he hasn’t slept in a week. “That’s where I want to go,” he announces, very clearly. “I want to get back to my daughters.”

  “I understand. But I’m afraid that’s not possible at the moment.”

  “Why the hell not? When will it be possible?” He’s pretty agitated. I can see that people other than me are listening, all while pretending to do something else. “Do you know how difficult this is for me? My little girls are asking a million questions that I can’t begin to answer.” His voice catches. Again he drops his head and shades his eyes with his hand.

  Jenkins says nothing. All us eavesdroppers shuffle around.

  He pipes up again. “I’m sorry for that. Pardon me. I’m not myself.”

  “I understand,” Jenkins says. “I’ll relay your concerns to Detective Momoa. In the meantime I’ll arrange to get those items shipped. Her laptop as well?”

  “All of it.” He walks away.

  I wonder if he knows about Keola. I hope not. I hope the cops are sensitive enough to keep that salacious tidbit to themselves until such time as they must divulge it.

  I get a little edgy when I see Jenkins approaching the concierge desk. She looks at me, then glances at the shark-cage-diving brochure in my hand. I had no idea I was even “reading” it. “Are you planning an underwater adventure?”

  “Possibly.” I return the brochure to its slot. “We all have a lot of time on our hands.”

  “Not all of us.”

  Touche.

  She engages the concierge in a somber conversation about shipping to California the belongings of “the deceased.” One word Jenkins uttered earlier is lodged in my brain: laptop. That’s one of the items to be returned to the Postagino home. It’s also one o
f the items I’d love to get my hands on. Tiffany’s computer could be bursting with clues.

  I see Trixie across the lobby and wave to her. She’s dressed like I am, in a bikini underneath a cover-up, though her spandex is pastel orchid and mine is neon purple. We’re both carrying wide-brimmed hats with coordinating beach bags, and wearing beaded flip flops and sunglasses. Neither has been shy with pool-appropriate gold jewelry, since I’m sure that Trixie, like me, hasn’t the slightest intention of actually entering the water. Chlorine is hell on hair.

  “You’re not wearing your tiara.” She sounds disappointed.

  “That would be too nutty. And it wouldn’t fit under the sun hat.” Then I tell her the real reason. “Plus I was afraid I’d fall asleep and somebody would snatch it.”

  Her eyes widen. “You’re right! We know there’s a criminal element around here.”

  More like a homicidal element.

  I notice Jenkins eyeing us as Trixie and I amble toward the pool. I’m embarrassed, to be truthful. Here I am, about to sip tropical drinks and bask in the sun and there she is crime-busting.

  Though I’m hatching a plan of my own, investigation-wise.

  CHAPTER NINE

  First order of business: choosing lounge chairs.

  There is strategy involved.

  You want sun but a way to get out of the sun. You want a wide viewing area to be able to appraise a large fraction of your fellow sunbathers. You don’t want to be too close to the bar, because there’s too high a chance some sunbaked reveler will drop his Singapore Sling on you. Nor do you want to be too near the rental hut, because then you’ll spend the day listening to parents tell their kids what’s too expensive to get. And you don’t want proximity to the deep end, because then you’ll get soaked fifteen times an hour by boys doing cannonballs into the pool.

  Given those parameters and how many prime lounges are already crammed full of oil-slicked bodies, there are remarkably few good options left, even at 9:12 AM.