CHAPTER THREE
“How about you tell me now,” I suggest, “and we’ll talk about something else later?”
Not that I’m agreeing to a rendezvous with Detective Dez, mind you. In fact I want to avoid that distasteful prospect by prying information out of him here and now.
He gives me a sly arch of the brows then cocks his head at the pirate ship, which, thanks to the coroner, is now minus one Perpetua Lopez Famosa. “Do you know who her father was?”
I profess ignorance, which I don’t have to feign.
“Gustavo Lopez Estrada. Otherwise known as Don Gustavo.”
“Really? The famous musician?” To my mind he’s the Latin Tommy Dorsey: a bandleader, musician, and composer. “Is he still alive?”
“Barely. He’s got Alzheimer’s real bad. So much so he’s bedridden. But what matters here is that he’s got enemies. One in particular.”
“And you’re telling me you think this enemy killed Peppi?” I struggle to follow this line of reasoning. “But what would he gain by that? Peppi’s father might not even understand what happened.”
Detective Dez’s Husky eyes narrow to slits. “There are many things the killer could gain.”
I restrain myself from saying
Name one
. “What’s the name of this enemy?”
He gives it to me as a trio of uniformed cops approach. I use that opening to slip away. Detective Dez looks after me with regret but apparently does recognize he shouldn’t attempt to pick up witnesses while his colleagues are within earshot.
Trixie and I are the last civilians to abandon the theater. Everyone left is a crime-scene professional. I feel very in sync with them.
Perhaps because the specter of death clings to us, Trixie and I are solemn as we enter our hotel, adjacent to the theater. Even though it’s located in the glam metropolis of Miami, it’s the sort of ho-hum establishment you don’t miss after checking out. Smaller-scale pageants like Teen Princess of the Everglades—the kind I grew up competing in—don’t block out rooms at the swanky hotels Trixie and I enjoyed in Hawaii and Vegas.
As we traverse the lobby, in which the aromas of burnt coffee and industrial cleaner linger, Trixie says exactly what I’m thinking. “I don’t like that detective. I don’t trust him to do a good job.”
“So it’s not just me?”
“Have you started your investigation? I hope so,” she adds. “Because if it’s left up to him I’m not sure Peppi’s murder will be solved.” She lowers her voice and glances around in a nervous manner. “And then she’ll never rest.”
I shiver as I look through the dust-streaked glass doors to the pool area, where I half expect Peppi’s string-bikini-clad ghost to be sunbathing in the fading light. “It’s only a matter of time before the pageant’s cancelled, don’t you think? And when that happens I can’t stick around just to figure out who killed her.”
“I don’t think Mr. Cantwell will make us go before Sunday, when we would’ve had to leave anyway. The room’s paid for through then. That gives you two days.”
Apparently Trixie thinks me the Speedy Gonzales of beauty queen sleuths. “You know what?” I point toward the pool. “I think that’s Rachel by the hot tub.”
Trixie’s face lights up. She darts outside. She gets the first hug from my damp daughter but I get the second. It’s enough of a rarity that my heart swells. Trixie giggles. “She looks just like you, Happy.”
“Like Jason, too.” Rachel got the best of both of us, I always think: the almond shape of his eyes and olive tone of his skin but my skinny big-boob body type and the slight wave of my long, dark hair. Hers is short and pixie.
“I heard what happened.” Rachel is wearing her striped bikini with the side ties. She trembles and I don’t think it’s from the water running down her body. “I saw all the cop cars and then those girls over there were talking about it.”
Mariela
et al.
I grab a beach towel and throw it over my daughter’s shoulders. We settle on some lounge chairs. “It’s really sad what happened,” I tell Rachel, “but we’re all fine. And I’m sure we’ll all be safe.” Not that I won’t use the chain to double-lock our door tonight.
“I won’t feel totally safe until your mom figures out who did it,” Trixie says.
Rachel’s eyes widen. “Are you gonna try, Mom? If you do, Dad’ll kill you.”
True. If I want to keep Jason happy, I must steer clear of all matters homicidal. And he’s not even fully versed on how close my past sleuthing has brought me to being catapulted through the pearly gates myself.
“The whole thing’s creepy,” Rachel goes on. “I just want to go home.”
This surprises me. “What about your interview tomorrow?” It’s with a program that organizes do-gooder projects overseas for American teenagers. It’s Rachel’s not-so-secret alternative to college next year. I’m forcing myself not to fight it but I’d be awfully happy if she dropped the idea. I’d much prefer her on U.S. soil working toward a bachelor’s degree.
“They said we could do the interview by Skype. I’ve already called them. I called Grandpa, too, and told him he should turn around and go right back to Ohio. But he said we should stay put and he’ll get here as soon as he can.”
Mariela strides over. She’s decked out in a clearly expensive zebra print bikini with gold pyramid beads on the straps. She and Rachel exchange cool nods. “So Ms. Pennington, do you know what’ll happen now with the pageant? My dad doesn’t.”
I try not to get hyped by the reference to her father. I can’t help wondering when he’ll appear in the flesh and how I’ll feel when he does. “Colleen Wrightwood texted me that everything is on hold. I imagine we’ll know more in a few hours.”
“The choreographer quit,” Mariela informs me. “I saw her checking out of the hotel and she told me she’d had enough. But personally I don’t think everything should be cancelled just because a judge got killed.”
Rachel releases a quiet snort. I am once again taken aback by how hardhearted Mariela appears to be. “Well, it is a very serious matter—”
“So’s pageant competition,” Mariela declares. “Isn’t that what you told us? Besides, all us contestants had to do a lot of prep for this pageant. Buy a ton of wardrobe and everything.
And
take two days off school,” she adds, though somehow I doubt she found that last a hardship.
“Honestly, somebody’s dead,” Rachel mutters.
“What’s it to you?” Mariela wants to know.
“That’s enough, girls,” I say. “Mariela, all the contestants will be notified once a decision is made about the pageant.”
“Just so you know, my father could find another judge to fill in. One who’d be better than Ms. Lopez was. I told him I want him to because I need to compete in this event for my resume.” She spins away.
“Who needs a pageant for a resume?” Rachel hisses once Mariela is across the pool deck. “Would it be too much for that self-absorbed freak to care about something important? I can’t believe I have to be nice to her just because you’re friends with her father! I have more empathy in my little finger than she does in her whole body.”
“Rachel, different people care about different things.” Though I, too, am put off by Mariela’s selfishness. How could she criticize Peppi mere hours after the woman was strangled to death?
Trixie pipes up. “I think it’s high time we got something to eat. And drink,” she whispers to me as we climb the stairs to our room on the third floor. So far not taking the elevator is our one homage to exercise.
Twenty minutes later we’re in Trixie’s minivan. She drove the seven hundred miles from Charlotte because flights were too expensive on such short notice. “Tonight’s my treat because you’re letting me stay in your room,” she says. “I hope you like the place I picked out. It got really good reviews online.”
It turns out to be a casual, smallish Latin restaurant with colorful murals and a cheerful vibe.
“It’s perfect,” I tell Trixie even before the server asks if we’d like a mojito to start. I inquire if there’s anything else she’d recommend and she suggests something called a Pisco Sour. It turns out to be a frothy libation concocted from the Peruvian brandy Pisco, lime juice, and egg white.
“Yum,” Trixie says, echoing my verdict.
We dig into an appetizer of Marlin tacos and I share what I gleaned from surfing the web while Rachel dressed for dinner. She’s wearing skinny teal-colored jeans, a polka dot tank, and ballet flats. “The enemy Detective Dez was talking about is a trumpet player who used to work for Peppi’s father but then sued him ten years ago claiming that Don Gustavo didn’t give him enough credit for composing their music.”
“So he was a disgruntled employee,” Rachel says. “Did he win or lose?”
“Lose.”
“He was probably even more disgruntled after that,” Trixie points out.
“Probably. But for years now he’s played for another band. And I see no sign he had anything more to do with Don Gustavo.”
I’m wondering if Detective Dez might be falling prey to a danger all investigators face: clinging to a preconceived notion of whodunit whether they have evidence to back up their theory or not. Then another thought occurs to me.
“That trumpet player never would’ve killed Peppi with the top of her string bikini. That’s a crime of passion if ever I saw one.”
Trixie licks Pisco Sour foam from her lips. “You mean he would have planned it out and come armed with his own weapon, like a gun or a knife or something.”
“Exactly. I think Peppi and her killer were arguing about something and it got out of hand and the killer grabbed the first thing available.”
This line of thought is interrupted by the arrival of our meal. We’re sharing a trio of entrées:
Pionono
, a casserole made of ground beef and plaintains; sea bass with a jalapeno cilantro marinade; and a fire-roasted-vegetable chile relleno. As I am highly susceptible to doing outside my native Ohio, I ignore the fat and calorie warnings screaming at me from the platters and take portions from all three.
Suddenly Trixie shrieks. “Happy, you never told me what your mom is up to!”
“You’re right! We got so distracted by what happened to Peppi.” Actually I’m still distracted but I can’t let it take me over. “For the first time in her life my mom has a job outside the home. Paid and everything.”
“The one she applied for while we were in Vegas?”
“For Bennie Hana. Cleveland’s premier used car salesman.”
Rachel takes up the tale. “He’s famous because he does TV commercials wearing a karate outfit. He stands next to a piece of wood and does a karate chop and screams that he chops prices. I told Grandma what to say in the interview and then she got the job. All on her own she made him pay her more money.”
The whole thing astounds me, I will admit. My mom has been reporting for duty for only a few weeks but it’s long enough for Bennie Hana to get an idea what he’s in for. My mom would be beside herself if she knew that Jason and I laid odds on how long her employment will last. I gave her two months but Jason gave her only half that.
Speaking of my husband, I get a text from him just as I’m stuffing chile relleno down my gullet.
Rachel told me what went down at the pageant,
it reads.
Don’t even think it, Happy. I’m serious.
Here we go. Peppi’s not even cold and Jason’s drawing a line in the sand.
“That text must be from Dad,” Rachel says, “because you’ve got that expression you always get when he says something you don’t like.”
“I’m that easy to read?”
“I knew he wouldn’t want you to investigate the murder,” Rachel goes on.
I set down my phone without replying to the text. I understand why Jason feels the way he does. Danger. Danger. And more danger.
“Was it really scary to see that lady dead?” Rachel wants to know.
I have to think about it. “It was very upsetting but I wouldn’t say scary.” I don’t mention it but Peppi’s wasn’t my first corpse. “It really bothers me, though, how Trixie and I were enjoying ourselves having a wonderful lunch and all the while Peppi was going through something horrifying.”
“Fighting for her life,” Trixie says.
Remembering lunch brings to mind Mariela’s this-pageant-is-rigged allegation. “It could’ve been Peppi who composed a top five list.”
Trixie’s hazel eyes widen with comprehension. “You could text Lasalo and ask if he made one.”
That text I do write. Immediately Lasalo replies that he didn’t make a top five list. “You know what that means,” I say.
