CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The accusation and the slap resound in the noiseless living room. I hear gasps all around me. For all I know I let one loose myself.
Hector’s eyes bug out like he’s about to explode. His face turns so red I think he might throw an apoplectic fit. But he doesn’t say a word. Instead he turns on his heel and spins out the door, slamming it shut behind him so hard the walls shake.
“Go! Go!” Paloma screams. “And don’t darken my door again!”
She stalks out of the room and pretty much takes the rest of the air with her. We guests—who by now are feeling rather awkward—look at one another wondering who’s going to break the silence first. A few people throw their drinks down their throats and a few more request another round. The guitarists strum a tentative chord or two and before long the quiet is replaced by the low buzz of conversation.
“Wow!” Rachel whispers. “Nothing like that happened at Uncle Ted’s funeral!”
“Nothing like that ever happens.” I lead us to a couple of abandoned chairs in a corner, then pull out my cell phone and google Don Gustavo’s name so I can once again peruse his official biography. “So that was Hector something or other—”
“Hector Lopez Nieto,” Rachel clarifies. “That’s what Ms. Lopez’s mother called him.”
“He’s one of Don Gustavo’s two children from his first marriage,” I read. “There’s also a daughter named Chiquita.”
“Like the banana?” Rachel wants to know.
I ignore that. “Don Gustavo’s real name is Gustavo Lopez Estrada.” I shake my head. “I find these names so confusing.”
“You just don’t understand Spanish naming conventions,” Rachel tells me.
I believe I detect a note of superiority. “And you do?”
“We learned about them in Spanish class. Most people have two surnames, first their father’s and then their mother’s. So for this Hector guy, his father’s surname was Lopez and his mother’s was Nieto.”
“Okay. So Nieto is not part of Paloma’s name”—which I’m now staring at—“which makes sense since Hector is not her son by birth. And that explains Peppi Lopez Famosa. She gets Lopez from Don Gustavo and Famosa from Paloma.” I frown. “But why does Mariela go by Mariela Machado Suave and not Mariela Suave Machado?”
“Because in modern times people sometimes put the mother’s name first. And probably because Mariela’s dad is a celebrity so she wants to use that more as her last name rather than as her middle name. Knowing her.”
I agree with that assessment, snarky though it may be. “And Don Gustavo? Why do people call him that?”
“That’s an honorable thing to call a man. Plus it’s shorter.”
I rub her arm. “It’s nice, having a really smart daughter.”
“I’m just culturally aware,” Rachel informs me. “So what are we going to do now? Is this lunch over?”
It’s hard to answer that question. I find it almost impossible to imagine Paloma returning to mingle among her guests after delivering that incendiary tirade against her stepson. Darn. I was so hoping I’d get a chance to talk with her in private. And now I really want to probe her murder allegation against Hector. “Since we’re not going to be picked up for more than an hour anyway, let’s just hang out and see what happens.”
What ends up happening is that Rachel and I get something to eat and watch the crowd thin. I try to engage my fellow mourners in conversation but get basically nowhere. Eventually I suggest to Rachel that we check out the pool area, where some of the remaining guests have wandered.
The pool is larger than those at many a hotel and is situated on the waterway that leads to Biscayne Bay. It boasts a feature I’ve never seen before: a grassy mound of an island with a couple of palm trees springing from it. I’m gazing back toward the main house when a motion in a second-story window catches my eye. It’s Paloma, half-hidden behind a shuttered window. She’s peering in our direction. I raise my hand to acknowledge her and she steps back.
I sigh. She seems so alone. I doubt this event has brought her any solace. Nor has it brought me much by way of useful information.
Trixie texts that she and Shanelle are nearby so Rachel and I trudge back toward the house. We’re walking past an older woman dressed as a housekeeper when I get an inspiration. Without pausing to reconsider, I ask her to inquire if Paloma might allow me to offer my condolences before we depart. She scurries off and returns bearing the news that indeed Señora Famosa de Lopez will see me.
“Wonderful.” My spirits lift. The afternoon may not be an investigative bust after all. I turn to Rachel. “Tell Trixie not to worry. I’ll make my own way back.”
“Señora would like to see the young lady, too,” the housekeeper tells us.
“I’d like to meet her,” Rachel says, and so it’s arranged that the housekeeper will invite Trixie and Shanelle to wait for us inside the house.
We’re led down a few corridors to another singular feature of the property: a two-story library. “Wow,” Rachel breathes. “Can you believe this?”
The room is warm and inviting, with lovely wood paneling and cozy seating, including a rocking chair. The second level is all bookshelves stacked with volumes.
“Boy, would I love to do my homework in here!” Rachel cries.
I hear a throat-clearing behind us. I turn to see Paloma, once again the picture of control. She’s kind of a diva but I like her. Plus I feel so darn terrible about the heartache she’s going through, which she’ll have to endure the rest of her days.
Rachel walks up to her with her hand outstretched. “I’m Rachel Kilborn. May I call you Doña Paloma?” She pronounces that beautifully, complete with a roll on the N in Doña.
I’m one proud mother hearing that, I will tell you.
“I’m really sorry about your daughter,” Rachel goes on. “I met her at the Teen Princess of the Everglades pageant. Not that I was competing. But she seemed like a really good person.”
Paloma blinks a few times. For a few moments she can’t say a thing. Then, “Thank you. And of course you may call me Doña Paloma. Do you study Spanish?”
“I’ve been taking it since fifth grade. And next year instead of going to college I want to go overseas, probably to Latin America, and really get immersed in Spanish. Also teach kids there to speak English. I’ve already applied to a program here in Miami that’ll let me do that.”
“You should consider going to Spain. That is my country.”
“Maybe you can tell me more about it. I’m very interested in other cultures.”
Paloma then turns to me. “I know what it’s like to have an intelligent daughter. You must be very proud.”
“I am. I’d prefer she go to college next year but I admire what she wants to do.”
“Everything in its time,” Paloma says, and her mood grows even more solemn.
I can guess why: she’s thinking now was not the time for her daughter’s life to end. Not so soon, not when Peppi was so young. I walk forward and take Paloma’s hands. “I’m so very, very sorry about your daughter.”
She nods again, we clasp hands for a moment, and the housekeeper returns with a tea service. We sit down. I’m preparing to proceed with a delicate inquiry or two when Rachel plunges right in. I’m afraid she gets that from me.
“Doña Paloma, I don’t know if you know but my mom has solved two murders. Nobody thought she could do it but she did. She’s like famous for it. I want her to figure out what happened to your daughter so you can get justice.”
Paloma turns an astonished face in my direction. “Is this true?”
When I confirm that it is, she wants to know precisely what I did on Oahu and in Vegas. Since Rachel is within earshot I provide an expurgated version of events, during which Paloma grows more and more animated. At the end she slaps the arm of her chair. “You make more sense than that stupid detective! Do you know what he told me?”
“That he thinks the killer is Don Gustavo’s former trumpet player?”
“I never heard such crazy talk! Only one person could have done this and you saw him at this house only one hour ago.” She points toward the door as if Hector might be standing there even now. “Hector hates Peppi, hates her! And he is blind with jealousy about what she had coming when my Gustavo is gone.”
I lean forward. “Can you explain that to me?”
“I will tell you the whole story. My husband changed his will, more than a year ago. He knew his mind was starting to weaken so he talked to his lawyer. He talked to everybody in the family. It was no secret.” She counts on her fingers. “He talked to Hector. And Chickie. And Peppi.”
Rachel pipes up. “So he changed the will in a way that made Mr. Hector mad?”
“He changed it to leave most of his fortune to me and to Peppi. To Peppi much more than to his other children.”
I can see how that might tick off the older two. “Why was that?”
“Because he admired Peppi! He saw himself in her. Because she worked hard, she had ambition, she wanted to do things with her life. She wasn’t always that way, I confess to you. But she grew up. She matured.
“Hector and Chickie, they don’t want to work for anything! They expect everything to be handed to them. They think because they have a famous father, they don’t have to lift a finger.”
“That’s like Mariela,” Rachel says to me.
“We’re not talking about Mariela now, Rachel. Please go on, Paloma.”
Paloma hesitates, then, “There is another reason Gustavo did what he did.” She has to stop to collect herself. Then, “I am the love of my husband’s life.” She raises her chin in a show of defiance. “And he is the love of mine. He was married to Inez for years, decades, and I will not lie to you. What he and I did was wrong.”
I know what she’s telling us. That she and Don Gustavo got together when he was married to Hector and Chiquita’s mother Inez. Then Don Gustavo divorced Inez and married Paloma, who was much younger. And a year ago he delivered another blow to his first family when he decided to leave most of his earthly goods to his second. That sure could fuel an intense resentment of Paloma and Peppi on Hector and Chiquita’s part.
Paloma goes on. “It started because Gustavo and I shared a passion for music. But it grew from there. We both knew what it meant to work hard and to come up from nothing. Hector and Chiquita, they are hypocrites. They waste their lives but they have the nerve to criticize Peppi and me.”
“Do you suspect Chiquita as well as Hector?” I ask.
Paloma waves a dismissive hand. “Not Chickie. She is in Atlanta with her rich husband. And she and Hector have been feuding for years. I don’t even know why they are so angry at each other anymore.
“Hector is the guilty one!” Again she slaps the arm of her chair. “He knows his father is up there dying”—she points at the ceiling as again tears threaten to overwhelm her—“and that every day could be his last. That is why Hector did this now to Peppi. He had to get rid of her before his father was gone. Otherwise it would be too late.”
This is a tricky situation, I’m realizing. Paloma has more in common with Detective Dez than she thinks. Both of them are focused on one suspect and one suspect only. I believe Paloma’s suspicion of Hector is well grounded but I must consider other possibilities as well. “Paloma, I understand why you’re so suspicious of Hector,” I begin.
“Because he is the one who killed my Peppi!” she shrieks.
“He may well be but I’ve met a few other people I’d like to ask you about. In the interest of being thorough,” I add as I see that she’s about to explode. “For example, Alfonso Ramos, the other weather person at Peppi’s station. Did Peppi ever talk about him to you?”
“Never heard of him.”
“He might have wanted Peppi’s job.”
“So what?” she demands.
“Okay then, what about Jasmine Dobbs?”
“Her partner in the boutique. Everything was fine between her and Peppi. They had no dispute about anything.”
So either Peppi wasn’t sharing those details with her mother or Jasmine was feeding her landlord false information about why she was behind on the Sugarbabies rent. “Any boyfriends Peppi might have been having trouble with?” I ask.
“No!” Paloma cries. “They all loved her! You have to understand, my Peppi did not make enemies. There is only one person who could have done this. And you, Happy Pennington”—she jabs her finger at my face—“you must prove it!”
