CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“How are you going to do it?” Paloma demands a second later. “What is your plan?”
More often than not, this beauty queen has no plan. She wings it. But I will not divulge that lame but winning strategy to Paloma. Or give it voice in front of my daughter, who’s gazing at me with confident eyes.
“How does Hector spend his time?” I ask.
Paloma throws out her hand. “Wastefully! He spends money and he cheats on his wife.” She pauses, then, “He also does some sort of fishing. He has a boat for that. He does no work, God knows. Nothing like that.”
“Do you know which marina he keeps his boat at?” I have a vision of hanging out there. I know what Hector looks like. I could—
“Come to think of it, he wants to sell that boat.” Paloma frowns. “To buy a bigger one, probably, now that he’s murdered Peppi and thinks he will get her money when my Gustavo dies!”
Something occurs to me. “I could pose as a buyer for his boat.”
Rachel claps her hands. “Great idea, Mom!”
Paloma’s expression lightens. “I know the broker Gustavo used when he bought his yacht. I will call her and tell her you are a friend of mine and you want to buy Hector’s boat. But she must pretend you and I don’t know each other.” She makes a spitting sound. “I have been on that accursed vessel! May it sink into the deep blue sea!”
Not while I’m on board, I hope. And since I am as much a seawoman as I am a welder, I will need coaching before I embark on this escapade. Right now I have no idea what to ask Hector the Boat Owner. Maybe Sebastian Cantwell will help. My pageant owner has crashed a powerboat or two. He must know something about them. Now to broach another delicate subject …
“Paloma, would you agree to go with me to Peppi’s home or apartment so I—”
“She lived here! Upstairs. She was saving money to buy a place of her own. That’s how responsible she was.” She eyes me. “You want to go to her room?”
“If you’ll let me.”
Paloma looks away. Then, “No. I’m not ready for that.” She turns back to me. “There is only one thing you must think about and that is Hector! Find what you need against him and forget everybody else.”
“Will you let me go through Peppi’s computer or cell phone? There might be messages from Hector that would help us.” Not to mention communications from other people of interest, I add silently.
“That detective has those things. Her handbag, too.”
Peppi’s handbag might well be carrying the notebook with the alleged top five list. If a case builds against Consuela, that could be an important piece of evidence. “So you’re not aware of Peppi arguing with anyone of late?” I ask.
“No.” Paloma’s answer is instant. “Nothing of the kind.”
“Nothing causing her any stress?”
“No! No stress but Hector.”
Rachel looks at me. I wonder if she’s thinking what I’m thinking.
This picture of Peppi seems a little unreal. No boyfriends, no drama in her life, no friction with a living soul. Only work at the TV station and work at the boutique. For an attractive, spirited woman in her twenties who only a few short years ago was getting into catfights at Heat games? Come on.
I can see why an adoring mother would have this picture of her daughter. But I’m not sure I’m buying it.
“Peppi was working so hard!” Paloma tells us. “That boutique goes to show you how ambitious she was. Doing the weather on TV was not enough for her. She wanted to be a businesswoman, too. She wanted to be like J Lo, with her hand in every pot. She wanted her station to make her an anchorwoman someday.”
“Really?” Rachel says.
“She even starting doing, what are they called, investigations. To prove how serious she was. She was working on one for later this month.” Paloma walks to the desk and returns with a DVD. “This is her first one. Take it. I made copies for all my friends.”
I stand up. “Paloma, I promise I’ll try as hard as I can to find out what happened to your daughter.”
“You get me proof,” she says, and I know of what. Paloma will not be satisfied until I establish Hector’s guilt. “I will call that boat broker tomorrow,” she adds as she leads Rachel and me back to the foyer. She slows with every step, which baffles me until I realize why.
The house will be much quieter once Rachel and I are gone. Paloma will be alone with her dying husband. She will never again hear her daughter’s spritely footsteps on these immaculate hardwood floors. She knows that no loud TV, no pounding music can fill the hollowness of a grieving house. She puts on an imposing front but I know her heart is broken beyond repair.
Rachel pipes up. “Doña Paloma, could I ask you a big favor? My school is letting me stay in Miami this week and I wonder if you’d help me with the special project I’m supposed to do. Maybe it could have something to do with Spanish culture …”
As Rachel rattles on, I see a light return to Paloma’s eyes. Which is ironic, because I’m getting tears in mine. My daughter isn’t only smart; she’s perceptive.
“It is possible I could find the time to help you,” Paloma says, and suggests that Rachel return in the morning.
Shanelle and Trixie rise from a sofa in the living room. I make the introductions, and after another delivery of condolences, we take our leave. I hug Rachel on the way to the minivan.
“Was your daughter especially special today?” Shanelle wants to know.
“You bet she was. And now we have a new suspect to investigate.”
Rachel and I relay the afternoon’s events.
“But killing his half sister?” Trixie drives us out of the gated community. “Even though there’s a lot of money involved I find that hard to believe.”
“Believe one thing,” Shanelle says. “You best put the pedal to the metal if we want to change clothes and get ourselves to Jasmine Dobbs’ penthouse by 5 o’clock.”
“Fun!” Rachel cries before I’m forced to douse her enthusiasm.
“This is adults only, Rach. Cocktails.” And, I hope, a wide variety of gossipy revelations. Because while Paloma is convinced Hector is our man, I still think Jasmine might be our girl. And I intend to further that line of inquiry tonight.
Back at Mario’s house, I put on a strapless floral dress with a tight sweetheart bodice and flowy skirt. I know Mario hasn’t left for the airport yet because I see his laptop on the island in the kitchen. It makes me sad that he’ll leave town when we’re so at odds with each other.
I’m out by the pool enjoying a moment of leisure while Trixie and Shanelle get dressed when I hear the roar of my father’s hog on the driveway. It sputters to a stop and in short order his cell phone rings. I frown. Since when has his ring tone been “Born to Be Wild”? That has girlfriend Maggie’s fingerprints all over it.
I hear him answer the phone. We’re not far apart distance-wise but we can’t see each other as the property’s tall perimeter wall rises between us.
“Like I told you before I’m not ready to make a decision,” I hear him say. Pause. Then, “It has most of what I’m looking for but there’s a few other areas I want to take a gander at.” Pause. “I’ll call you after I look around some more.”
What is he talking about? Why don’t I like the sound of it?
Trixie barrels toward me. “Sorry to be so slow, Happy.” She looks adorable in bright pink skinny cords paired with a black A-line camisole featuring a velvet floral motif. Shanelle appears in slim black ankle pants and a leopard-print chiffon top with split sleeves. Of course we’re all wearing sky-high heels and evening makeup.
“You guys look good,” Rachel says as we pass her on the way out the door. “Can we do Chinese takeout when you get back? I’ve gotten Grandpa to like it.”
“Sounds good to me.” It’s only too bad that I have to delay twenty questions with my father until later.
Jasmine’s penthouse is on the 40
th
floor of an extremely snazzy high-rise condo building. She greets us wearing a long halter dress in a bold blue geometric print with a crossover neckline and an asymmetric hem. Her earrings feature three huge platinum rectangles that hang down to her shoulders.
“Hello, girls,” she trills, “this is my BFF Tia,” and we meet another very stylish African-American woman wearing long teal-colored feather earrings to go with her short figure-hugging cocktail dress. “She’s also in the league,” Jasmine says, which now I understand means Tia is married to an NBA player. “Brandi couldn’t make it. Some shady situation with her ex.”
“No news there,” Tia says as she floats back into the living room. “But she’ll miss something tonight! We brought in a bartender to make us a cocktail I had in New Orleans once. Called a Sazerac.”
I trail Tia dazzled in more ways than one. Who hires a bartender when she has “a few girls over for hors d’oeuvres”? And who can do anything in this designer condo but gape at the view? As the setting sun turns the heavens delicious shades of purple and peach, the floor-to-ceiling windows provide the drop-dead spectacle of downtown Miami, Biscayne Bay, and the Atlantic Ocean splayed in all directions. Out of the corner of my eye I see a bartender doing complicated things with sugar cubes and Old Fashioned glasses but I have trouble keeping my attention indoors. I’m handed a gorgeous red-orange concoction with a twist of lemon peel.
“It’s made with absinthe,” Tia says.
“I thought that was illegal!” Trixie yelps.
“Guess why we’re having it here at home,” Jasmine deadpans. “Bottoms up!”
The hors d’oeuvres are just as spectacular as the cocktail: lobster corn dogs served with mango horseradish mustard and Gorgonzola foam with fig chutney on a cracker. At my house I’m proud to set out a few fancy cheeses on a pretty tray. But I’m getting the idea these basketball wives live large.
“So what you girls been up to this weekend?” Jasmine inquires as we settle in the living room.
“This and that,” I reply. “We went to Diego’s—”
“That place is always popping,” Tia declares with approval.
“By any chance do you ladies happen to know Consuela Machado?” That slips out before I even really think to ask it.
Jasmine frowns, thinking.
“She’ll know her,” Tia tells me. “Jaz is like the queen of Miami. She knows everybody.”
“That’s because really Miami’s just a small town,” Jasmine says. “Consuela’s a pole dancer, am I right?”
“I told you,” Tia says.
“She was married to that dude who owns Cabasa. That’s a club like Diego’s. I bet she’s on the prowl for husband number two by this point,” Jasmine adds, confirming my suspicions where Mario is concerned.
“I do remember her,” Tia says. “You best encourage her to patronize Sugarbabies, Jaz. That hot mama can shop.”
They natter on about Consuela’s retail prowess while Jasmine folds her legs beneath her and sighs with satisfaction. “I love me some company.”
“You’re not kidding,” Tia says. “I am lonely most every night of the week.”
“Because your husband travels so much?” Trixie asks.
“That man is on the road no end. And when he’s gone, he does whatever.”
“Same thing when he’s home,” Jasmine says. “It’s all about him then, too.”
Tia shakes her head. “It’s no wonder we all have our personal dramas.”
“Speak for yourself!” Jasmine cries. “I am a grown-ass woman and I am finally drama-free.”
Tia harrumphs.
“My husband is not the same as yours,” Jasmine informs Tia. “And he never has been.”
“I agree that on your home front, you’re cool. But your husband did not always make it known that he was married.” Tia turns to me. “It is very hard for me to believe an athlete doesn’t cheat so I have trouble giving Donyell the benefit of the doubt.”
“We may have had a sketchy time or two,” Jasmine allows, and raises her finger to summon the bartender.
Shanelle throws me a glance. She caught it, too. Only yesterday Jasmine claimed Donyell “had the bachelor out of his system” before they even met. I’d say the absinthe is paving the way for confessions from the heart.
Shanelle pipes up after we have our drinks refreshed. “Seems to me Miami’s the kind of city where it’s hard for a man to stay faithful.”
“You got that right,” Tia agrees. “And when you’re in the league like Jaz and me, you got females all day trying to get at your man.”
