CHAPTER NINETEEN
What did Consuela say about her teaching schedule on Fridays? We may have been having cocktails on Mario’s roof deck at the time but my recollection is clear: she declared that she has class after class on Fridays.
That is so not true. There are two Aerial Dance fitness classes in the morning—the later one over by 11—and Sexy Cardio doesn’t start until 4. My brain cells start to crank the way they always do when I get excited about a suspect. Why would Consuela lie about her teaching schedule unless she had something to hide?
I look up and see Sasha exit the studio, then hear Consuela’s stilettos clomp in my direction. I hold up the class schedule. “You don’t teach class in the middle of the day on Fridays. You have the whole middle of the day off.”
“What’s it to you?” A beat later her eyes widen with comprehension. “That schedule isn’t complete. I teach lots of private lessons on Friday.”
“Then why aren’t they marked on here? Your private lessons the other days of the week are marked.” I’m proud I noticed that.
“Because …”
I watch her struggle to come up with a plausible explanation. It’s enjoyable in a fiendish kind of way.
“Because those classes are in people’s houses,” she sputters.
“You’re trying to tell me people have poles in their houses?”
“Yes, they do! What’s your problem, anyway? What do you care what I do?”
“I care what you did last Friday when Peppi Lopez was killed.”
“Because you’re playing detective? Because you’re trying to make me look bad so you can get your claws into Mario? As if that’ll work!” She spins away and stomps across the studio, then grabs my shopper from the floor and flings it at my chest. “I don’t have to answer any of your stupid questions. It’s time for you to go. I have to lock up.”
I don’t fight it. Instead I get back in the Durango and watch Consuela’s Mercedes peel away. Then I put in a call to Detective Dez.
He tells me nothing useful—mongo surprise there—but I do succeed in piquing his interest in one Consuela Machado.
“I know you’re focused on Don Gustavo’s former trumpet player but for all the reasons I explained to you, you should look into Consuela Machado’s alibi,” I tell him. “I’m not saying she’s guilty of the murder but she had motive and she is lying about her whereabouts at the time Peppi Lopez was killed.”
“And you say she teaches pole dancing?”
“Yes. In a bikini and high heels,” I add for good measure, knowing Detective Dez as I do. I give him the studio’s address. “As I said, there was bad blood between her and Peppi Lopez. They got into a fight right before Peppi was strangled.”
“It may have started as a catfight and escalated from there,” he says, musing out loud. I can almost hear him lick his lips as he visualizes that scenario. “So I need to find out what Consuela Machado was doing Friday between noon and 1. I’ll get right on it.”
You know what? I believe he will.
I leave Luscious Lady trying not to think how Mario would react if he knew I just sicced a homicide detective on the mother of his daughter. As far as I’m concerned, I have good reason to consider Consuela a suspect. And now I must focus on someone else who goes by that description: Hector Lopez Nieto, who wants to trade up from a 50-foot luxury sportfishing boat that boasts a million-dollar price tag.
I’ve barely found a spot for the Durango at the marina parking lot when I see Hector striding toward me. I wish he weren’t because he’s supposed to believe I’m loaded and, nice as the Durango is, it’s no Ferrari. At least in my shorts and flowy top, I’m dressed like a fit member of the ladies-who-lunch set. Hector is wearing black pants and a yellow polo shirt and, as at the funeral lunch, is the spiffiest man around.
Moments later he’s right in front of me. “Ms. Pierce?” he says, using the alias Harriet Pierce, which I invented in Vegas. I asked Paloma to relay it to Bonnie the broker because I didn’t want Hector googling my real name and getting wind of my sleuthing history. He holds out his hand. His smile could not be warmer. “Hector Lopez Nieto. Forgive me for accosting you but a beautiful lady like you is easy to spot.”
“Oh, aren’t you sweet? And please. Call me Harriet.”
“Please call me Hector.” He winks and holds out his arm. “Shall we?”
I accept his arm and we head for the slips. Hector might be a maniacal killer but he can be a charmer, too. And I want to give every impression his charm is working on me. That’s one of the reasons I took off my wedding and engagement rings and covered the tan line with foundation makeup. “Is Bonnie on board?” I ask.
“She’s having lunch at the restaurant. I hope I’m not being presumptuous but I’d like to take you out on the yacht alone. Lunch is waiting for us on board and privacy will give us a chance to delve into the details.”
I hope I don’t look as stricken as I feel. Sebastian Cantwell’s warning resounds in my brain.
Don’t let that murderous perp throw you to the ‘gators!
“I assure you my captain and I will deliver a relaxing few hours,” Hector goes on, and I realize he and I won’t be alone on the boat even if Bonnie remains on shore. Plus since she knows I’m out with him, I seriously doubt he’d pose any threat to me.
“I feel totally safe with you, Hector,” I lie, and moments later we are admiring the boat from the dock.
“The M50 Luxury Sportfisher,” Hector says. “The most successful of all the Mikelson models. A serious fishing machine with the cruise-ability of a long-range motor yacht.”
“Just what I’m looking for,” I breathe.
We say hello to the captain, who is on what I now know is called the flybridge. Once I knew the model of Hector’s boat I did a little research online. Between that and the tutoring from Sebastian Cantwell, I feel fairly able to play my part.
The captain starts the “twin-diesel turbocharged engines” and we leave the marina behind. “Notice how the cruising station is forward,” Hector says.
“To provide excellent visibility,” I say, doing my best not to be unnerved as we cruise out into the open sea.
We move around the boat and the sales pitch continues. Unlike in the pageant world, here an exceptionally wide beam is a good thing. I hear about the teak deck and the bow pulpit and how there will be plenty of storage space for my catch.
“You’ll note I opted for the marlin tower,” he tells me as finally we take a break. He pops the cork on a bottle of champagne and I eye the ceviche sampler, six large white spoons each filled with a different type of seafood marinated in citrus juice. Between the sensational setting, this appetizer, and the bubbly, I predict this will be quite the gourmet lunch. I am enjoying pretending to be rich enough to buy a yacht.
“The tower is a terrific feature,” I say. “And I love how there’s a staircase to the bridge and not a ladder. So much safer and easier.” I lingered on the stairs to provide Hector a view of my own personal stern. While he was conducting the tour I caught him taking a surreptitious peek or two at my bow.
We raise our champagne flutes for a toast. Hector leans close. “This could be the happiest day of both our lives,” he murmurs.
“Really?” I purr.
“Because the happiest days in a boat owner’s life are the day he buys his boat and the day he sells it.”
I giggle and clink his glass. “Touché.”
“So how is a nice girl like you interested in a boat like this?” he wants to know.
Thanks to Sebastian Cantwell, I can answer that question. “My dear Uncle Teddy was a charter captain out of Lake Erie, and I was his deckhand as a girl, and I just fell in love with power boating. You know, once you do, there’s no turning back.”
“It’s in your blood forever,” Hector agrees. We each select a spoon of ceviche. “But it’s a long way from that charter boat to a yacht like this one.”
“Well, Uncle Teddy gave me some Apple stock when I started college.” I wink. “I bought a little more over the years and didn’t sell a single share until last year.”
“You should be investing
my
money.”
“Between that and a little modeling and winning a beauty pageant or two”—I shrug modestly—“I’ve been very fortunate.”
He makes a show of investigating my bereft left-hand ring finger. “No Mr. Pierce? It’s unusual for a single woman to be interested in a boat of this size.”
“Maybe I have an admirer who’ll help me with the boat and teach me how to fish.” I bat my lashes a few times.
He leans close. Really, he may be the most metrosexual man I’ve ever met. His pores are tinier than mine. “Maybe you have more than one admirer,” he whispers.
“How lucky can a girl get?” I respond huskily.
Hector rises to clear our appetizer. He lays our entrées on the table with a flourish. “Scallop Piccata with sautéed spinach.”
“Yum.” I top off our champagne flutes. “So tell me about your family, Hector. Any Uncle Teddys in your past?”
“I had a charmed youth. My father is Don Gustavo. You know. The famous—”
“The famous musician? I had no idea I was dining with musical royalty!”
“Well …” He chuckles, then shakes his head. “Unfortunately, my father abandoned my mother to marry a much younger woman. My life was never the same.”
“How horrible! Didn’t I hear something very tragic about your family in the last few days?” I clutch his arm. “Wasn’t there a murder?”
“Yes. My half sister.” He lays his hand over mine. His nails are buffed to such a high shine I can almost see my reflection. “I appreciate your concern, Harriet, but we weren’t close. Those childhood scars don’t easily heal.”
“But surely you can’t blame your half sister for what her mother did?”
“My half sister is not so innocent. She took advantage of my father once he became old and weak.”
“How did she do that?”
“She convinced him to change his will. To leave all his money to her and her mother.”
“How unfair! You see that sort of thing in the movies but never in real life!”
“Trust me. It happens.” He raises his hand against my next question. “Let’s enjoy our meal and talk about happier things.”
That’s exactly what we do, all through the coconut mousse with fresh lime zest. Then Hector gives me another wink. “Care to do some big-game hunting?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll show you.” He takes my hand and leads me back out to the so-called cockpit, which before today I would have called the deck.
For the first time in a while, I get nervous. “How far out are we? I thought we did a loop while we were having lunch and we’d see land again by now.”
“Oh, we’re probably fifty miles from shore. Unless you’re out this far you can’t catch anything of note.”
I don’t like the sound of fifty miles. Particularly since a threatening cloud or two is massing on the horizon and the wind has picked up. I try to control my hair by tying it into a knot at the nape of my neck. “Maybe we should head back. Doesn’t it seem a little stormy to you?”
He extracts a rod and reel from the “full tackle center” and hands them to me. “Didn’t you say you feel totally safe with me?”
I manage to smile rather than admit I was lying through my teeth. The boat rolls in a new and unpleasant way beneath my heels. I’m glad I’m not prone to seasickness because I’d sure hate a return visit by my lovely lunch.
I refuse to have a thing to do with putting the bait on the hook, which Hector finds very amusing. He chooses the most suggestive way possible to show me how to hold the rod and reel. He gets behind me and holds them in front of me as he talks me through setting my hands in the correct position. In this stance I don’t think you could slide a dollar bill between the two of us. It’s only with obvious reluctance that eventually he leaves me to my own devices and gets his own gear.
“What are we hoping to catch, by the way?” I ask.
“Oh, marlin, wahoo, blackfin tuna.”
I close my eyes and will every living being in these seas to ignore my bait. The last thing I want is to feel the tug of some hapless creature on my line.
I guess fishing is good for something, though, because as I stand there with the rod in my hands, my mind starts cranking. After several calm minutes, I let my hand fly to my throat. “Oh my God, Hector, I just had the most horrible thought!”
