CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The next morning I go straight from my bed to Mario’s workout room to do what I vowed I would: three 15-minute cardio segments. I hop from the elliptical to the stationary bike to the treadmill reminding myself that if I want to develop to my fullest potential, I must keep up my exercise routine on the road as well as at home. We beauty queens know travel is not an excuse to let our fitness regimens lapse!
Especially given how I indulge food-and drink-wise whenever I’m exploring this beautiful nation of ours …
I’m on a floor mat doing my second set of oblique curls when my cell rings with a call from my mom.
“What’s the name of that restaurant you took me to for my birthday last year?” she wants to know.
“Do you mean Red Oak?”
“That’s the one. I knew it had a tree in the name.”
“Are you going with Dottie?” Her BFF. They went to high school together. Now Dottie’s widowed and my mom’s divorced and sometimes their adventures extend beyond Wednesday night bingo in the church basement or the early bird special at Applebee’s. “You two don’t usually go to expensive places though,” I point out.
“Who says I’m going with Dottie?”
So she wants to play
that
game. “Who are you going with, then?”
“That’s none of your beeswax.”
My investigative mind starts to crank. “Are you going with the same person you went out with Saturday night?” Because I knew from the way she was dressed she had plans in the works.
Silence. Then, “Maybe.”
I knew it! “Why don’t you want to tell me who it is? It must be because you know I won’t like it.”
“You’ve done a lot of things I don’t like, young lady.”
Like get pregnant at 17. Then marry Jason. I know. I get that.
“So now it’s your turn,” she goes on. “Let’s see how
you
like it.”
I already know I don’t.
I force myself through the rest of my workout, then shower and put on my halter-style wrap dress in black and burgundy, which I hand-washed three times to get out the bad vibes it no doubt possessed after being worn the day Peppi was murdered. I add my new earrings, mother-of-pearl discs dipped in sterling silver that have a trendy Tahitian effect. I interrupt updating my Suspects Spreadsheet to ferry Rachel to the Don Gustavo homestead, where for the first time I’m halted at the security checkpoint outside the tall iron gates.
“You’re not on the list today, Happy,” Raoul reports, consulting his clipboard. After all my visits, the young man and I are on a first-name basis.
“That’s surprising.” I frown. I hope Paloma isn’t mad because I didn’t succeed in getting Hector arrested the moment his luxury sportfisher returned us to the marina. “Will you call the house for me, Raoul?”
“I know Doña Paloma is expecting me,” Rachel calls from the passenger seat.
A minute later Raoul gives us the nod. “They just forgot to call it in,” he says and seconds later the gates swing open.
“Let me come in with you,” I say to Rachel when we arrive at the house. “I want to ask Paloma if she got Peppi’s things back from Detective Dez.”
She didn’t, I soon find out. Nor will she let me into Peppi’s bedroom.
“I’m not ready yet,” she tells me. The poor thing is curled up on a couch in the living room ignoring both the spectacular Biscayne Bay view and her mug of tea. She looks so exhausted I doubt she could stand up on her own power. And even though it’s 9:30 and she knew Rachel was due to arrive, she hasn’t combed her hair and is still wearing her robe and slippers.
“Is there anything I can do for you, Paloma?” I ask.
She shakes her head. I’m guessing she’s not asking how it went with Hector because she’s so dazed with grief she forgot I saw him.
Rachel picks up the mug of tea. “Let me warm this up, Doña Paloma, and after you finish it we can take a walk. I could really use some exercise.”
Paloma manages a weak nod. I trail Rachel to the kitchen, a fantastic sunshiny space with a soaring ceiling and all stainless-steel appliances.
“She was like this yesterday, too,” Rachel whispers. “She got better later on.”
I rub my daughter’s arm. “Because you were here.”
“I think she’ll like it when all the sewing’s happening here, too. That’ll kind of perk up the house. But what’s she gonna do when we’re gone?”
This time I grab Rachel in a hug. “I don’t know, sweetie.”
Rachel pulls away. “You go find out who did this, mom.”
Thus goosed, I get back in the Durango and call Detective Dez. “I know you’ve been really busy,” I force myself to say, “but have you been able to follow up on Consuela Machado?”
“That pole dancer is one slippery little vixen. But I’ll pin her down.” He chuckles at his not-so-secret double meaning.
“And you got my voicemail about Hector Lopez Nieto and his supposed Friday lunch assignation at the Hotel Roca? I know you need a subpoena to get access to his credit-card transactions”—I’m proud I know that—“but given his motive to commit the murder and the fact that he may not have a solid alibi, I bet a judge would grant you one.”
“You don’t understand human nature,” he informs me. “If a man is meeting a woman who is not his wife at a hotel, he does so for one reason and one reason only. He does not abandon her to commit murder.”
“Not usually, I agree. But in this case—”
He interrupts me. “Aren’t you here to judge a beauty pageant?”
“Yes. But it doesn’t get going again until Thursday.”
“So you’ll be here all week.” He lowers his voice. “How about we get together for cocktails and I explain to you how the male mind works?”
I suspect it’s not the male mind that’s driving Detective Dez’s invitation. “How about you get that subpoena and after the results come in, we discuss them over a drink? And I’ll be
really
impressed if you interrogate the valet parking guys at the Hotel Roca to find out when Hector’s car was in and out of the lot.”
“One thing at a time,” he tells me. “The pole dancer first. Then we’ll see.”
I guess since Hector doesn’t prance around in high heels and a bikini, Detective Dez doesn’t find him all that compelling.
I roll the Durango out of Paloma’s gated community and decide now is as good a time as any to pay a visit to Sugarbabies. There are a few delicate inquiries I would like to make of one Jasmine Dobbs.
Although the boutique isn’t officially open, when I arrive the door is ajar. I push boldly inside, observing that Jasmine has accomplished a great deal in the past couple of days. In anticipation of the looming launch party, the wardrobe boxes have disappeared. Now the racks and shelves are filled with merchandise guaranteed to tantalize even the most fashion-savvy customer. I force myself to keep my eyes trained on the rear office, making no effort to be quiet but not calling out Jasmine’s name, either.
And boy, do I catch an eyeful when I find her.
She’s so engrossed in what she’s doing she doesn’t even see me. It’s immediately apparent she’s got a photo session going, complete with white poster board and fancy lighting and camera set up on tripod—all the accouterments Trixie described having spied at Jasmine’s penthouse. And Jasmine is behind said camera snapping pictures of an artfully displayed … jock strap. A red and black jock strap exactly like the one I saw her slide hastily into a desk drawer in this very office just the other day.
Actually, on closer inspection this one might have a detail the other didn’t. An autograph scrawled in black magic marker.
Since I can be quiet as a church mouse when sufficiently motivated, it takes Jasmine a minute or two to realize I’m in the doorway witnessing the proceedings. When she sees me, her eyes go wide as basketballs and she almost drops the camera. “What the hell are you doing here?” she demands.
I take a moment to admire her outfit, a sleeveless teal-colored sheath with elaborate beading at the collar and an on-trend exposed zipper up the back. “I came by to say hey and find out what you heard back from your lawyer. What are
you
up to?”
Silence. Then, “Oh, just a little prep work for the advertising campaign.”
She stares at me, clearly trying to gauge whether I’m dumb enough to buy that. I take in the teetering stack of mailing boxes, small mound of jock straps and—if I’m not mistaken—boxer shorts, and laptop computer with browser window open to the world’s largest online marketplace. “Really? Because I think you’re photographing Donyell’s stuff to sell it on eBay to make up for the money Peppi never ponied up for the boutique.”
“You got one vivid imagination!” she asserts.
I cock my chin at the black magic marker next to the poster board. “I also think you’re forging Donyell’s signature on his stuff because he has no idea about any of this.”
She steps closer and jabs a finger at my face. “Don’t you start running your mouth! You’re just like my lawyer, throwing legal terms at me. Forgery, my ass! You got no clue what my real deal is.”
“Then tell me. Maybe I can help you.”
“I don’t need help.” Jasmine spins away and slams down the lid on her laptop. “And if I did, I wouldn’t seek it from you. Sure, you and your friends might turn out to be good customers for my store but you’re getting way too deep into my business.”
That remark does not stop me from probing further. “It’s understandable why you’re having money problems here, Jasmine. It costs a huge amount to get a business started and if Peppi was supposed—”
“Do not portray me as somebody who can’t run a business!” She throws the marker inside a desk drawer and slams that shut, too. There’s a whole lot of slamming going on. “That is not who I am.”
I remember what Tia said about Donyell over absinthe cocktails.
He thinks Jaz got no business running a business! He doesn’t want her running through his cash with some boutique!
“Is that what your husband thinks? That you’re a bad businesswoman?”
“That man thinks that since he can throw a ball through a hoop he knows everything and I don’t know a damn thing.” She sort of deflates then. I watch her cover her face with her hands.
I step closer and soften my voice. “So that’s what happens when you marry into the league?”
When she lowers her hands, I see she’s got tears in her eyes. “I swear, nobody understands the dynamics. My friends I grew up with, my family, they don’t get it.”
“Tell me about it.” I ease her into her desk chair and hand her a tissue. Being my mother’s daughter, I always have a stash in my handbag.
She noisily blows her nose. Then, “It’s just, everybody wants to be near that star. Even me! That man, he glows. And since I’m his wife, I glow, too. He
knows
he gives that to me. He
knows
I don’t have that without him.
“My friends, my family, they glow a little bit, too. They enjoy those perks, those front-row seats, that inside gossip. They don’t want me to rock the boat.” She raises her eyes to mine. “You understand me?”
I nod. “Did you rock the boat when you started the boutique?”
“I wanted something of my own! I can’t just go to every game and call that my life!”
“I agree with you. Totally. But now you’ve got a problem because the boutique’s not doing so great?”
She slaps her thigh. “Which is exactly what Donyell said would happen! I cannot let that man be right about this. I will never live it down.”
“Are you making a lot of money selling his stuff on eBay?”
“A buttload!” I note she’s not bothering to deny it anymore. “You wouldn’t believe what people’ll pay for his crap. Even a stringy piece of basketball net from some championship the Gators won back in the day.”
This eBay scheme must be what Tia was referring to when she said Jasmine could be “real clever” about making money. But it doesn’t count as clever in my book. It’s too risky—and sneaky. “Does Donyell ever miss any of his stuff?”
“You bet your ass he does! He thinks we got the most incompetent laundry service in Miami. And some of his trophies ... He’s searched high and low for those and he can’t figure where they got to.”
I feel bad for Donyell. I know how upset Jason would be if he couldn’t lay his hands on his high school football memorabilia. “You know, just between us girls, Jasmine, you might want to think twice about this. It could really come back and bite you. If some of your buyers realize that signature they paid so much for isn’t Donyell’s? Or if Donyell figures out where his stuff is disappearing to?”
