CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
It’s late enough that this beauty queen has to speed to the Hotel Roca to make it there on time for Hector’s noontime extramarital romp. I have no problem keeping my pedal on the metal. The Durango might as well race as fast as my mind, which has rocketed to the conclusion that Jasmine has nary a soul to confirm her lame alibi for Peppi’s murder.
How easy would it have been for her to lock up the boutique, sprint across Miami to strangle Peppi at the pageant venue, and then return? No one would be the wiser.
And now I know Jasmine Dobbs feels no compulsion to toe the legal line. As far as she’s concerned, she’s justified stealing her husband’s belongings, forging his signature, and defrauding his fans. Granted, that trifecta is composed of fairly trifling crimes compared to murder, but still. She’s proved herself a flouter of the law and to me that’s an important revelation about her character.
But now as I approach the Hotel Roca, I must focus not on Jasmine but on Hector. I want to see whether he valets his car, and if so, charm the valet guys into answering my queries about whether he was likewise on the premises Friday.
It also occurs to me that I might accost Hector’s mistress and see what I can get out of her. My plan is to stake out the room in which the tryst occurs and then lie in wait for the female half of the pair to emerge. I’m not always the most patient of individuals but I guess today I’ll have to be.
Happily, the Hotel Roca is a five-star establishment if ever I’ve seen one. It’ll be a joy to pass a few hours there. The lobby is elegantly furnished and dimly lit, with lots of cozy sitting nooks separated by shoji screens, which give it a vaguely Japanese air.
I find myself a position behind a screen but with a view of the valet-parking area. Sure enough, a few minutes after noon a sleek red car screeches to a halt in front of the hotel. Who emerges but Hector. As usual he looks fresh from the spa. He hands the keys to one of the valet guys—whose face I memorize—then strides into the lobby as I duck deeper into my sequestered corner. He conducts a speedy transaction at reception before disappearing into an empty elevator. I scurry close to the elevator bank to see that the car deposits him on the ninth floor before it returns to the lobby level.
Once again I conceal myself behind a screen. I’ll wait a few minutes before I follow Hector upstairs. I don’t want to risk him seeing me in the ninth-floor corridor. That would be a trifle hard to explain.
There’s enough traffic in the lobby to keep me entertained. Most new arrivals make for the chic restaurant but some clearly are guests returning to their rooms. I pay special attention to the attractive females, of whom there are a goodly number. One of them must be Hector’s illicit paramour.
I’m admiring one candidate’s neon pink strapless dress with sweetheart neckline and side knot at the Empire waist when I get a surprise. Who flounces into the Hotel Roca but Consuela Machado herself, showily outfitted in a flowy black top and silver python-embossed pencil skirt. Sporting loose wavy hair, Gucci sunglasses, and a swanky crocodile overnight bag, even in this crowd she’s a striking presence. Her metallic stilettos propel her straight to an elevator. I track the car’s progress and see that she is whisked to the ninth floor, just like Hector.
Wow. How coincidental is that? One would think there’s a confab of Peppi Murder Suspects on the ninth floor. I know what Hector is doing in a guest room at the Hotel Roca at 12:17 on a Tuesday afternoon but what the heck is Consuela up to?
A few minutes later I too ride up to the ninth floor. I glance down the two shadowy corridors that lead away at sharp angles from the elevator bank. The one to the left is partially blocked by a housekeeping cart but otherwise there’s no sign of life.
I know what I’d do if I were in a hotel room in the middle of the day for a clandestine rendezvous. I’d hang out my DO NOT DISTURB sign.
I stroll down the corridor to my right and count three such signs. The corridor to my left boasts five.
I dawdle near the elevators ruing how the next hours will drag, then embark on another casual amble down the left-hand corridor. Going past the room that’s being cleaned, I peek past the portly middle-aged maid to see a luxuriously appointed interior with a drop-dead ocean view. Further along I lean close to one of the DO NOT DISTURB doors. Nothing. I don’t hear a peep. Either the occupants are the quietest lovemakers in the western world or they’re asleep or reading or doing work or something. I try the same ploy at another door and hear a soap opera blare from the TV. If it were
The Young and the Restless
I might linger for a while—I’m dying to know if Sharon and Nick will ever get back together—but since it’s not, I move along.
As I plaster my ear against yet another door, I hear something I recognize all too well: the voice of one Consuela Machado.
“—we go to Brazil in January? It would be so much fun! Just imagine. Rio … Sao Paolo … Copacabana …”
I hear her giggle flirtatiously, much the way she does with Mario. Who the heck is she in there with?
Then I have a thought that, I will admit, causes my spirits to sink. Maybe she’s in there with Mario! Maybe he came back from L.A. and the two of them wanted to hook up but they couldn’t at his house because we’re all there and they couldn’t at her house because Mariela might return at any moment. And so they thought of the Hotel Roca, which is apparently notorious across Miami as THE place for midday couplings of a non-spousal nature.
And these days Consuela is so serious about reeling in Mario that she’s proposing they embark on international travel together. That is so like her! I press my ear even tighter against the door. Yes, I do believe I hear the low register of a male voice. It probably belongs to Mario. I wouldn’t bet my tiara on it but I’d lay odds. I don’t want to listen to this. I know—
“Hola, miss!” an accented female voice bellows behind me.
I spin around to see the maid I spied before striding in my direction.
“Miss!” she brays. “Do you need help?”
I drop to my hands and knees, tearing off one of my silver and mother-of-pearl earrings and flinging it down the corridor. “Oh,” I say quietly, trying to wave her away, not to mention pipe her down, “I’m fine. My earring just fell off. I’ll find it.”
“I’ll help you, miss!” she vows in a voice so loud they can probably hear her in Palm Beach.
“No, really—”
“Is right there!” she yowls, pointing a chunky finger at the spot where my earring perches in a very obvious manner right in the middle of the carpeted corridor.
“What the devil—” I hear a male voice say from inside Consuela’s room, and then to my horror that door opens.
I crouch in place wishing I had that magic ring the hobbit has that makes him disappear when he puts it on. Did I bungle this or what? I am such a twit! I am more embarrassed than I’ve ever been in my life. Mario is already half convinced I’m batty and this will erase all remaining doubt.
I manage a fearful glance back over my shoulder. To my astonishment—and, I will admit, relief—it’s not Mario I see looming in the doorway. It’s Hector.
Hector?
His eyes bug out at the sight of me. “Harriet? What are you doing here?”
Since I have no clue how to answer that question the maid pipes up. “Miss lost her earring!” she supplies helpfully but I don’t expect that answer to satisfy Hector’s curiosity.
I will say that in these early moments he doesn’t look so much angry as amazed. I’m surprised he’s not freaking out in a big way. I certainly am though I’m doing my darnedest to hide it. Hector and Consuela? Who knew?
In short order the lady in question appears behind Hector. Her eyes blaze. “You!” she shrieks as I scrabble to my feet. “Are you some kind of crazy stalker or what? What’s wrong with you?”
“You know Harriet, too?” Hector inquires of Consuela.
“Her name is Happy, not Harriet! And since when do you know her?”
“I met her yesterday. When she came to see my boat.”
“Why did she come to see your boat?” Consuela screams.
“Because she’s considering buying it,” Hector replies in a reasonable tone.
“She doesn’t want to buy your boat! She has no money!”
Hector turns his eyes to me as if expecting me to deny this allegation. “It’s not true that I have no money,” I say, which is, in fact, a true statement. Since I am once again upright, I feel a tad feistier and decide that offense is the best defense. “How do you know Hector, Consuela?” I inquire.
She rapidly blinks her heavily mascaraed eyes but doesn’t say a word. For once it appears I’ve shut her up.
And I know why. Now I know something about Consuela that she wishes I didn’t. And that gives me power over her. Which she doesn’t like at
all
.
“We met at a party,” Hector says into the silence, then chuckles as if a delightful memory comes to mind. “I learned that night that Consuela is an expert pole dancer.”
I bet it didn’t take Consuela long to display her other talents to Hector Lopez Nieto, the son of one of Florida’s wealthiest men.
“You didn’t say why you’re here, Harriet. I mean, Happy.” A beat later Hector sidles closer. “Though I think I know,” he adds quietly and gives me a knowing wink.
“I am done with all this!” Consuela declares. She lurches closer to me. “Don’t you say a word about this to anybody,” she hisses, low enough that only I can hear. “If you know what’s good for you,” she adds with a menacing glare, then turns and spins back inside her room. “Hector, get back inside here.”
Hector gives me another conspiratorial wink then obediently shuts the door behind him. As I reattach my earring, I hear him speak to Consuela in a wheedling tone. Good luck with that, is what I’m thinking.
I walk past the maid, who is reunited with her cart and keeping her gaze averted, and make my way back down to the lobby, thoughts whirling in my head like dervishes.
Whoa. This is a lot to take in. Hector’s mistress is Consuela.
Meaning … two of my suspects are romantically linked with each other.
Meaning … it’s possible they’re in cahoots.
In the lobby I sink into a chair behind my favorite shoji screen. Hector and Consuela both have a motive to murder Peppi. If they trust each other, why wouldn’t they team up to get the job done?
The way I look at it, Consuela’s relationship with Hector gives her a stronger motive to want Peppi dead. I would bet big money that she is angling to have Hector divorce his wife and marry her. In which case a wealthier Hector—who’s gotten a larger inheritance because of his half-sister’s untimely demise—is better than a poorer Hector.
I find it hard to believe Consuela is in this affair just for sex. She could have sex with the pool boy. Call me cynical where she’s concerned but I think that if she’s hooking up with a wealthy, high-status man like Hector Lopez Nieto, it’s for what she can get out of him. And the biggest prize is marriage.
Not that Hector seems all that eager for a divorce. He told me on the boat that he loves his wife, that she understands him. And if memory serves, he also divulged that he’s been with his mistress for a while. If he hasn’t divorced his wife to marry his mistress yet, why would he now?
Either he hasn’t been forthcoming about all of this with Consuela, or he has and she’s chosen not to believe him. She wouldn’t be the first woman to make that mistake.
I’m pondering all the fascinating possibilities when Hector reappears in the lobby. Since I’m no longer taking care to hide myself, he sees me and walks over. He sits next to me and takes my hand. I’m about to say something when he lays a gentle finger on my lips and shakes his head. “No,
querida
”—he gazes into my eyes—“you don’t need to say a thing. I completely understand.”
“You do?”
“As soon as we met on the boat you were hoping we’d get to know each other better, am I right? You gave me a fake name and everything, to add to the thrill. Such devotion you show me. Following me to this hotel, where you knew I’d be today. Going to such lengths to see me again.”
Well, I did go to some lengths, but it wasn’t out of devotion to Hector, I can tell you that.
“Probably you wanted to see my mistress,” he goes on. “To size up the competition, as they say.”
“I can’t deny it.”
“Consuela said some things about you but they’re too preposterous to believe.” He chuckles as if he’s enjoying the prospect of two brunettes fighting over him. “I had the feeling on the boat that you were falling in love with me. You were so overwhelmed you couldn’t even hold on to your rod and reel.” He shakes his head in joyous wonderment. “It made me angry at the time but now I find it charming. And a woman who could fall in love with a man after what she saw on that boat”—he pauses to kiss my fingers, ringless again today as a precaution—“it says a great deal about her character.”
