CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Shortly after 4, Detective Dez calls my cell. I answer as promised because I am not in conference with Miami’s chief of police. Instead I am lying on my bed with my legs elevated and a towel over my eyes thinking deep thoughts.
“I’ve done some digging at the Hotel Roca,” he tells me. “On Friday Hector Lopez Nieto checked in at 12:06 and out at 1:42. The valet returned his Maserati at that time. Consuela Machado checked in her Mercedes at 12:03 and requested it at 1:17.”
I write down all this information to add it to my Suspects Spreadsheet. And imagine: I didn’t even have to imbibe a cocktail with Detective Dez to get it.
“This is evidence that Consuela is not guilty of the murder,” he adds, and I detect a note of
I told you so
in his tone.
“This is far from definitive. Either she or Hector might have taken a cab back and forth to the pageant venue. Have you analyzed the hotel’s lobby surveillance video?”
He sighs. “I’m on it.”
“There are a few other things it would be really valuable for you to look into.” I mention Alfonso and Jasmine’s lame alibis and the possibility that Peppi had a drug problem. “I also heard that Peppi and Alice Dilling might have met in rehab.”
“Alice Dilling? She and Peppi sure communicated a lot. Phone calls, texts, emails, you name it.”
“So you’ve talked to her, I imagine. Where was she when Peppi was killed?”
“At a senior center. She volunteers there serving meals.”
That’s what Ned Silver alluded to. “And you’ve confirmed she was there?”
“To the best of anybody’s recollection.”
So Alice Dilling has an alibi you could drive a truck through. “You know, Consuela claims that Alice and Peppi had a fight at the pageant’s orientation lunch the day before the murder.”
“She told me that, too, but Dilling was at that senior center when the murder occurred.”
So he’s putting his faith in Alice’s alibi. I doubt he’ll agree to my next request but I might as well ask. “Would you give me access to Peppi’s phone and computer?”
“No. That’s asking too much. Besides, those items have already been analyzed. And released to the family.”
Darn. Paloma’s too mad at me now even to let me in her house. She won’t show me a thing. Unless I persuade her that my investigative target is Hector …
Detective Dez refuses to say whether he found any relevant information on Peppi’s phone and computer. “I’ve provided you with valuable information,” I remind him. “You didn’t know that Peppi may have had a drug problem until I told you. If it weren’t for me you might still be chasing down that trumpet player who used to work for Don Gustavo. Where was he last Friday, by the way?”
The detective is forced to admit he was in Caracas. “This better mean you won’t go to the chief,” he adds. “That teen beauty pageant is starting up again tomorrow, right? You’ll be too busy to snoop around in police business.”
Little does he know how well I multitask.
I’m in the kitchen brewing coffee—it’s the time of day I need a pick-me-up—when my cell again rings. This time it’s my mom.
“I just saw that floozy woman of your father’s at the Giant Eagle,” she tells me without preamble.
“Did you talk to her?”
“She came up to me in the pickle section. Not the refrigerated section because I didn’t have coupons for those but the regular pickle section in aisle six. Buy two, get the second one half off.”
“What did she say to you?” Sometimes it’s hard to keep my mother on a straight conversational line.
“That your father is buying a condo in Florida for the two of them to live in. Together! In sin!”
My heart drops. I hoped my mom would never hear about this, especially since my father told me he was backing off.
“Not that I care,” she goes on. “So what did he tell you?”
“It’s not going to happen.”
“That’s what he told you? Not that I’m wasting my time thinking about it.”
“It’s not going to happen,” I repeat. I don’t want to tell her how much time and energy he spent pursuing the idea or how depressed he seemed when he gave it up. “Pop has no plans along those lines.”
“Tell that floozy that.”
“That was pretty rude of her to flounce up to you in the pickle section to deliver that information.” I’ve never met Maggie but already I don’t like her.
“You’re telling me. Some people.” She harrumphs. “Even though your father can do what he wants. It’s no longer any concern of mine.”
My mom does a good job of sounding blasé but I know she’s anything but. She would be deeply wounded if my father set up house with Maggie. I turn on the coffeemaker. “Why are you already at the Giant Eagle? It’s not even five o’clock.”
“I got off work early.”
“Why is that? Doctor’s appointment?”
“No.” She sounds cagey. Then, “I have plans.”
“Really? Are you going to tell me what they are or are you going to be all secretive again like you were on Saturday?”
“I am not secretive, young lady. Unlike some people who shall remain nameless”—read: Maggie—“I do not care to broadcast my business. If you have to know, I am cooking dinner for Bennie.”
I frown. “Bennie? As in Bennie Hana? Your boss?”
“Saturday night he took me out to dinner and tonight I am reciprocating.”
This is startling information. I guess I won’t need a caffeine rush to be jolted fully awake. “Mom, are you dating your boss?”
“Some people might call it that.”
I grip Mario’s granite countertop. I cannot believe both of my septuagenarian parents are seeing new people. It’s almost too much to take in.
“I’m making Bennie your father’s favorite dish,” my mother goes on. “Kielbasa, sauerkraut, rye bread, and of course pickles. I wouldn’t mind if your father found out.”
“I hope you’re not using Bennie to make Pop jealous. That’s no way to treat anybody, let alone your boss.”
“Oh, look at the time. We’ll have to catch up more tomorrow,” and she rings off.
Trixie whirls into the kitchen. “I thought I smelled coffee.” She takes one look at me. “What’s wrong?”
I explain.
Trixie giggles. “That’s the oldest trick in the book. What a scamp your mom is! She will make your dad jealous. You just wait and see.”
“Maybe. But she’ll also tick off Bennie and that’ll be the end of her job.” I get out mugs and pour Trixie and me some java. “That job has given her a new lease on life. I never would’ve thought it but it has.”
“That’s not what you’re really worried about.” Trixie gives me a knowing look. “You don’t want your mom getting together with Bennie because that’ll make it even harder for her to get back with your dad.”
Tears prick behind my eyes. “Is it that obvious?”
Trixie hugs me. “Relax. It’ll all turn out the way it’s meant to.”
That comforting thought, along with coffee and two Pepperidge Farm Milano cookies, makes me feel better. When I learn that Pop will ferry Rachel home from Paloma’s, I go for a run. That’s good for the body as well as the mind, and no question I could use the help. After several hours of concentration I have failed to connect even two investigative dots. I return to Mario’s to find he’s left me a voicemail. I go in search of Shanelle and Trixie, who are bent over sewing machines, now once again set up on pads on the dining room table.
“Mario’s flying back tonight,” I report. I cannot deny a certain exhilaration at the news. “He could be on the plane right now.”
“What did he say about the Mariela situation?” Shanelle wants to know.
“He doesn’t know about it yet. He was in shoots and meetings with the network all day, which is why he didn’t call back sooner.”
“Shoots and meetings with the network,” Trixie repeats. “Exciting!”
“Can I help?” I offer. Sitting and thinking hasn’t worked so far. Maybe sewing and thinking will.
“You can do buttons,” Shanelle tells me, and that is how Rachel finds us an hour later. The sun has set so we’re working under the crystal glow of an elegant chandelier.
“The four outfits I finished are still at Doña Paloma’s,” Rachel tells us. She’s wearing skinny jeans, a sheer pink sleeveless top with delicate floral embroidery, and a colorful twist-knot headband. “Grandpa wouldn’t let me carry them on the hog.”
“I can hardly believe it but we’re almost done,” Trixie says, though it’s tough to understand her with pins between her teeth. “I never want to do another sewing project for as long as I live.”
“So Doña Paloma didn’t get mad at you, too?” I ask Rachel.
“I’m the only one she
didn’t
get mad at today. She yelled at the cops, too.”
“Really?” I guess in some ways Paloma and I are on the same wavelength.
“A few cops came to the house to return her daughter’s stuff. She wanted to know why it’s taking them so long to arrest Mr. Hector. She really screamed at them. She was nice to me, though, and she did show me all her flamenco outfits. I’ve started my report for school. So what are we having for dinner?”
“How about I barbecue ribs?” My father shuffles in carrying his leather jacket in one hand and his helmet in the other. “Being as it’s the last night here at the house and all. I already got all the fixings.”
“That sounds fabulous, Pop.” I rise and kiss him on the cheek. “Are you going to make your famous sauce?”
“I don’t know any other way to do it.”
“It’s scrumptious,” I assure Trixie and Shanelle.
“You best share that recipe, then,” Shanelle tells my father, “because if there’s one thing everybody in my family likes, it’s good barbecue.”
“I’ll help, Grandpa,” Rachel offers.
When he’s outside firing up the grill, I go to join him. It’s a lovely starry night, a little chillier than it has been. I guess winter comes to Miami, too. “I’m glad you’re still here, Pop.”
He fusses with the knobs on the grill. “I don’t like what I said to you this morning. That you’re neglecting Jason and Rachel.”
“The person I have been neglecting is you. That’s what I don’t like.”
“You’re an A-1 wife and mother, my beauty, and believe you me, there’s no bigger compliment in my book.”
That threatens to call forth the waterworks but I manage to control myself. “That means a lot to me, you saying that.”
“Just so you know, I’m going to stick around through the pageant. Trixie told me they could use some help with props and whatnot and that’s right up my alley.”
“You used to do that when I competed.”
“A few times. Enjoyed it every time.”
A little while later we have quite the feast, complete with potato salad, baked beans, and cornbread. Even Mopey Mariela chooses to join us. I enjoy some Zinfandel, but only one glass. Tonight this beauty queen must have her wits about her.
It’s no fun squeezing into something slinky after that repast, but I must. Tonight’s selection is a fuchsia bandage dress with slim straps. As usual I choose to keep my hair loose and my heels high. I pack my pepper spray in my silver lamé glitter clutch and am good to go. Shanelle is dazzling in a plum-colored satin sheath with a pleated U neck and I predict Trixie will bring down the house in a navy one-shoulder chiffon minidress.
“So we’re clear on our marching orders?” I ask as we pile into the Durango.
As usual Shanelle’s riding shotgun. “We try to find out whether anyone’s seen Peppi at one of these shindigs.”
“Exactly. I want to know if Alfonso roped her into this. If he did, it might have been another point of contention between them.”
“And be careful because somebody may try to spike our drinks,” Trixie says. Her hazel eyes are wide in the rear-view mirror.
“Don’t drink anything unless you pour it yourself or see that drinks from that bottle are being poured for men as well as women. And don’t ever put your drink down.”
“I may not drink anything at all,” Trixie says.
“That’s not a bad idea,” Shanelle says. “We have got to be super careful tonight. Don’t let anybody get you alone.”
