CHAPTER SEVEN
It takes Mario half a minute to notice Shanelle and me, which is just as well because this queen needs to compose herself.
As befits a man with his star power, he is dressed casually but well, in cream-colored chinos and a slim-fitting navy polo shirt with lime-green tipping along the collar and three-button placket.
“Happy!” he calls, and abandons his adoring throng to clasp me in a hug. I note his female admirers giving me a once-over to try to figure out why I’m getting the A-list treatment when they merit only handshakes. As we embrace—and let me assure you I am not objecting—I get a whiff of that cologne of his, sort of a woodsy scent that brings my knees even closer to buckling than they already were.
He hugs Shanelle, too, and it proves yet again what a hunk Mario Suave is that the usually loquacious Ms. Mississippi can’t say a word.
“It’s such a coincidence that you show up in Vegas while Shanelle and I are here!” I cry.
He looks away. “Well, you know, I travel a lot. What with the show and all.”
“I saw the pilot episode last week.” A thermonuclear explosion wouldn’t have kept me from planting myself in front of the TV to watch the premiere outing of
America’s Scariest Ghost Stories
, hosted by Mario Suave. “I thought it was really good.”
“
Really
good,” Shanelle echoes. Her eyes are wide and fixed on Mario’s face.
“Thank you, ladies.” He smiles. His brown eyes gleam. His dimples flash.
I’m so flustered I can’t think of anything sensible to say. So out pops something stupid. “I had no idea there are ghosts in Vegas.”
He laughs. “Sure there are! Scads of them.” He lowers his voice and leans in close like he’s going to let Shanelle and me in on a secret. “Las Vegas is a veritable hot zone of cold spots. Are you aware that Wayne Newton wrote in his autobiography that he swears he saw Elvis Presley once in his audience?
After
The King was dead?”
“No,” Shanelle breathes.
“It’s true.” Mario gazes into my eyes. “I guess Elvis just can’t get enough of Sin City.”
Hearing the word “sin” spoken by her single greatest temptation renders this lapsed Catholic girl speechless. Fortunately the moment is interrupted by the bustling arrival of a pencil-thin ponytailed blonde wearing jeans and a black tee shirt and carrying a clipboard. “Mario, if we’re going to do that shoot—”
“Right.” He straightens. “Well, it’s good to run into you two.” His voice has gone businesslike. I get a semi-crushed feeling, like he’ll go off now and be busy and that’s the last I’ll see of him here in Vegas. Or anywhere.
I hear words gush from my mouth. “By the way, Mario, it just so happens that I was going to call you because I met a woman who needs advice about how to get on a reality show and I thought probably you’d be better than anyone at giving her some.”
He seems flummoxed. Then, “Well, Jen here can probably help you with that,” and he motions to the producer type. “Jennifer Maddox, meet Happy Pennington.”
I shake Jennifer’s hand. Truth be told, I’m a little sad Mario is handing me off to her. From her expression, Jennifer appears no more pleased at this turn of events than I am. She hands me a business card. “Call me and I’ll set you up.”
“It’s not for me, it’s—” I sputter, but it’s too late. Mario is letting Jennifer pull him away. I’m forced to conclude that’s the end of that.
“Okay,” Shanelle says, “he’s gone. I can breathe again.”
As Shanelle and I finally make it to the elevator, I realize I’ve learned something from tonight’s encounter. My hormones might be creakier than they were at age seventeen but apparently they’re still capable of raging. Meaning they’re still capable of getting me into trouble.
Throughout dinner with Shanelle and my mom, I will admit that I remain kind of distracted. Only half my brain is focused on my mother’s blow-by-blow description of the Liberace Museum, whose delights are apparently so numerous and varied that she intends to return the very next day. When we all go upstairs to retire, I escape onto the balcony of my room to call Jason.
I want to talk to my husband. I want to feel close to him. I want him to be the one to say wonderful and terrible things to me. I want to remember all the many reasons why I love him and want to spend the rest of my life with him.
I listen to Jason’s cell phone ring and take in the neon rainbow pageant of the Las Vegas Strip eighteen floors below. Fortunately, up here the madness is reduced to a dull roar. The desert breeze, now cool and sweet, ruffles my hair.
Even better than all this, Jason answers his phone. “Hey, babe.”
“Hey.” For no good reason I’m on the verge of crying.
Of course, since he’s known me forever, he immediately picks that up. “You okay? What’s going on?”
I lie. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t sound fine.”
“No, really I am. I just miss you. It feels like forever since we talked.”
“Didn’t we talk yesterday? Before the wedding.” At this moment, that seems like eons ago. “So are the cops making any progress?”
Of course I left Jason voicemails about Danny Richter’s murder, which is too small potatoes to make the news in North Carolina.
This is what I need to focus on to feel like myself again, I realize. The murder. My dancing debut with the Sparklettes. And being the best Ms. America I can possibly be. “I don’t know if the cops have come up with anything. I haven’t talked to Sally Anne since this morning. And I didn’t watch the news all day.”
“Something really
is
wrong with you.” Jason quiets to leave me an opening to spill. I remain silent because I don’t know what to say. “Well, whatever it is, babe,” he goes on, “you’ll get over it. You always do.”
That’s true. All it takes is mind over matter. That’s something we beauty queens are good at. Want an ice cream cone? Just say no. Daydreaming about another guy? Stop. Just stop.
“You excited about the dance thing?” Jason asks.
“Yes! I think the training’s going to be hard but it’ll be really fun with Shanelle and Trixie doing it, too.”
“Man, tell me about hard training! We’re at it nonstop here. Up before the crack of dawn and I’m lucky if I get a chance to eat. I gotta boost my endurance to the next level or I’m gonna wash out. You know anything about muscular hypertrophy?”
Since I’ve never even heard of it, Jason starts telling me there are two kinds, sarcoplasmic and myofibrillar, and you really want the myofibrillar kind which you can attain through high intensity and low volume training, and I gather all this has to do with building muscle, but what really comes through is that Jason hasn’t been this excited about anything in I don’t know how long. And anyone who thinks my husband lacks intelligence need only listen to him expound on this topic and they’d realize how wrong they are.
He winds to a close. “Sorry. I don’t want to bore you with all this stuff.”
“You’re not! I’m really glad you’re liking pit school so much.”
“Man, you were right to push me into it.”
I guess I was. I want Jason to be excited about all the things he can do in life. But now he’s in North Carolina for twelve weeks and that part I’m not liking.
The fact that we’re both traveling is new, and weird. If it were only me on the road and he were at home, I could picture where he is and what he’s up to. But he’s somewhere I’ve never been and so I can’t conjure it in my mind.
“So will you come visit me?” I ask it before I even think about it.
“You mean … in Vegas?”
“Why not? I’m here through next weekend. Don’t you get at least some weekends off? You could watch me dance with the Sparklettes!”
“I might be able to get time off this weekend.”
“It’s Vegas.” I make my voice low and suggestive. “You know what
that
means.”
“This is sounding better all the time.” He chuckles. “So you don’t care how much it’s gonna cost to buy a plane ticket with zero notice?”
“We do have the money, Jason.” Since I won Ms. America, yes, we do. I don’t want to be profligate but this is a bona fide I Need To See My Husband emergency.
“I don’t know what’s going on with you, babe, but if I can get off you’ve got a deal.”
“I love you,” I tell him, which brings me close to tears again.
“Love you, too,” he repeats, though he doesn’t sound anywhere near crying.
Men.
Before I slide open the balcony door to return inside, I raise my head in search of the brightest star in the heavens. I make a wish to bring my husband close, in every which way. That night I sleep super well and wake up so rejuvenated I make a beeline for the hotel fitness center before I even grab coffee.
Wouldn’t you know it? I spy Frank through the glass walls of the spa and make a detour. The spa is sleek and contemporary in style, with dim lighting and loads of metallic accents. Frank is manning the reception desk, sporting a black tracksuit and a glum expression.
“Good for you for being back in the saddle,” I tell him.
“Yeah, I was supposed to be off this week, you know, for the honeymoon, but I figured I might as well work. Keep my mind off things.”
“How are you holding up?”
“I can’t believe I’m planning Danny’s burial.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Sheesh, the kid was only 29 and I’m going to his wake this afternoon.”
I file that info into my memory bank. I want to go, too, in part to see who else shows up. That can be useful from an investigative point-of-view. “I am so sorry about Danny. Sally Anne told me how much you helped him over the years.”
“Kid needed it. Damn brother of mine never stepped up.”
I repeat the question Jason asked me. “Do you know if the cops have made any progress?”
“Hell, no.” He glares at me. “And they never will if they keep wasting their time grilling me!”
So something about Frank isn’t adding up for Detective Perelli, either. For Sally Anne’s sake, I don’t like the sound of that. “If you don’t mind my asking, who do
you
think did it? I mean, do you know of Danny having enemies?”
Now Frank won’t meet my eyes. He shifts his weight from foot to foot. Then, “He was a grown man. I can’t be expected to know everything he did and didn’t do.”
In other words, Frank has the same idea I’m getting: that Danny Richter wasn’t exactly a straight arrow. “Do you know how he got that shiner?”
“Oh, he told me he got that lifting weights that morning.”
Funny. I never got a black eye toning my upper body.
A 30-something brunette wearing shorts and a sports bra approaches the desk. “My friend and I are ready,” she tells Frank. I see her gal pal across the reception area, dressed in the same ensemble.
“Okay,” Frank says. “Guess it’ll be just the two of you. Be right with you.” The woman wanders away and Frank glances at me. “Unless you want to try the cryogenic chamber, too.”
“The
what
?”
“The cryogenic chamber. Our spa’s got the only one in Vegas. A Japanese doctor came up with it and then it got developed more in Poland.”
My ancestral peeps had something to do with this? I am intrigued. “What is it?”
“It’s a super cold chamber that you stay in for three minutes tops. The temperature’s so cold it pulls your blood to your core, then after you get out your blood pumps back through your body in kind of a rush. Endorphins get released, other hormones, that sort of thing. Great for the skin, for training, I don’t know what else. But people swear by it.” He hands me a brochure. “You’re interested, I’ll slide you in for free. Girl who usually runs it is out. Let me set those two up,” and he walks away.
Happy Pennington is nothing if not game for inventive spa treatments. I learn from the pamphlet that super-elite athletes use cryotherapy to enhance performance and recover more quickly from injury, and that normal people try it for both beautification and to relieve all kinds of ailments, from arthritis to eczema to depression.
Stress, too. Maybe Cassidy should give it a whirl.
And when they say the chamber is cold, boy, do they mean
cold
. Negative 275 degrees Fahrenheit. My freezer is set at zero degrees. The tippy-top of Mount Everest gets down to negative 76 degrees.
Frank comes back. “You got nothing wrong with you, right? No cancer, heart disease, blood clots …”
I shake my head.
“Or claustrophia?” he finishes. “Because there’s not a lot of space in there. There’s a panic button but once you’re in, you’re in.”
This is sounding a little freaky but I’m ready to give it a go. It is also clear that this is quite the deal Frank is giving me because these treatments
cost
. The liquid nitrogen that chills the tank is expensive.
I’m required to sign a terrifying disclaimer that makes it sound like I’m sure to die, and Frank takes my blood pressure, which is not at my lifetime low. Maybe the scariest aspect of the whole thing, though, is the mandatory clothing. Layers of gloves and knee socks, tube-like bandages over the legs and arms, and clogs. This is a highly unflattering get-up but I have learned that superior spa treatments are rarely pretty.
