CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“And learn how to use it,” he goes on while I stare at him flabbergasted. “Get someone to train you. Go to a shooting range and practice. I’m not crazy about this investigating thing but if you’re going to do it, at least be able to protect yourself.”
“But … a gun …”
“Didn’t you just say you’d do anything for me?”
“But I’m not a gun person!”
“What’s a gun person? There’s no such thing. And you want people to think you’re smart, Happy? Prove it. There’s nothing smart about going after murderers empty-handed.”
Again he has a point.
He goes on. “I don’t want to get another one of those phone calls like I got in Vegas where I found out that my wife was in the hospital because some maniac tried to kill her. And maybe the next time he won’t only try, he’ll succeed.”
It’s hard to have a comeback to that. “Please give me some time to think about it,” I manage.
“I’m here till morning.” He doesn’t say:
You’ve got till then
but I hear it anyway. “Now tell me about this thing you’re going to tonight.”
I describe the Sugarbabies launch party and it takes Jason half a second to announce he doesn’t care to go. “How about I take Rachel and your dad out to dinner, if I can find him.” He rises from the stool to pull his cell from his jeans pocket.
“That’d be great.” I stand up, too. “I won’t stay long at the party. I just feel like I have to check it out. You’ll sleep here tonight, right?”
“You got room for me?”
I answer that question with a slow, promising kiss.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Jason mutters, and now I really don’t want to linger at the Sugarbabies party.
Trixie’s on her cell phone as we three queens pile into the Durango. She’s wearing a purple metallic finish fit-and-flare dress and Shanelle has chosen a tank-style blush-colored mesh sheath with sequin detailing. None of us packs light, no matter how brief the journey.
“Who’s Trixie on the phone with?” I whisper as Shanelle climbs into the passenger seat next to me. Behind us I hear Trixie reeling off information about shipping schedules and wholesale inventory.
“She’s talking to her old boss. I know,” Shanelle adds when I protest. “Third time she called today. Finally Trixie caved.”
“She’s got too good a heart. But that’s why we love her.” I roll the Durango out of Mario’s driveway. “What’s new at home with you?”
“Biggest news is Devon broke his arm playing football.”
That launches us into a discussion of how her 8-year-old begged so long and so hard to play football that Shanelle and Lamar eventually relented, all the while fearing he’d get injured.
“Hasn’t dimmed his enthusiasm one iota,” Shanelle finishes. “Unfortunately.”
A few seconds later Trixie ends her call. “My Lord, I am running out of patience with that woman! I told her not to call me again.”
“Good luck with that,” I say.
“Anyhoo,” she goes on, “guess what else happened today? Rhett got called for a second round of interviews at that company in Savannah. They must really like him because this time they want him to meet the CEO.”
“That sounds serious, girl.” Shanelle twists around in her seat to face Trixie. “So does that mean you all are willing to leave Charlotte?”
“I guess for the right opportunity we are. And this would be a big promotion for Rhett. He’s starting to get excited about it. The kids would need convincing, though, and the grandparents would kill us.”
Trixie and her husband have a boy and a girl, Tag and Tessa, 10 and 9 years old. I know at that age Rachel would have freaked out if Jason and I had proposed moving away from Cleveland. And my mom would have had a fit. Not that the decision would have been either of theirs in the end.
“How do you feel about it, Trixie?” I ask. In the rear-view mirror I watch her expression grow serious.
“It’d be hard because I’ve lived in Charlotte all my life. But maybe I could use a change.” She meets my eyes. “And the timing’s pretty good since I lost my job and all.”
“Girl, the cosmos may be sending you a message!” Shanelle cries. “You best be ready to receive.”
We get so involved talking about what’s going on in Trixie and Shanelle’s lives that I’m able to avoid discussion of mine. I’m thrilled that Jason may not fight my investigating any more. But how in the world will I get comfortable with the gun idea? I don’t know that I can. And if I can’t, Jason and I may be back in mongo conflict.
After I park the Durango, we teeter toward Sugarbabies on our stilettos. It’s clear even from a distance that Jasmine is doing her launch party up big. Spotlights rake the façade. The palm trees at the entry are strung with white lights. Once guests get past security—which is as stringent as at any airport—they step onto a red carpet that leads to the boutique’s front door. Paparazzi jostle one another to photograph each new arrival as if they were an A-1 celebrity.
We sashay into the boutique as if we do this every night of the week. The dramatically lit interior is jam-packed with fashionably dressed people. A live band plays Latin music. In two corners aerial showgirls in glittering bikinis perform spins while suspended from silk ropes. And the bartenders aren’t just mixing drinks: they’re doing magic tricks with the bar tools.
“They’re called flair bartenders,” Trixie tells me. “My friend Sophie had one at her New Year’s Eve party.”
“Boy,” Shanelle murmurs, “you’d never guess one of the proprietors just got murdered.”
Nope, you never would. Then again, Jasmine hasn’t exhibited one scintilla of grief at Peppi’s demise. Which is one of the things that keep her on my suspects list.
A server who could double as a model—wearing a thong bikini and stilettos that are even more stilt-like than our own—offers us the evening’s signature cocktail. It’s called a Hot Melon, made with pureed watermelon and white rum. We sip the tasty libation and survey the crowd.
“I don’t see Jasmine,” I start to say, until I see her. On this her Big Night, she looks fabulous. Her dress is a showstopper: a one-shoulder sequin-covered silver gown that skims her body and swishes around her legs in a floor-sweeping skirt. Her hair is center-parted and blown straight, held in place by a gorgeous jewel-encrusted headband that she’s wearing on her forehead like a 1920s flapper. And since this is Jasmine, her earrings are sensational: long tassels made of crystals.
“Girlfriend went all out!” Shanelle cranes her neck to scan the room. “I hope Donyell’s getting a load of this.”
“Not yet. That’s the problem,” I hear a woman say, and I find Tia at my side. She looks spectacular, too, in a flirty white sheath featuring tiered strands of beads.
“Donyell’s not here?” I find that pretty shocking. I know how much this party means to Jasmine. I also know how sensitive she is to any indication that her husband’s dissing Sugarbabies.
“He promised he’d be on time but this party’s in full swing and is he here?” Tia asks rhetorically. I’m guessing she’s beyond her first Hot Melon. “Jaz is nervous as all get-out that he won’t show. And how would that look?”
Like he doesn’t support the boutique, which is darn close to the truth.
Tia goes on. “Jaz needs that star power. Like it or not most of these people are here to see him and not her.”
No doubt Donyell knows that full well, too. If he’s angry at Jasmine—for example, if he found out she’s selling his stuff on eBay—he could get her back but good by failing to appear at her launch party.
Tia stops a bikini-clad server bearing a tray of appetizers. “Try these,” she urges and we happily oblige. “Boeuf bourguignon potstickers. Try the shrimp ‘n’ grits, too.”
We dine standing up but it hardly matters. The food is scrumptious.
We’re about to start mingling when a commotion erupts near the entrance. I’m almost blinded by the flashes of the paparazzi’s cameras. Then who heaves into view but Donyell himself, resplendent in a white suit paired with an open-necked black shirt and a white fedora. He’s sporting dark sunglasses, a big smile, and an enormous bouquet of red roses. And behind him are two more Heat players, both dressed to the nines and carrying pink roses. They’re so amazingly tall and broad-shouldered that it’s hard to believe they’re the same species as the rest of us. We’re mesmerized as Donyell looks around for his wife. Cheers rise as a teary-eyed Jasmine comes forward to accept her husband’s roses and kisses. Arm in arm, grins as wide as Miami Beach, they pose for the paparazzi.
“They are a dazzling couple, aren’t they?” I murmur to Shanelle.
“I’ll say. And Donyell done good. He not only showed up, he brought a couple more players with him.”
“And all those roses!” Trixie adds.
“Let’s work the room,” I suggest. I’m eager to see if I can find out anything about Peppi. I’m also eager to get back to Mario’s. My own hunk of handsome husband awaits me there.
Half an hour later, I’ve found out nothing new about Peppi. I have consoled myself with two desserts: an apricot macaroon plucked from a tower and a cupcake iced with the phrase:
Let Them Eat Cake
. I’m about to go in search of Trixie and Shanelle when I hear a woman cry “Iris! Iris Flower!” and I glance behind me to watch two stylish middle-aged women exchange air kisses.
They put their heads together and chat animatedly. That name is familiar but I can’t remember why. Then it comes to me. Iris Flower—whose stylishly bobbed hair is perfectly white—writes the gossip column for the local magazine Mariela told us about. She’s the one who crafted the articles about Peppi’s funeral lunch and Alice Dilling’s bulimia woes.
Meaning she’s plugged into Miami’s social scene. Meaning she might know about Peppi. And Jasmine. And Hector. And Consuela.
Jason and his libido can wait.
I sidle closer but it’s a few minutes before I can insert myself into the conversation. As the other woman moves off, I explain that I’m in Miami for the Teen Princess of the Everglades pageant and was judging alongside Peppi Lopez.
“That is a tragic situation.” Iris shakes her head. “I spoke to her the day before she was killed, when she called to invite me to this party. I’m surprised it’s taking the police this long to arrest a suspect.”
I’m
not surprised given that Detective Dez is the lead investigator. “So you knew Peppi?”
“I met her here and there.” Iris lowers her voice, though no one could overhear anything in this babble. “You know, until the last few years her reputation wasn’t the best. I keep wondering if something from her past caught up with her.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, wouldn’t she have met some unsavory characters?” She pauses to give me a meaningful look. “Given … you know …”
I don’t know, so I guess I produce a baffled expression.
“Her drug problem,” Iris whispers.
