CHAPTER FOUR
Rachel pipes up. “You liked this woman Peppi, right, mom?”
“I did. We chatted before rehearsal. We talked about her work and my pageant stuff and all sorts of things. She was peppy,” I add, and we all laugh.
“She seemed kind of like your mom and me,” Trixie says. “Kind of like a beauty queen. A nice one, because unfortunately they’re not all nice, you know.”
I voice something else I’ve been thinking. “For me this is a little different from the people who died in Hawaii and Vegas. I know it shouldn’t matter because murder is never right, but I wasn’t crazy about them. Personally, I mean. Peppi I feel differently about. So what happened to her seems especially sad to me.”
Trixie sighs. “It’s made me forget
my
troubles.”
An expression of understanding crosses Rachel’s face. “I really see how if you knew the person who died, you’d want to do your best to find out who murdered them.” She gives me a funny look then turns to Trixie. “Ms. Barnett? Do you think my mom really is good at that?”
“I sure do.”
I am gratified to hear Trixie unhesitatingly deliver this response.
“I’ve seen her do it twice now,” Trixie goes on. “She thinks of things nobody else does. You should be really proud of her.”
My daughter turns her lovely eyes to me. “Then I think you should do it, Mom. Since you’re so good at it. Figure out who killed Peppi. Whether Dad likes it or not.”
Of course I promptly burst into tears, which causes a restaurant-wide ruckus even though my hysteria had nothing to do with the food. Eventually, after tissues are pushed in my direction and I mop my face, our server brings us three desserts on the house. I approve, because while sugar may not heal all wounds it certainly makes them feel better.
“Thank you so much for what you said, Trixie”—I grab her hand—“and you, too, Rach. You are the only one in the family who understands why it’s so important to me to try to solve these murders.” I nearly launch into round two of frenzied sobs remembering her words.
Then I think you should do it, Mom. Since you’re so good at it …
“I know Dad thinks it’s dangerous and Grandma thinks it makes you a pervert. Before I came here, I thought it was just kind of embarrassing. Since you’re not a cop or anything you could really make a fool of yourself.”
It’s not news to me that I’ve humiliated my daughter a time or two. It’s one of the main sins we moms commit.
“But Grandpa was a cop,” Rachel goes on, preparing to cram cinnamon-dusted churro in her mouth. “Why doesn’t he like it?”
I glance at Trixie, who’s making solid inroads on the rum-soaked sponge cake. “That’s complicated. It’s partly because he never got to do it himself. And partly because he can be a little old-fashioned and think women should only do girly things.”
“You’ll understand when you’re older,” Trixie says. “Sometimes parents get an idea in their head what would be best for their kids to do and it’s really hard not to push them in that direction.”
“Like Grandma pushed you into pageants,” Rachel says.
My fork digs into the Mexican coconut flan. “Exactly. Though it’s working out pretty well, I have to say.”
“And like you pushing me into college,” Rachel goes on. “I get it. You’re only doing what you think is right.”
Trixie winks at me. I could kiss her. Somehow her sweet, accepting presence is making it downright easy to get along with my teenager.
In the minivan on the way back to the hotel, I use my cell phone to google Peppi’s name. “She gets lots of hits,” I observe.
“She is a local celebrity,” Trixie says. “Was.”
“I want to watch her news show at 10 o’clock and see what they say about her,” Rachel says from the back seat. “I bet I know enough Spanish to understand. And it’ll help me practice for my interview tomorrow.” All discussion of bolting has ceased.
“Good idea,” I say, but I am once again distracted, this time by Peppi’s appearance on a YouTube video from a few years before. I watch it once and then all I want to do is watch it again. With the volume all the way up this time.
“What is all the screaming on that video?” Trixie wants to know.
“It’s a catfight at a basketball game between Peppi and an African-American woman named Jasmine Dobbs. Somebody taped it on a cell phone. Oh my God! Did you hear that?”
“You skank! All you ever do is thrust your vajayjay around! You think I don’t know what you’re after?”
That from Jasmine Dobbs, a tall, striking woman with long straightened hair wearing a low-cut U-neck tank and the largest hoop earrings I’ve ever seen in my life.
But Peppi gave as good as she got.
“You are so lucky my ass is sober! Otherwise I would deck you so hard those implants would come flying out of your boobs!”
“Then they throw their drinks at each other!” Rachel cries. “The people around them try to pull them apart but they can’t because they’re kicking and screaming so much! Wow! I didn’t know this stuff happened in real life!”
My daughter may be off school but she’s getting some real-world education here in Miami. “This is not how I think of Peppi,” I remark. “She looked different then, and sounded different. Sort of”—I struggle with how to phrase it—“less classy.”
“What was her problem with this Jasmine Dobbs?” Trixie asks.
“I wonder.” I google that name. “She gets a fair number of hits, too. She’s married to one of the Heat players. Donyell Dobbs.”
“I’ve heard of him,” Trixie says. “So she’s a basketball wife. Was she sitting in the front row?”
“Almost. Peppi was, too.”
“Maybe Peppi got a good seat because of her job in the news,” Rachel suggests.
“Maybe.” But the proximity of Peppi and Jasmine’s seats does not explain their enmity. From that snippet of argument I’d say those two really had it in for each other.
Interesting.
I eye the passing scenery. We have the minivan windows open since it’s such a pleasant night. The air, with its teasing hint of the sea, is caressing my skin. It’s Friday and fairly early so lots of people are out. They’re dressed for warm weather and why wouldn’t they be? It’s November in Miami.
A selfish part of me wants to go to South Beach in the morning, see for myself what the hoopla is about. Pageant preliminaries won’t keep me busy, that’s for sure, and I’ll be flying back to Ohio the very next day. But the second I think about Peppi and how unbelievably bereft her family must feel, I know partying is out for this beauty queen. I have more important business to attend to, even if my husband’s not on board with it.
We arrive at our hotel. “I’m going to park next to this flash silver convertible,” Trixie says. “Drivers of expensive cars don’t ding your doors.”
“It’s a Z8!” Rachel shrieks, sliding the door shut on the minivan. “Boy, would Dad love to see this!”
No, I don’t think he would, I realize as I stop dead halfway across the parking lot. The Z8 is Jason’s Fantasy Car. He wants it, oh, so bad. Maybe three thousand of them were exported to the United States from Germany and it’s safe to say they are really, really expensive. Jason would not be thrilled to learn who owns this vehicle. At this very moment that individual is standing at the hotel portico staring at me staring at him.
I guess now I know how I’ll feel when I see Mario Suave again. Giddy. Girly. Breathless. Rather a worrisome trifecta given how I’m married to somebody else.
Mario waits for us to reach him. He looks his usual tall, dark, handsome, dimpled self, well dressed in black jeans, a pale pink dress shirt, and a perfectly cut herringbone jacket. He hugs Trixie then smiles at my daughter. “You must be Rachel. It’s a real pleasure to meet you.” He shakes her hand and then there he is, right in front of me.
“Happy.” He takes me in a hug. I get a whiff of that magical cologne he wears, which I’m sort of hoping will cling to me all night. He holds me for a second, long enough to whisper, “She’s as lovely as her mother,” into my hair. Then he lets me go. My arms feel really empty after he does that.
“I wish we were meeting under happier circumstances,” he says.
I nod. “We’re all really upset about Peppi.”
“I want to talk with you about that,” he says, and sends me a meaningful look.
Mario has a secret life, you see, which I know about but almost no one else does. It’s one of the reasons I feel close to him. Closer than I should.
“I’m waiting for Mariela to clear out of her room,” he explains as we enter the lobby. Dashing Mario looks incongruous under the fluorescent lights standing between the fake palm tree and the credenza with tourist brochures hawking local attractions like the Arcade Odyssey and the Parrot Jungle. The chubby girl behind the reception desk can’t take her eyes off him. She’s letting the phone ring off the hook. To heck with the customers, is clearly what she’s thinking.
“Has the pageant been cancelled?” I ask.
“It’s been postponed. Till next weekend. Colleen called me and I told her I’d let you know.” He leads us toward the breakfast room, away from the prying ears of the receptionist. “The contestants are all local, as you know, and most of them can compete next weekend. And want to.”
I can name one in particular who wants to.
He goes on. “Obviously we’ve lost a judge. And the choreographer, too. Lasalo Dufu is still available. I’m wondering if you are, Happy. Before you answer, I’ve already cleared it with Cantwell.”
So my expenses would continue to be covered by Atlanta. And I’d have more than two days to delve into Peppi’s homicide.
And more than two days in Mario’s orbit. I feel my heart lift.
That’s before I consider how Jason will react. That brings me back down to earth.
I force myself to think practically. “Well, I’d have to talk to my boss and make sure my mom could stay with Rachel because she has to fly back Sunday for school.” Both of those are formalities, really. I’m a personal assistant to an executive at an oil company and he gives me lots of latitude when it comes to pageant matters. And my mom grabs every opportunity to see Rachel.
“Maybe I could stay, too,” Rachel puts in. “Remember how school let me do that literacy project last year and make everything up when I got back?” She turns to Mario. “I’m a really good student so they let me do stuff like that.”
He grins. “Maybe some of that will rub off on my daughter!”
Rachel’s face drops. I hope Mario doesn’t notice. At least she has the good sense not to let fly a snide comment about Mariela.
“I don’t want to be too bold but I have a suggestion,” Trixie says. “How about if we ask Shanelle to be the third judge?”
“Oh my God, I love it!” I cry then contain myself. “But do you already have somebody else in mind, Mario?”
“No. She’d be terrific. We’ll have to clear it with Colleen first.”
“I have a second suggestion,” Trixie goes on. “I could take over for the choreographer. I’m sort of off work right now and I’ve got a gazillion ideas for how to improve that opening number.”
Now my heart positively launches. Nothing can undo today’s calamitous events but being in Miami for a week with my beauty queen BFFs—and maybe even my daughter—sounds like a little piece of heaven here on earth. And just maybe I can nab whoever murdered Peppi.
I feel Mario’s eyes on my face. “I really hope it works out,” he says and I have the funniest feeling that now he’s speaking to me and me alone. “And if so I’m hoping you’ll take me up on something else. I’d love for all of you to stay at my house.”
