CHAPTER NINE
“Can we have lunch after this?” Trixie asks me. “Because I’m starving.”
“Right after this, I promise.” I’m ravenous, too, especially now that we’re passing oodles of restaurants with fabulous aromas wafting from the plates of the al fresco diners. I break into a semi-run. I won’t give up my stilettos but they do make it challenging to keep up with a man in low-heeled footgear.
Fortunately Campshirt Man soon hangs a left into a tiny storefront. It turns out to be a commercial leasing agency. He sits down at a computer and starts pounding keys. It doesn’t look to me like his chat with Jasmine improved his mood.
I pull back to strategize. “So Jasmine’s fighting with her landlord.”
“That could mean only one thing,” Shanelle says. “Girl’s behind on her rent.”
“We never got behind at my shop,” Trixie says. “That’s bad management.”
“How does somebody with as much money as a basketball wife get behind?” Then I answer my own question. “Actually there are all kinds of ways. She could have the money but be slow to pay for whatever reason. Like a cash flow problem.”
“Or she could have a doesn’t-have-the-money problem,” Trixie says. “Because isn’t it her husband Donyell who really has the money?”
“And from what she says he’s not totally on board with this boutique thing. So maybe he’s not coughing up the necessary dough.”
“Then there’s the Peppi factor,” Shanelle says. “They were partners, right?”
“I would think Peppi had money because her father is Don Gustavo.” After all, he was mega successful in the music business. “One thing is for sure. The landlord’s obviously fed up so this must’ve been going on for a while.” I take a deep breath. “All right. I’m going in.”
Campshirt Man glances up from his computer as I enter the leasing agency. “You make the same mistake I did and do business with Jasmine Dobbs?” he asks.
“You, too?” I reply.
“She giving you the same runaround she’s giving me about her partner not keeping up her end of the bargain?”
“How many times have I heard that story?”
“She may be willing to wait for her partner’s gravy train to roll in but how can she expect me to do that, too?”
“Doesn’t she know that’s no way to run a business?”
“You know what would happen to me if I tried to run this place like that?”
“You’d get fired?” I guess.
“You bet I’d get fired!” He takes a deep breath and so do I. I walk out thinking that conversation should qualify as my workout of the day.
“That was fast,” Shanelle says.
“But information rich.” I cock my chin up the street. “Let’s get lunch and I’ll bring you up to speed.”
We settle at an outdoor table at a Brazilian restaurant and order everything grilled—chicken, steak, and sea bass—with plantains and charbroiled veggies on the side. I relate what Campshirt Man told me.
“That story might not have a speck of truth to it,” Shanelle says. “Personally I would not put it past Ms. Dobbs to use Peppi as a scapegoat for her own financial woes.”
“Especially now that Peppi’s not here to defend herself,” Trixie points out.
“A business arrangement gone bad could be a motive for murder.” I sip my soda water with lime, a good antidote to the bubbly still streaming through my system. “Though if Peppi’s dead she’ll never put up her share of the money.”
“Maybe Jasmine didn’t think it through,” Trixie says. “Didn’t you say yesterday you think Peppi’s murder was a crime of passion?”
Our lunch arrives and we dig in. Somehow everything being grilled makes me feel like it’s lower calorie. “I wonder what the landlord meant by the so-called gravy train that’s supposed to roll in for Peppi,” I say during a rare lull when my mouth isn’t full.
“Maybe it’s her inheritance from Don Gustavo,” Trixie breathes. “Last I heard, he was at death’s door.”
“If I can get Paloma alone tomorrow at the funeral lunch, maybe I can probe the inheritance issue.”
“Why not?” Shanelle says after I explain to her who Paloma is. “It’s not like that’s a sensitive topic or anything.”
“I will have you know, Ms. Walker, that in the course of my investigating I routinely get people to share highly confidential information with me.”
“You’re good at that, too, Shanelle,” Trixie says. “You knew just what to say to Jasmine to get us inside her boutique.”
“That was easy as pie.” Shanelle sips her iced tea. “Just ask yourself why a woman like Jasmine Dobbs would open a boutique. She doesn’t need to work. So she’s doing it for identity. Self-respect.”
“Something to call her own, she said.” I ponder that. “I can really see there’d be two sides to marrying somebody famous and successful, like an NBA player.”
Like Mario Suave
, a little voice says in the back of my head. “On one hand, a man who could have anybody picks you, so you’d feel pretty special. But on the other hand, you spend all your time in his shadow.” In my marriage, that’s what Jason has to put up with, I realize, as I have long enjoyed some celebrity from my successful pageant career. I’m a little shocked that I haven’t fully grasped that before.
“Every woman needs something of her own,” Shanelle opines. “You cannot base all your identity on your man or your children. That is a recipe for heartache.”
“I agree,” Trixie says, then her face falls. “I used to get that from competing in pageants and working at the bridal shop. Now there are no more pageants to compete in and I lost my job.”
I rub her arm. “That means you’re ready to start a new chapter in your life, Trixie. This time in Miami is perfect for thinking about what you want that to be.”
“We’ll help you, girl,” Shanelle says. “You got a lot going for you so there are a gazillion possibilities in your case.”
“I hope so.” She looks teary for a moment then brightens. “At least I’m really happy at home. To me Jasmine seemed not totally sure about her husband.”
“That’s another reason she’d have that boutique,” Shanelle says. “As a backup plan for the high likelihood that her marriage does a belly flop.”
“Those basketball wives have to worry about that big-time,” I say.
“Which is a prime reason they hate the dancers,” Shanelle says. “I sure as heck wouldn’t want gorgeous women in skimpy clothes gyrating themselves in front of my husband every day of the week.”
“I wouldn’t, either,” Trixie says. “I’m glad Rhett doesn’t have that at his job.”
I pipe up. “Do you know what I think I saw in Jasmine’s office? That she made a point of hiding in her desk? A black and red jock strap.”
Shanelle chortles. “Those are the Miami Heat colors! I bet that belongs to Donyell.”
Trixie giggles. “Maybe they got up to a little something something in the back office the last time Donyell visited the boutique.”
“That’s one surefire way to get him to support the business,” Shanelle says. “A few more memorable interludes along those lines and he’ll be pouring money into that enterprise.”
We all have a good laugh as we wipe our lunch plates clean. “Let’s have dessert now and not have it for dinner,” I suggest.
“Like hell we’re not having dessert for dinner,” Shanelle says.
“How about sharing the coconut flan?” Trixie says, and we place the order. “Speaking of sensitive topics,” she goes on, “do you mind my asking why your parents got divorced, Happy?”
I settle back in my chair. This still pains me, even though my parents’ divorce was finalized months ago and even though I’m a grown woman with my own life. “I guess I think of it as a retirement divorce.”
“What does that mean?” Trixie wants to know.
“Well, my parents had their ups and downs while Pop was working but nothing got out of hand. But once he was home all the time, oh boy.”
Shanelle nods. “I’ve heard that can be a real rough transition. Couples can get on each other’s last nerve.”
“My mom was always kind of a nag and when Pop couldn’t get away from it during the day, I think it got to be too much for him.”
“I bet she was extra stressed by him being underfoot 24/7 and so she nagged even more,” Shanelle says.
“And talk about someone who got all her identity from her husband and her child! That’s my mom to a tee.”
“That’s a generational thing,” Shanelle says. “I don’t think young women make that mistake anymore.”
“She must’ve been really at loose ends when she and your father weren’t together anymore,” Trixie says.
“I’ll say. And now that I’ve gotten over the shock of her having a job, I do think it’s good for her to have a new outlet.”
We have a chuckle over whether Bennie Hana and his used-car business can survive the day in, day out presence of one Hazel Przybyszewski.
“When did your dad start riding motorcycles?” Trixie asks.
“That’s another thing! Once he retired.”
Shanelle giggles. “I cannot see your mama on the back of a hog.”
“She never once got on it. That girlfriend of his is a different story, though. I don’t know how much time she spends
not
on the back of a hog.” Rachel found out that all Maggie’s boyfriends had Harleys. I don’t like the sound of that. It makes me worry that Pop is just one in a long line of Harley owners and Maggie doesn’t understand how special he is. “Pop was far from blame-free in their marriage falling apart, believe you me. He wasn’t good at doing anything my mom wanted to do. He can dig his feet in and get real stubborn.”
“Maybe if they’d both compromised a little bit, it would’ve all worked out,” Trixie says.
“I think you’re right.” Now I’m the one who’s weepy. Trixie must sense it because she rubs my arm. “And I know they still love each other,” I add. “Somehow that makes it even worse.”
Our flan arrives. I’m glad for the interruption. This conversation has made marriage seem very fragile, as if there are a million things that can go wrong if you don’t pay enough attention. I’m paying attention and things are still kind of going wrong. I note that it’s been hours and Jason still hasn’t returned my call. It’s possible he’s really busy but it’s also possible he’s so mad he’s putting off talking to me until he calms down.
“So where does your investigation stand?” Shanelle wants to know once we’ve dispatched dessert.
“This afternoon I’m going to call Detective Dez and see if he’ll tell me anything. Then I’ll analyze Alfonso Ramos’s tweets”—Trixie interrupts to explain to Shanelle who he is—“then see what more I can find out about Peppi online. And of course I’m hoping I’ll get a lot out of Peppi’s mother at the funeral lunch tomorrow.”
“It’s darn near impossible to imagine the murder had anything to do with the pageant,” Shanelle says, “since it’d only been going on for a day when Peppi got offed.”
“I agree with you except for the Consuela possibility,” I say.
Both Trixie and Shanelle laugh. “You just don’t like her because of Mario!” Trixie cries, then her expression changes. “Of course I don’t like her, either, and that has nothing to do with Mario.”
“I realize Consuela is a long shot but I still want to check out her alibi.” We pay our check and rise to our stilettos. “I’ll tell you this,” I say as we stroll once again on Jefferson Avenue. “I have a different picture of Peppi than I did yesterday. Now it seems pretty clear that in the last few years she morphed from kind of a wild child into a responsible young woman.”
“Jasmine did say something about her straightening out,” Trixie says.
“But Jasmine also said a few things went down with Peppi she couldn’t overlook,” Shanelle adds. “So maybe it’s true Peppi didn’t put her money into the boutique like she said she would.”
“That’s not the sort of person I’d want to be in business with,” Trixie says.
I shake my head. Me, neither.
