CHAPTER ELEVEN
I have no idea what’s on the docket for the night until I run into Mario in the kitchen. He is newly showered and wearing sleek dark pants, a snazzy purple striped shirt, and his musky cologne.
He looks up from a cutting board loaded with limes and gives a low whistle. “With you ladies on my arms, we’ll get into any club we want tonight.”
“Mario said we should go dancing!” Trixie chirps. She’s in a little black dress as well, hers a sleeveless mesh blouson with a spangly waistband. “After we try his favorite cocktail and the paella his housekeeper made. And maybe go to a movie with Rachel and your dad beforehand because the clubs don’t get going here till real late.”
“If all of that sounds good to you, Happy,” Mario says.
“We guessed it would,” Shanelle puts in. She both looks and sounds sassy in an asymmetrical metallic bandage dress.
“It sounds wonderful.” Going out clubbing with my beauty queen BFFs and Mario? Wow. Too often my Saturday night ends after the late news with Jason and me tumbling exhausted into bed, but these activities should keep me going into the wee hours. “Rachel called to say her interview went great and she and Pop should be back soon.” I’ll keep the other call to myself.
“Until then,” Mario says, “let us toast”—and he hands around drinks that look like mojitos but prove to be a new taste sensation. “May I introduce you to the Caipirinha, the most popular cocktail in Brazil. Made with limes, sugar, and Cachaça, or Brazilian rum.”
“Say that again!” Trixie cries.
“The cocktail is a kai-pee-REEN-ya,” Mario repeats. “And the rum is called ka-SHAH-suh.”
We all have fun trying to pronounce that even before we get much of the drink down our throats.
“How about we enjoy these on the roof deck,” Mario suggests, “and I’ll regale you ladies with a ghost story or two.” He lowers his voice to a scary growl.
“Did you see any ghosts today on your shoot?” Trixie wants to know.
“I’ve had a vision or two today.” Mario turns his eyes to me. It’s funny how whenever he does that I sort of forget other people are around.
Shanelle clears her throat. “I’ll carry the pitcher.”
Mario leads us up to the roof deck, where we settle on the chic light gray settees. The sun is already down but candles are lit inside glass lanterns. The towering palm trees in the garden sway in the warm breeze and the tang of the sea fills my nostrils. In the distance a ship outlined with white lights cuts noiselessly across Biscayne Bay.
Mario clasps his hands between his knees. Candlelight flickers in his dark eyes. “The Biltmore Hotel,” he begins, in that mesmerizing voice of his. “Thought to be one of the most haunted locations in South Florida. Built in the 1920s, Spanish Colonial Revival style, with an elegant domed tower as its centerpiece. At the time it was the tallest building in the state and its pool is still the biggest in the continental U.S. Johnny Weissmuller, the actor who played Tarzan, used to teach swimming there. Anyway, from the beginning the rich and famous flocked to the hotel. Babe Ruth, Al Capone, and later Judy Garland and even President Franklin Roosevelt.
“Now it’s a national historic landmark, which is a very rare designation. But many people think the Biltmore is a paranormal landmark, too, because there’s so much evidence it’s haunted.” Mario lowers his voice. The wind tickles my arms like a mischievous phantom. “Noise from parties that aren’t happening. People being tapped on the shoulder only to spin around and find no one there. Figures strolling the property with their feet mysteriously elevated off the ground.”
“People died there?” Shanelle guesses.
“Many over the years,” Mario reports. “Some came to the spot already deceased, like the cadavers the students practiced on when it was the site of a medical school. But others lost their lives on the grounds. Like the young woman in white who leaped from the tower, still seen up there on occasion waving her arm. The soldiers who perished when the hotel was an army hospital during World War Two. And most famously the gangster Fatty Walsh, murdered on the premises in 1929.”
“What happened to him?” Trixie breathes.
“Fatty was a big-time gangster. Every bootlegger and crime boss knew him, and most of the politicians and businessmen, too. He had a casino and speakeasy on the 13
th
floor and that’s where he was gunned down with a hundred people watching. Nobody ever named the killer, probably because so many important people were in that room who shouldn’t have been that a thorough investigation was never done. Some think the shooter was Al Capone himself.”
Mario runs his eyes over us. “If you went to the Biltmore, ladies, you needn’t be afraid. I was on edge today but you wouldn’t have to be. Fatty loved women, especially beautiful women.”
Again Mario’s soulful eyes turn to me. I can’t escape his gaze, not that I want to.
“Some years ago a couple made the fateful decision to explore the hotel. It was late afternoon when they boarded the only original elevator that still works. As it’s wont to do, it took them straight to the 13
th
floor. They didn’t push that button. In fact, normally you need a special card key to get there. But it took them to 13 all the same.
“Once the elevator arrived, its doors opened onto a shadowy suite. Then it refused to budge. So the couple thought, well, we’re here, let’s look around. The woman stepped out first and wouldn’t you know it? The elevator doors slammed shut behind her and the elevator promptly ferried the man back down to the lobby.”
“What happened to that poor woman?” Trixie cries.
“She survived to tell her story,” Mario assures us. “The man got a bellhop to return him to the 13
th
floor, where the woman was frightened but fine.”
“What did she see?” I ask, though I’m not sure I want to know.
“It’s not what she saw, Happy. It’s what she felt and smelled and heard. Muffled talking and the sound of dice rolling across felt. Extreme cold. Always the feeling that someone was inches behind her, shadowing her every move. And the overpowering aroma of cigars, probably from the stogies Fatty loved.”
“What do they use that floor for now?” Shanelle wants to know.
“Believe it or not guests stay there, mostly VIPs, because it’s a very expensive suite. But however much they pay for the accommodation, they have to put up with things happening for no reason, like lights turning on and off and doors opening and closing. Well, maybe there is a reason. To entertain Fatty Walsh.”
I’m hoping I forget that story by lights out tonight when I hear a clatter behind me of a distinctly human kind. Mariela breezes onto the roof deck toting an impressive array of shopping bags. “Are you telling ghost stories again, Dad?”
“Guilty as charged.” Mario’s eyes light up at the sight of his daughter, who beams as she bends over to give him a kiss. I’m guessing Sweet Mariela has joined us, leaving Sullen Mariela for when her father isn’t around. “Looks like you gave your credit card a workout,” he observes.
“You don’t mind, do you? I needed a few things for L.A.” Mariela homes in on Shanelle. “You must be the new judge! Welcome to Miami. I’m Mariela Machado Suave,” and she reaches out to shake Shanelle’s hand.
“So you’re going to visit your dad in L.A.?” Shanelle inquires, but she’s interrupted by the arrival of—who else—Consuela.
I watch Consuela take in the scene: Mario and us beauty queens dolled up for Saturday night, finishing a round of cocktails in the candlelight. I almost keel over when a smile appears on her face. It’s the first I’ve seen yet. It’s transforming: if Consuela understood how gorgeous her smile makes her, she’d sport one more often.
“Hello! I hope everybody had a fabulous day!” she trills, and in that instant I realize Mariela isn’t the only one in the family with an alter ego. Her mom has one, too.
“Have a drink, Consuela,” Mario invites, and after she returns with a glass he pours her what’s left in the pitcher.
She sheds her slinky white jacket to reveal a barely-there halter top then insinuates herself next to Mario even though that requires Trixie to move to a different seat. “I’ll pay for all the charges we made today, Mario.” She lays a hand on his leg. “We went a little crazy! But doesn’t that happen with your daughter?” she asks me. “When she looks so pretty in everything you just can’t resist?”
“It sure does,” I manage, trying to adjust to the new normal of Consuela and me being just two moms chatting about their teenagers.
“When’s your L.A. trip?” Shanelle asks Mariela.
Consuela jumps in to answer. “Over Thanksgiving break. Mariela has an audition! For a TV show. A new teen drama. She’d be so perfect! Aren’t you thrilled for our daughter, Mario?” Again her hand lays claim to Mario’s leg.
“Did you set that up?” Trixie asks Mario.
“I had a little something to do with it.” He winks at his daughter. “But Mariela knows she has to come through on her own.”
“Dad keeps telling me I have to rehearse my lines,” Mariela says. “And practice for the pageant, too. My walk and everything.”
“You ladies should give her some tips.” Mario looks at me.
I get the weirdest feeling as Mariela’s words from earlier come back to me.
Your mom will do whatever my dad wants. And so will her friend.
“I’d love to but that wouldn’t really be fair to the other contestants. Unless we give the same pointers to the rest of the girls next week at rehearsals.”
Consuela fixes her gaze on me. She keeps smiling but her eyes have gone cold.
Something else occurs to me. “Is the audition part of the reason you’re so eager to compete in the pageant, Mariela?”
She shrugs her lovely shoulders. “Well, since I never competed in a pageant before, I thought it’d be good to have that on my resume. And who knows?” She giggles. “Maybe I’ll win or something.”
“Of course you’ll win!” Consuela cries. “You’re the prettiest girl there. Isn’t that right, Mario?”
“Well, you and I are a little biased,” he demurs.
“There’s no two ways about it!” Consuela insists. “And if Mariela doesn’t win, well”—she looks at me—“there would be just no way to explain it!”
I expect Mario to protest that assertion but I don’t hear a peep out of him. Instead it’s Trixie who pipes up.
“It’s very important never to underestimate your competition.” Her face is serious. “That’s one of the first lessons we learn in pageant competition.”
Shanelle pitches in. “It’s like the Olympics. It’s not always the best who wins but the one who peaks when it counts.”
“I guess,” Mariela says but her expression says she’s far from convinced.
“See!” I cry, trying to lighten the mood. “We’ve given you a pointer already.”
“And that’s for you and you alone, girl,” Shanelle adds.
“Tell me about the outfits for the opening number,” Trixie says to Mariela.
“There are none,” she responds.
“What?” Trixie shrieks. “The girls are supposed to wear
whatever
?”
Mariela shrugs. Consuela bats Mario on the leg. “See? I told you how badly run this pageant is.” She throws me a glance as if to say
I bet you’re to blame for that.
“The outfits should be coordinated and feature a current trend!” Trixie yelps. “Like color blocking!”
“Or bright neons,” Shanelle puts in.
“Something! Anything!” Trixie’s hands fly skyward. “I’ll have to come up with a theme. And get the girls’ sizes and spend the week sewing outfits for them.”
“Do we have the budget for that?” Shanelle asks Mario.
“I’ll chat about it with Colleen,” he offers.
“Sewing all those outfits would be a huge amount of work,” I warn, earning yet another scowl from Consuela that Mario is unable to see.
“I could help! And get my friends to help! It’d be so fun!” Mariela cries, treating us to yet another personality type: Enthusiastic Mariela.
“Our daughter is always the first to pitch in.” Consuela pokes Mario playfully in the leg. “She gets that from you.”
She sure as heck doesn’t get it from
you
, is what I’m thinking.
“Maybe it’s good we have until Thursday to start rehearsals for the pageant,” Trixie says. “It’s just so hard to wait that long.”
“It’s too bad you missed the rehearsals last week, Consuela,” I say. “A lot of the other moms had the chance to see them.”
