Ms America and the Mayhem in Miami (Beauty Queen Mysteries No. 3) by Diana Dempsey
Authors: Diana Dempsey
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burnish the old image, what?”
“I’ll do what I can, sir.” Great. Now I’ve got time pressure from on high. “By the way, since now Trixie Barnett and Shanelle Walker will both participate in the Teen Princess of the Everglades pageant, could it be an official Ms. America appearance for them, too?” I’m smart enough to ask this favor while I’m on his good side.
“Fine,” he declares, and then he’s gone. One never has a prolonged phone conversation with Mr. Cantwell.
“Yippee!” Trixie says when I inform her of this positive financial development. Then she starts making her bed even though we will soon check out and the housekeeper will have her way with our room. “How are you going to start today’s investigating?” she wants to know. She’s sporting black lace shorts, a raspberry-colored tee, and very on trend wedge sandals with gold spike detailing. “I know it’s selfish but I’m hoping there’s something you need to look into in South Beach.”
“As a matter of fact, there is. When I was online last night—”
“Before you went to bed? I noticed that.”
“—I saw that Peppi and Jasmine Dobbs were planning to open a boutique together on Jefferson Avenue in South Beach.”
“Perfect! Investigating while shopping!” She straightens the coverlet and frowns. “But why would a weathergirl open a boutique?”
“I don’t know. I also don’t know how Peppi and Jasmine Dobbs went from throwing drinks in each other’s faces to being co-owners of a business.”
“They must have patched over their differences. What’s the boutique called?”
“Sugarbabies,” I whisper, glad to see Rachel disappear into the bathroom. “I know ,” I add in response to Trixie’s shocked expression.
She tosses the pillow she was plumping and leans close. “Aren’t Sugarbabies girls who do you-know-what in exchange for gifts and money and stuff? Usually with men who are a lot older?”
“Yes!” Between this sexily named boutique and the fracas at the Heat game, it’s clear Peppi had more going on than the innocent reporting of meteorological events. “You know what else I did last night? I signed up to follow Alfonso Ramos on Twitter.”
“He’s the guy who did the weather for Peppi on TV, right?”
We discuss his legions of Twitter followers as I forage in my suitcase for the day’s ensemble. You, dear reader, will not be surprised to learn that I refuse to appear at Mario’s homestead devoid of makeup and encased in leggings and a spandex camisole.
“This guy Alfonso tweets constantly,” I report. “I’ll know what he’s up to every second. That means I could look back at his tweets at the time of Peppi’s murder.”
Trixie’s eyes widen. “Yes! A forensic analysis.”
I regard my friend with new respect. Like many beauty queens, Trixie is more knowledgeable than she is given credit for.
After a quick shower, I squeeze myself into super skinny black jeans and a sleeveless floaty chiffon blouse in midnight blue. Of course I slip on stilettos to complete the look. Then I listen to a voicemail from Mario telling us to “Come over anytime!”
My heart thwacks my rib cage a time or two. I guess it’s really happening.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Even if Mario didn’t own this house, I would think it was the most beautiful house I’d ever seen.
Most of it is two stories and all of it is blindingly white with a red tile roof. Even though it’s in a gated community, it has high stucco walls around the perimeter for additional privacy and security. I can’t even keep track of how many wonderful features it has. Gigantic lawns and a heated pool and three fountains and a basketball court and panoramic views of Biscayne Bay from the roof deck and more French doors than you can count. And I’m just getting started.
“This Coconut Grove place is nice,” Rachel opines as Trixie parks the minivan on the expansive driveway. “I just wish that snot Mariela was home with her mom instead of
“I’ll do what I can, sir.” Great. Now I’ve got time pressure from on high. “By the way, since now Trixie Barnett and Shanelle Walker will both participate in the Teen Princess of the Everglades pageant, could it be an official Ms. America appearance for them, too?” I’m smart enough to ask this favor while I’m on his good side.
“Fine,” he declares, and then he’s gone. One never has a prolonged phone conversation with Mr. Cantwell.
“Yippee!” Trixie says when I inform her of this positive financial development. Then she starts making her bed even though we will soon check out and the housekeeper will have her way with our room. “How are you going to start today’s investigating?” she wants to know. She’s sporting black lace shorts, a raspberry-colored tee, and very on trend wedge sandals with gold spike detailing. “I know it’s selfish but I’m hoping there’s something you need to look into in South Beach.”
“As a matter of fact, there is. When I was online last night—”
“Before you went to bed? I noticed that.”
“—I saw that Peppi and Jasmine Dobbs were planning to open a boutique together on Jefferson Avenue in South Beach.”
“Perfect! Investigating while shopping!” She straightens the coverlet and frowns. “But why would a weathergirl open a boutique?”
“I don’t know. I also don’t know how Peppi and Jasmine Dobbs went from throwing drinks in each other’s faces to being co-owners of a business.”
“They must have patched over their differences. What’s the boutique called?”
“Sugarbabies,” I whisper, glad to see Rachel disappear into the bathroom. “I know ,” I add in response to Trixie’s shocked expression.
She tosses the pillow she was plumping and leans close. “Aren’t Sugarbabies girls who do you-know-what in exchange for gifts and money and stuff? Usually with men who are a lot older?”
“Yes!” Between this sexily named boutique and the fracas at the Heat game, it’s clear Peppi had more going on than the innocent reporting of meteorological events. “You know what else I did last night? I signed up to follow Alfonso Ramos on Twitter.”
“He’s the guy who did the weather for Peppi on TV, right?”
We discuss his legions of Twitter followers as I forage in my suitcase for the day’s ensemble. You, dear reader, will not be surprised to learn that I refuse to appear at Mario’s homestead devoid of makeup and encased in leggings and a spandex camisole.
“This guy Alfonso tweets constantly,” I report. “I’ll know what he’s up to every second. That means I could look back at his tweets at the time of Peppi’s murder.”
Trixie’s eyes widen. “Yes! A forensic analysis.”
I regard my friend with new respect. Like many beauty queens, Trixie is more knowledgeable than she is given credit for.
After a quick shower, I squeeze myself into super skinny black jeans and a sleeveless floaty chiffon blouse in midnight blue. Of course I slip on stilettos to complete the look. Then I listen to a voicemail from Mario telling us to “Come over anytime!”
My heart thwacks my rib cage a time or two. I guess it’s really happening.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Even if Mario didn’t own this house, I would think it was the most beautiful house I’d ever seen.
Most of it is two stories and all of it is blindingly white with a red tile roof. Even though it’s in a gated community, it has high stucco walls around the perimeter for additional privacy and security. I can’t even keep track of how many wonderful features it has. Gigantic lawns and a heated pool and three fountains and a basketball court and panoramic views of Biscayne Bay from the roof deck and more French doors than you can count. And I’m just getting started.
“This Coconut Grove place is nice,” Rachel opines as Trixie parks the minivan on the expansive driveway. “I just wish that snot Mariela was home with her mom instead of
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