Ms America and the Offing on Oahu (Beauty Queen Mysteries No. 1) Read online

  “Why didn’t Rhett come to Oahu?” Shanelle asks.

  “A so-called emergency with his mother. Don’t ask. Hey, look.” Trixie points toward the ocean. “A wedding.”

  The aftermath, more like. A photographer is shooting pictures of the bride and groom, who are standing on the sand beaming into the lens. Various family members are off to the side watching, as are an astonishing number of bridesmaids in peach-colored satin and groomsmen with peach and white striped bow ties.

  “I think the bride’s wearing Vera Wang,” Trixie says.

  The gown is gorgeous. A strapless mermaid shape with an eyelet skirt.

  “How do you know that’s Vera Wang?” Shanelle asks.

  “That’s what I do,” Trixie says. “I work in a bridal shop.”

  Off we go again, on another estrogen topic. It’s when we’re discussing how bridesmaid’s dresses have changed over the years that I happen to see a few tables away another pageant person, dining alone.

  I lean in and whisper. “Rex Rexford’s over there. And he’s crying. No—” I grab Shanelle’s arm so she doesn’t turn all the way around to look. “Don’t be so obvious. I don’t want him to see us watching.”

  Shanelle drops her napkin, then sneaks a peak as she bends down to retrieve it. She pops back up. “He loves to wear pink shirts, doesn’t he? I think it’s the wedding that’s got him going.”

  “I think so, too,” Trixie says. “I wonder if he’s remembering Sonny.” Sonny Roberts. Soft rock icon of the fifties and sixties. He whose pompadour rose even closer to heaven than Rex’s. “They were together a long time,” Trixie adds. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Rex is still in mourning.”

  Sonny Roberts went to his reward several years ago. I remember seeing pictures of his funeral in People, the white casket topped with an enormous bouquet of calla lilies, Rex walking alongside with bowed head. And white hanky deployed in pretty much the same position I see right now.

  “It’s Sonny that got Rex into pageantry, isn’t it?” Shanelle asks.

  “I think so,” I say. “Because Sonny was a judge so often, when he wasn’t doing Vegas. Though I think Sonny wasn’t getting gigs there so much anymore by the time Rex came along.”

  “That’s because he was old as the hills by then,” Shanelle says. “But not too old to be Rex’s sugar daddy.”

  “Sonny must’ve left him a bundle,” Trixie puts in. “Because he didn’t have any kids or anything.”

  “I think Sonny remade Rex,” I say. “Remember how Rex sort of got transformed over the years? He started out pretty geeky.”

  “He even had a different name,” Trixie says. “What was it? Something not so slick as Rex Rexford.”

  It comes to me. “Ronald Bowser.”

  “Though I’m not sure the name Rex Rexford is all that slick,” Shanelle sniffs. “Sounds like a soap opera name to me.”

  I’m a little sensitive on that topic. My mother was very close to choosing Carrington as my stage name, after Alexis Carrington, Joan Collins’ character on Dynasty. To her that family represented the height of class. So there you have it.

  “I think it’s a very sophisticated name,” Trixie says. “I think there’s a Rexford Drive in Beverly Hills.”

  The server clears away our entrees. We look at one another.

  “We can’t do dessert again,” I say.

  “What if we split it three ways?” Trixie asks.

  “I’m in,” Shanelle says, and in short order the dessert menus arrive. We pop for a chocolate and pecan parfait with a mango coulis and coconut ice cream. Shanelle leans her elbows on the table and lowers her voice. “We should consider the possibility that Rex isn’t crying over Sonny but over somebody else.”

  “Tiffany?” Trixie breathes.

  “The very same,” Shanelle replies. “And I’ll tell you why. I have it on good authority that if Tiffany had won, she would have had to give Rex twenty-five grand. That’s his consultant fee. Ten percent. So maybe that’s why he’s crying.”

  The dessert arrives. We all dig in. I glance at Rex, who appears calmer. His nose and eyes are still red but his hanky is no longer in evidence. “Who’s your source on that ten percent thing, Shanelle?” I whisper.

  “That ninny Sherry Phillips.” Ms. Wyoming. The first to be named to the top five. “Rex was her consultant, too, when she was competing on the state level.”

  Where she won, obviously, or she wouldn’t be here. Rex’s girls do well, there’s no doubt about it. “You know,” I say, “Rex is a man and he was cleared for backstage.”

  “That’s because he’s sort of a man and sort of like one of us girls,” Trixie says.

  “But he had no motive for murdering Tiffany,” I go on, “if he stood to collect that much money if she won. This pageant has bigger cash prizes than any other.”

  “The mongo cash is why I entered,” Shanelle puts in. “That and I’m too old to enter anything else.”

  “In another 25 years or so we’ll be able to compete in the pageants for seniors,” Trixie says.

  “Aren’t those a little honky tonk?” I ask, then watch Trixie’s face crumple. “Maybe not,” I say.

  “I can think of two other men who had clearance to go backstage,” Shanelle says. She takes an itsy-bitsy bite of the ice cream. “Mario Suave and Sebastian Cantwell.”

  “Mario wasn’t backstage once during the finale,” I say. I like Mario, but my investigatory self replayed his actions in my mind. “As for Cantwell—”

  “I never saw him back there,” Trixie says.

  “Neither did I,” Shanelle adds.

  “We could easily have missed him, though, in all the excitement.” I glance again at Rex and remove the napkin from my lap. “I’m going over there to talk to him.”

  Trixie’s eyes grow wide. “As part of the investigation?”

  I nod and slip from my seat. I feel my companions’ eyes on me as I approach my prey. “Rex? May I?” I indicate the other chair at his table.

  “Be my guest, Happy.” He nods politely. Poor guy; he’s still sniffling. “Congratulations on your victory. I apologize for not congratulating you sooner. I’m not myself these days.”

  “I don’t think anybody expects you to be. How are you holding up?”

  He swipes his mouth with his napkin. I note he’s left most of the food on his plate. “As well as can be expected, I suppose.”

  “Have the police told you anything about how the investigation is going?”

  “As a matter of fact, I heard something today.” He lowers his voice. “Apparently the cause of death was cyanide poisoning.”

  “So Tiffany was murdered.” A shiver runs through me, even though this news isn’t really surprising.

  “The police found the poison in her lipstick.”

  “Oh, God.” Briefly I close my eyes. I’m remembering the moments before I exited the isolation booth, when Tiffany lifted her skirt and revealed the lipstick and compact taped to her thigh. While I was onstage doing the final interview, she was refreshing her lipstick. With a tube that had been laced with cyanide.

  “I’ll tell you who I blame,” Rex says.

  I open my eyes. “Who?”

  “Sally Anne Gibbons.”

  “Why would she want to kill Tiffany?”

  He snorts. “You have to ask?”

  “Well, I saw those screaming matches, too, about the gown registry, but is that really enough to kill somebody over?”

  “Absolutely. It cuts right at the heart of her business. Plus Sally’s not right. In the head, I mean. You saw her go berserk at me last night in the lounge. And I’m grief-stricken. She’s full of anger, that woman. I wouldn’t put anything past her.”

  He has a point. Actually a few of them. And as a consultant, Sally Anne had access to the backstage area. I try to think. Tiffany’s lipstick must have been poisoned during the finale when it was in her makeup bag backstage. Because she would have refreshed her face before each appearance onstage and everythi
ng was fine until that last fateful repair job in the isolation booth. I have no love lost for Tiffany Amber but the realization makes me shudder. “How do you know all this, Rex?”

  He narrows his eyes at me. “Why do you ask?”

  “Well, I guess I would call this inside information.”

  “And I’m an insider. I was closer to Tiffany than anybody else on this island.”

  I’m thinking: Maybe, maybe not. Does the name Keola Kalakaua ring a bell?

  “Except Tony, of course,” Rex adds. “Her husband.”

  “Did you hear all this from him?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did.” Rex angles around in his chair. He spies a server and raises a finger in the air, much like Sally Anne did when ordering her Mai Tais.

  “How is he doing?”

  Rex receives his check and signs off on it without even bothering to check the amount. Maybe Sonny Roberts did leave him a fortune, if he doesn’t even need to review his bills. He throws his napkin aside and rises. “My heart goes out to Tony Postagino,” he says. “The man does not deserve this anguish.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Shanelle, Trixie and I are waiting by the elevator bank to go upstairs after dinner when who pops out of an arriving elevator but Mario Suave. All of us catch our breath. For Mario, who looks mighty fine in a tuxedo, is even more impressive shirtless in swim trunks with a towel slung over one naked shoulder. He is more than tall and buff and beautiful enough to give Keola Kalakaua a run for his torch-lighting money. Not to mention that he’s a heck of a lot more successful than His Highness will ever be.

  “Good evening, ladies,” he says, and delivers one of his dimple-flashing smiles. For a second there I’m worried that Trixie might lose her balance. Mario’s brown eyes home in on me. “Happy, glad I ran into you. I was going to call you later.”

  “You were?” I ask breathlessly. I guess I’ve been transported back to ninth grade.

  “Pageant business,” he says, and winks at Trixie and Shanelle.

  Even Shanelle is affected. She seems a little agitated as she turns to me. “Pageant business. Okay then, see you later,” and she grabs Trixie’s arm to haul her into the elevator before its doors close.

  I am now alone with Mario. Unlike most men I know, he wears a fragrance. Must be the Latin thing. The scent is kind of heady and wonderful. He steps closer. I’ve got some height on me but I have to raise my head to look into his eyes.

  Which I’m doing. Looking into his eyes, I mean.

  They’re brown, with little yellow flecks, and deep and soulful and …

  I clear my throat. “I never thanked you for the roses, Mario. They’re really gorgeous. It’s was very kind of you.”

  It’s a second or two before he speaks. “It was my pleasure.”

  We kind of stare at each other. It’s like a moment in the movies. Then he clears his throat and this time his voice comes out more businesslike. “I wanted to let you know that we need to do a shoot with you in your evening gown exactly as you were the night of the finale. Video and stills. Of course this year we didn’t get the usual shots of the winner but we still need them for promo and the web site.”

  “Sure. Sounds good.” I try to match his businesslike tone but it’s not easy since I’m half panting. “When’s it scheduled for?”

  “Tomorrow sometime. Here at the hotel, on the stage in the auditorium. Magnolia will get back to you with the specifics.”

  “Magnolia.” I hesitate. “So she’s still employed by the pageant?”

  He smiles. I get another flash of dimple. “Barely. You heard about that?”

  “I saw it. The scene with Misty Delgado. I was having breakfast at the time.”

  He gives me a once-over. “I can’t believe with that gorgeous figure of yours you’re patronizing the buffet table.”

  He is a charmer. I heard he started out as a soap star on Spanish-language television and parlayed that into an American soap opera role. After that and one reality TV stint, he was golden. People’s Top 50 Most Beautiful list and one hosting gig after the next. Now this man has ambition.

  “A girl has to eat.” I smile back. “So Sebastian Cantwell knows about Magnolia videotaping Misty Delgado with Dirk Ventura and uploading it to YouTube?”

  “He told me Magnolia gave him a full confession. At least he hopes it’s full and that another shoe won’t drop.”

  “Did she tell him why she did it?”

  “Jealousy, basically. At least that’s what he thinks. She wanted to take the contestants down a peg, is what she told him.”

  “I’m a little surprised Mr. Cantwell didn’t fire her.”

  He winks as if he understands the Mr. is for his benefit but totally unnecessary between us. “He still may. But there’s so much going on right now, what with the investigation, that he doesn’t want to add a search for a new employee to the mix.”

  “That’s understandable.”

  He sidles still closer and jostles me playfully with his elbow. “So why don’t you join me?”

  “Join you for what?”

  “A little Jacuzzi. A little relaxation.”

  I make the obvious mistake. “I don’t have my swimsuit with me.”

  His eyes gleam. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

  Ms. Prim takes over. I step backward to put some distance between us. “I need to get a good night’s sleep so I’m fresh for the shoot tomorrow.”

  He nods. “Okay.” He moves away, smiling as he goes. “Have a good night.”

  Then he’s gone, though his fragrance lingers in the air. I’m feeling positively weak-kneed as I enter the elevator.

  Was that a proposition? Kinda felt like one. What is it about Hawaii? It’s one giant bacchanal here. Maybe even more so than Vegas. But it is kind of fun having gorgeous men around who say charming things and send roses and give smoldering looks. Doesn’t happen in Cleveland with any regularity.

  Just so you know, I am a happily married woman. But sometimes, I can’t help it, I do wonder what my life would have been like if I hadn’t gotten pregnant at seventeen and married Jason. I adore Rachel, don’t get me wrong, and Jason is my first love, but who might I have met if I’d gone on to college? Played the field a bit?

  I guess I’ll never know.

  The next morning I strap myself into my polyester and spandex workout gear. My goal is to reacquaint myself with something called exercise, with which I have not been familiar since the morning of the pageant finale.

  I arrive at the hotel fitness center to find all the treadmills taken but one. I guess a lot of Type A’s come to the islands. Maybe they’re the only ones who can afford it. I’ve just upped my speed from a jog to a run when my cell phone rings. I figured I had to bring it with me because Magnolia might call to say that the shoot is shockingly early. In that case I’d have to cut my workout short. What a shame that would be.

  But it’s not Magnolia. It’s my daughter. “What are you doing that you’re breathing so heavy?” she asks me. “Oh, gross, you’re not—”

  “No, I’m not,” I pant. “I am”—pant—“on the treadmill.”

  “It’s kind of disgusting how you sound. You should do something more core-strengthening anyway, like Pilates. Or yoga. More cerebral.”

  When I work out, I don’t care about my core or my cerebrum. I care about my butt and my thighs.

  “Anyway,” Rachel goes on, “that’s not what I’m calling about. I’m calling about your prize money and my education and that whole thing.”

  “Rachel”—pant—“you know I told you that if you want to stay in state, if you’re really sure about that, I’m okay with it.” Okay is the operative word. My daughter has killer test scores and fantastic grades. I wish she wanted to try for a private university, especially now that I could actually pay for it. I bet she could get in.

  “I know you told me that.”

  “I just want you to make the most of any educational opportunity you get.” Pant. “Really push yours
elf.”

  “Mom, I totally get that you want me to have what you never had. And I’m glad you’ve given up the idea that I have to go to school with a bunch of privileged geeks.”

  “Well, I still think it’s very valuable, the connections you make at the better universities. They’ll last your entire life.”

  “Mom, do you ever listen to me? I mean, seriously. Connections don’t mean diddly to me. I don’t know what I want to do with my life but it’s going to be something where I’m judged on my merit, not on who I know.”

  “Honestly, Rachel”—pant—“sometimes I wonder what planet you live on.” That slips out before I can stop it.

  “See? There you go again. Sometimes I think you never, ever listen to me.”

  Don’t I? I’m hearing her now; I must be, because the words she’s saying are making me crazy.

  In my panting silence she speaks again. “Okay, I’m going to tell you something and I don’t want you to freak.”

  That sentence alone makes me freak. I press the treadmill’s big red emergency stop button and grasp the handlebars. “All right. I’m listening.”

  “Don’t freak.”

  “Just tell me.”

  “I’m not sure I want to go to college next year.”

  “Oh God.”

  “I’m not saying I don’t want to go at all, ever, but there’s something else I think I want to do first. And it won’t cost you a dime.”

  “Rachel—” I’m clutching the bars.

  “I want to travel the world. And help people.”

  “What people?”

  “People in developing nations who are downtrodden because of the West. I’ve found this group where you can go abroad and volunteer for a lot shorter time than the Peace Corps makes you do. Plus I couldn’t get into the Peace Corps anyway because I’m too young.”

  “The Peace Corps?” I guess I shriek this into my cell. I notice people staring at me from adjoining pieces of fitness equipment.

  “Not the Peace Corps. This is a different group. But it lets you go to all kinds of cool places, too, like Morocco or Tanzania or Guatemala—”