Ms America and the Offing on Oahu (Beauty Queen Mysteries No. 1) Page 6

  “You’re not wearing your tiara.” She sounds disappointed.

  “That would be too nutty. And it wouldn’t fit under the sun hat.” Then I tell her the real reason. “Plus I was afraid I’d fall asleep and somebody would snatch it.”

  Her eyes widen. “You’re right! We know there’s a criminal element around here.”

  More like a homicidal element.

  I notice Jenkins eyeing us as Trixie and I amble toward the pool. I’m embarrassed, to be truthful. Here I am, about to sip tropical drinks and bask in the sun and there she is crime-busting.

  Though I’m hatching a plan of my own, investigation-wise.

  CHAPTER NINE

  First order of business: choosing lounge chairs.

  There is strategy involved.

  You want sun but a way to get out of the sun. You want a wide viewing area to be able to appraise a large fraction of your fellow sunbathers. You don’t want to be too close to the bar, because there’s too high a chance some sunbaked reveler will drop his Singapore Sling on you. Nor do you want to be too near the rental hut, because then you’ll spend the day listening to parents tell their kids what’s too expensive to get. And you don’t want proximity to the deep end, because then you’ll get soaked fifteen times an hour by boys doing cannonballs into the pool.

  Given those parameters and how many prime lounges are already crammed full of oil-slicked bodies, there are remarkably few good options left, even at 9:12 AM.

  Trixie and I claim our spots and pull out our dogeared paperbacks. Mine has a pink and green striped cover with a picture of a woman’s tanned, toned legs in cute tangerine-colored sandals. Trixie’s cover is mostly gray and features a stormy ocean with a woman in a baggy sweater walking alone on the beach looking forlorn.

  “Book club?” I ask.

  She nods. “Maybe I can finish it this morning.”

  “How many characters have died so far?”

  “Only one.”

  “You’re getting off easy.”

  So am I, truth be told. Magnolia gave me a 3-ring binder filled with info I need to digest now that I’m Ms. America. I should be reading that but I don’t feel like it. I’m rationalizing my laziness by pretending I won’t risk smudging the binder with sunblock.

  I glance at Trixie, whose nose is buried in her book. I wonder if her background is at all like mine. Probably not. No doubt she was smarter than me. I got pregnant at 17 and then Jason and I got married. Only when Rachel was a year old did I get my high-school equivalency. And only when she was in first grade did I go back at night to study toward my bachelor’s. Since I have to work full-time, it’s taking me forever to finish it. But I’m determined to graduate some day, regardless how long it takes.

  I suck down the last of my breakfast drink and eye the crowd. I must say, the male guests at the Royal Hibiscus should be paying extra this month. The presence of us queens at the hotel has considerably improved the poolside eye candy for them. For us gals, not so much. As usual, there are a few delusional men who think they look good in Speedos. Others sport so much body hair they could double as Sasquatch. There are some handsome forty-somethings, though, with a little gray at the temples, and a few buff young studs who look like they work out twice a day.

  They remind me of Keola. I tell Trixie what I learned the prior evening.

  Her eyes bug out as I relay the final details. “Even if he were smart enough to pull off killing Tiffany, though,” she says, “he couldn’t have done it because there’s no way he would’ve been allowed backstage.”

  “I was thinking that, too.” My cell phone rings. I look at the display and my heart lightens. “It’s my daughter,” I tell Trixie. “I haven’t spoken to her yet today. Do you mind if I take the call?”

  “Don’t be silly!”

  I flip open the phone. “Hey, Rach!”

  “Hey, mom. You still jazzed to be, like, a total celebrity?”

  “I am if you’re still psyched to be the daughter of a total celebrity.”

  It takes her a second too long to answer. Then, “Sure. I mean, it’s cool.”

  Not exactly a ringing endorsement. “You’re not getting grief about it at school, are you?” That happened when I won Ms. Ohio. Mean boys asking how did it feel to have your mom be cuter than you. Mean girls saying it must be hard to have your mom be a throwback to the dark ages.

  “Well,” Rachel says, “it’s not like you’re saving the world or anything but it’s cool.”

  That is what my daughter would rather I do. The truth is I’m not up to it. “That’s going to have to be your job, Rach. For when you’re done with college,” I specify.

  “Can we talk about college another time, mom? I mean, we don’t have to talk about it constantly.”

  “I didn’t think we did.”

  “You bring it up, like, incessantly. Anyway, I gotta go. I have class.”

  “Okay. We’ll talk later.”

  “Bye.” She’s gone.

  Trixie sets down her book. “How’s she doing?”

  “Great,” I lie. I am saved from further discussion of my angst-filled relationship with my teenage daughter by the arrival of a girl bearing skewers of cut-up strawberries and pineapple. Trixie and I both partake.

  “Look,” Trixie says. “Right across from us.”

  I follow her line of sight to the other side of the pool. Ms. Arizona Misty Delgado. “I like her suit.” A tankini in a burnt sienna color, with lots of ring detailing.

  “Goes with her olive skin tone really well. That must be her husband.”

  A buff blond guy is on the lounge next to her. They’re clearly together but they seem awkward. They’ve pushed their loungers together but their bodies are facing opposite directions.

  “He’s hot,” Trixie opines, and I agree. “So why was she having an affair? Uh oh,” Trixie adds.

  Uh oh, indeed. A kid is approaching them passing out brochures that I can read from here: VENTURA AERIAL TOURS. He hands one to Misty’s husband, who takes one look, then rises from his lounger and calmly tears the brochure into about ten pieces, which he dumps into his wife’s lap. He then walks away. Meanwhile Misty’s eyes have not left her magazine. She’s doing a good job of pretending that nothing in the least untoward has just occurred.

  “I don’t think they’re going to be taking the aerial tour,” Trixie observes.

  “Well, Misty’s already been flying with Dirk Ventura, if you take my meaning.”

  We know that, and every YouTube aficionado knows that, thanks to the video which appeared hours before the pageant finale showing Misty and chopper pilot Dirk Ventura not exactly in flagrante delicto, but damn close.

  “If it hadn’t been for that video,” Trixie says, “Misty would’ve been in the top five. She probably would’ve knocked me out.”

  This is a pageant for married women, after all. Cavorting with men who are not your husband is verboten if you want to place, or win.

  Then again, Tiffany appeared to get away with it.

  “Misty wouldn’t have knocked you out,” I tell Trixie, “but she would’ve been in, I agree. So who shot that video? And uploaded it?”

  Trixie is silent. It was the big mystery of the pageant until an even bigger one loomed: Who killed Tiffany Amber?

  Maybe the two episodes are linked. After all, Tiffany and Misty were roommates until Misty moved out. How weird is it that the two of them were embroiled in the two big bizarro things that happened in this pageant?

  “You were on that first aerial tour, right?” Trixie asks me.

  I nod. I’m chewing pineapple.

  “With Misty,” she prods.

  I swallow. “And Ms. Alaska and Ms. New York.”

  “What did you have to do to win that again?”

  “Answer a math question.”

  “Oh, that’s right.”

  The Ms. America pageant’s two weeks of preliminary competition involve a variety of skill tests for us queens. Who can pitch a golf ball closest t
o the hole? Who makes the best brownies? Who can diaper a baby doll the fastest? Sometimes the winner earns points that count toward the pageant finale; other times she wins some perk. In this case, the first contestants to answer a math question correctly won an aerial tour of Oahu provided by none other than the strapping Dirk Ventura.

  “What did you think of Ventura?” Trixie asks.

  I ponder for a moment. Then, “I thought he was cocky. He’s a good-looking guy but he struts around. It’s like all of Oahu is a campus and he thinks he’s the Big Man On.”

  “A lot of women like that.”

  “Misty must. She made sure to ride shotgun during the tour and the two of them talked a lot over the headsets. I don’t think she even looked out the window. The rest of us were in the back seat and didn’t say a word.”

  “You got to concentrate on the scenery.”

  “Which was amazing. Diamond Head, Waikiki, Hanauma Bay …” I’ve seen things on this trip I’ll never forget. Above and beyond Tiffany Amber tumbling dead out of the isolation booth.

  Trixie leans closer. “So who are you going to investigate next?”

  It’s more what am I going to investigate next. “I don’t want to tell you because I don’t want to jinx it. Plus”—I hesitate—“it’s kind of risky.”

  “So was going in Tiffany’s room! But look what that got you. You never would have known about Keola if you hadn’t smelled that citronella in there.”

  “True.”

  “Nancy Drew wouldn’t have solved a single mystery if she hadn’t taken risks.”

  “Nancy Drew didn’t have Detective Momoa on her tail.”

  “She had other impediments,” Trixie pronounces.

  Somehow Trixie has a way of firing me up. I rise and drop my cover-up over my bikini. “All right, I’ll put my plan into action.” I grab my things and slip into my flip flops. “I may or may not be back.”

  “Whichever. I’ll be waiting for a full report.”

  “Just make sure to answer if I call from the jailhouse.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  I return to the concierge desk and am relieved to see a different woman on duty than was there earlier. She, too, is wearing the hotel uniform for female employees: bright floral sundress and hibiscus tucked behind the ear.

  “Excuse me,” I say. “I’ve bought so many souvenirs here on Oahu that I need to ship some things home to Ohio. Is there any chance the mail room has boxes and shipping tape that the hotel guests can use?” Not that any beauty queen is ever out of shipping tape but she doesn’t know that. Of course I don’t really need a box, either. “Naturally I’d be happy to pay for it.”

  “Well …” She eyes me. “You’re the one who won the pageant, right? I saw your picture in the paper this morning.”

  “Really?” I’m liking this winning thing. “I’ll have to look for a copy.”

  “Tell me your room number and I’ll get you a few copies.” She smiles at me. “And while we usually send people to the mailboxes place around the corner, I’ll give the mail room a call for you.”

  “Thank you so much.” I feel kind of guilty as she picks up the phone. She wouldn’t provide this perk if she knew what I intend to do with it.

  I glance around. This would not be a good time for Detective Jenkins to put in a return appearance. But there’s no sign of her. Only the usual assortment of happy-looking travelers, pasty ones fresh from the airport with welcome leis around their necks, and sunburned ones without.

  A bit later the concierge hangs up. She smiles at me again. “Someone from the mail room is on his way up with a box and some tape for you.”

  “Terrific. Thank you again.” Darn. I wait, my mind working. Then a middle-aged Hawaiian man shows up carrying what I claim I need. I take it and engage him in conversation as I lead him back the way he came. “When I’m done packaging everything, why don’t I bring it down to the mail room?”

  “Oh, no, leave it with the concierge and I’ll come get it.”

  “No, really, that’s all right.” I lean close and whisper to him. “I don’t want to bother her with this again. They’re always so busy at the concierge desk.”

  “I understand but we don’t like guests going down into that part of the hotel.”

  “The basement?”

  He laughs. “It’s not our best feature.”

  “I don’t mind.” We’re at the staff elevator now. In fact, it’s just arriving. I step inside. I see I’ve sort of boxed him in—ha ha. He looks a bit reluctant but gets in, too. “This isn’t so bad,” I say as the doors open onto the basement floor. It’s what you’d expect, with beige walls, fluorescent lights, linoleum floors, and mysterious pipes suspended from the ceiling. Down here the air conditioning can’t quite combat the warmth and humidity. I hear the hum of mysterious generators, and the rumble of industrial laundry equipment.

  We turn one corner and at the end of the next corridor is the mail room, identified by a sign. The gray metal door is open.

  That makes me happy, and so does the fact that I spy numerous mailing boxes that appear ready to ship. My guide turns to me. “I guess it’d be okay if you brought your box back down here when it’s ready to go. If nobody’s here when you come back, just leave it in the hallway. I’m never gone long. ‘Course you can always leave it with the concierge, too, and she’ll call me to come get it.”

  I nod. It occurs to me that I really should ship something home so all this doesn’t seem suspicious. “Your shift must start pretty early in the morning.”

  “Six to three,” he says cheerfully.

  “That’s early. Well, thank you. I’ll be back.”

  “Aloha,” he calls as I retrace my steps.

  I feel bad again. I hope this nice man doesn’t get into trouble from what I’m about to do. I hope I don’t, either.

  I flip-flop my way back to the elevator, where I press the UP button. I then remove my flip flops, whose slapping sound is pretty loud, and dart around the next corner. The elevator comes and goes with me still on the basement level plastered against a wall.

  I’m barely breathing. How am I going to explain this if somebody sees me? The elevator’s right around the corner but somehow I couldn’t find it? Sadly, many people would believe that of a beauty queen.

  I put my new shipping tape in my beach bag along with my flip flops, and set it on the floor next to the collapsed shipping box. I’ll need my hands free.

  It seems to take forever but eventually I hear footsteps coming from the direction of the mail room. I plaster myself back against the wall, as if that would help. Someone—the mail room man, I hope—stops at the elevator bank. I hear an elevator arrive, then sneak a peak around the corner. It’s him all right, stepping inside.

  Once he’s gone, I run to the mail room. God, I hope he left it open. And God, please don’t let him come back fast. I know it’s perverse to involve the Almighty in activities of dubious legality, but I hope He understands this is in service of a good cause.

  The mail room is open. Prayer one answered. I head for the stacking boxes that appear ready to go out. Tiffany’s is neither the top one, nor the second from the top.

  The mail room man’s words ring in my ears. I’m never gone long.

  Not the third from the top, either.

  But with the fourth I hit pay dirt. This one is addressed to Mr. Tony Postagino in Riverside, California. I lift it and set it aside. It’s fairly heavy but not too bad. None of the other boxes are going to him.

  Only one box? Yes, I realize, looking around. Because there are two suitcases as well, with tags instructing the mail room to box and ship them to Tony Postagino.

  The thing I really want is Tiffany’s laptop. Would that be in a suitcase or a box?

  Box, I decide. Because she probably carried it to Oahu in a computer bag and that would be too bulky to go in a suitcase. I restack the other boxes, lift hers, and run.

  I am so bad, I think to myself as I race away from the mail room carrying my
booty. I am so hosed if anybody sees me.

  I’m not far from the elevator bank when I hear my cell phone ringing, loud and clear, from my beach bag. The basement corridor is suddenly filled with a Muzak version of Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive.” To make matters worse, I then hear the elevator begin its downward swoosh to the basement floor.

  I am about to be discovered. Thief, ‘80s-music fan, marauder.

  I sprint, fling myself around the corner, drop the box, then dive for my beach bag and the cell phone inside. I shut the damn thing up just as the elevator doors whoosh open. Footsteps again. I try desperately to hold my breath. I’m on all fours in the middle of the corridor, which really is no different from being plastered against the wall, though I feel strangely more vulnerable.

  The footsteps are receding. Apparently God is heeding the prayers of his new Ms. America, though I suspect that if I keep this up, I won’t have His forbearance for long.

  I gather my and Tiffany’s belongings, which is quite a load, and within seconds am in the elevator riding to the main floor. I wish I could go higher but that is not an option. When the doors open, I exit as nonchalantly as my thieving self can manage and sashay toward the elevator bank that’ll take me to the ninth floor.

  It is only when I am outside my own door that it occurs to me that if my roomie is in, I’ll have some explaining to do.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Of course Shanelle is in, because my good karma can’t last indefinitely.

  She’s on her bed wearing a black camisole and pink shorts and painting her toenails a metallic white. She’s let her hair dry into a natural Afro and tied it back with a black headband. She glances at the box in my arms and her expression grows quizzical. “What you got there?” she asks me.