CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“Peppi had a drug problem?” I whisper back.
Iris nods. “It went on for years, from what I understand. Her family tried to hush it up but—” She gives me a look that seems to say:
You can’t keep that sort of thing from
me
.
“Anyway, they finally got her into rehab. I hear she had to go through several stints before one took. Of course the family would have done anything. Fortunately for them they could afford to.”
Paloma didn’t breathe a word to me about any of this. She swore Peppi was as pure as a nun. I knew better than to believe that. But this apparently serious drug problem is beyond anything I imagined. “So you’re thinking that somebody Peppi got involved with during those bad years, a drug dealer or somebody like that, could be responsible for her murder.”
“It stands to reason.”
“That was so long ago, though. And it looked like Peppi cleaned herself up and moved on with her life.”
“But you can never completely escape your past, can you?” It’s clear from Iris’s expression that she thinks no, you can’t. “Granted, Peppi achieved a great deal since. That’s what makes what happened even more tragic.”
I lean closer. “I hear there was a lot of bad blood between Peppi and her half brother. So much so that her mother thinks
he
might be the guilty party.”
Iris makes a dismissive gesture. “I don’t believe that for a minute. I’ve known Hector for years. He’s too passive to be a killer. I’ll tell you what. There’s too much money in that family. That’s why they all think the worst of each other.”
A blonde sidles over and for a time I lose Iris’s attention. It’s just as well because my head is throbbing with this revelation. It sure puts a new spin on Peppi’s murder. I must say I give credence to Iris’s theory that an enemy from the drug world might have done Peppi in. But why now? Is it possible Peppi was still using?
When the blonde says her farewells, I move in again. Clearly Iris Flower knows how to trade gossip. If her stories are accurate, she’s a valuable source.
I pick up where I left off. “Did you hear of any friction between Peppi and Jasmine Dobbs?”
“One hears so many things.” Iris leans closer. “What have you heard?”
Since I gained a tidbit, I must offer one. I divulge that Peppi didn’t keep up her end of the financial bargain with regard to the boutique.
I can tell that piques Iris’s interest. “I wonder why that would have been.” She frowns, thinking. Then, “You know who would know? Alice Dilling.”
“Why would Alice Dilling know?”
Iris looks at me as if I were deeply clueless. “Alice Dilling knows everything about Peppi. The two of them were thick as thieves.”
“What? They were friends?”
“Extremely close friends.” Iris drops her voice to a whisper. “Don’t quote me on this but I always suspected they met in rehab.”
“Alice had a drug problem, too?”
“Diet pills. And now she’s got this bulimia issue. It’s too sad.”
I’m gaping in astonishment when a chatty young couple intrudes on my conversation with Iris. I move a short distance away. What I really want to do is sit down and digest.
And I don’t mean the appetizers and dessert. I mean this startling new information. Alice and Peppi were BFFs? And Alice is plagued with addiction, too? When I asked Alice about Peppi while we were having dinner at Alice’s restaurant, she spoke about her as if they were distant acquaintances. She seemed freaked out that Peppi had been murdered but otherwise displayed no emotion over the death of a woman who apparently was one of her best friends. How is that possible?
Trixie races up to me. “You ready to go? Because Shanelle and I are.”
“Lead the way.”
I follow them out of Sugarbabies—after making a detour to procure Iris’s cell phone number—noting that Donyell is still on the premises and Jasmine remains aglow with happiness. It occurs to me that perhaps Peppi’s failure to put money in the boutique had something to do with her drug problem. If she was using again, maybe all her cash was going to fund her habit.
When we reach the Durango, I hold out the keys. “Somebody else please drive.”
Shanelle narrows her eyes at me. “You have too many Hot Melons, girl?”
“I only had one. I need to think. And I have so much to think about that I can’t drive at the same time.”
Shanelle grabs the keys without further ado. Once we’re buckled in and she’s got the Durango flowing with the traffic, she issues an order. “Okay, Ms. America. Spill it.”
I bring Shanelle and Trixie up to speed on everything I learned that day. It’s an impressive assortment of information. One: that Jasmine’s secret moneymaking scheme is to sell Donyell’s memorabilia—and jock straps—on eBay, forging his signature all the while. Two: that Hector’s mistress is none other than Consuela, and now Detective Dez will investigate both their alibis. Three: that Peppi took Alfonso’s nighttime weather job, demoting him back to mornings; he hated her for it; and he earns money on the side by roping women into attending exclusive parties where the male attendees pay the women for sexual favors. Four: that Peppi had a drug problem that landed her in rehab. And five: that Alice Dilling and Peppi weren’t strangers at all but best friends who might have met in rehab because Alice, too, was fighting an addiction, hers to diet pills.
I ask Shanelle to park outside Mario’s gated community so we can discuss all this. I know once I’m back at the house Jason will not want to delay our “reunion” so I can sit around with my gal pals dissecting the latest 411.
We’ve got the Durango’s windows down so the sea breeze wafts through the vehicle’s interior in a very pleasant manner. The waters of Biscayne Bay lap just yards away, serene now but alive with pleasure craft in the daylight hours.
“I’ll tell you one thing,” Shanelle says. “That gossip columnist makes sense. I bet Peppi did get murdered by some drug lowlife.”
“And Happy has no idea who that person might be,” Trixie points out.
“I can believe that scenario if Peppi was still on drugs,” I say. “But if she got clean years ago, I don’t buy it. Her strangling was a crime of passion. It doesn’t show planning or forethought. It had to do with something that was going on right then.”
“I love it when you talk like a real detective,” Trixie breathes.
“I wish I understood things like a real detective. Every time I learn new information, I just get more confused.”
“You always figure it out.” Trixie reaches from the back seat and rubs my shoulder. “You will this time, too.”
“I wish I had your confidence. Anyway, I know one thing. I need to find out more about Peppi’s drug habit. Like whether she kicked her addiction or was still fighting it.” I throw my head back against the rest. “And you know who would know that? Paloma.”
“That won’t be an easy conversation, girl,” Shanelle warns. “No mama wants to talk about the flaws in her child. That’s true of a live child, let alone a dead child.”
We’re silent for a time, pondering that truth. Then Shanelle wants to know if any of my suspects has a good alibi.
“Not really. Jasmine says she was alone at Sugarbabies, Alfonso says he went straight home from work to sleep, and apparently Hector was at the Hotel Roca with Consuela. By the way, Iris thinks Hector is too passive to have killed Peppi.”
“Hector may be passive,” Shanelle says, “but Consuela sure isn’t.”
“You got that right,” I agree. “And Consuela may have skipped out of the Hotel Roca to go strangle Peppi while Hector stayed behind. They’d each have an alibi the other would back up. And if she went by cab, how would I ever know?”
“Security video from the lobby,” Shanelle says. “Chances are she’d have to cross the lobby to exit the hotel. Get Detective Dez to go after that.”
“Good thinking.” I make a note to remind myself to ask him.
“I can’t believe Peppi and Alice were friends!” Trixie cries.
“There’s something wrong there,” Shanelle adds.
“No question about it. Alice is hiding something.” When I thought Alice and Peppi met through the pageant, I didn’t suspect Alice for a second. I put her in the same category as Lasalo Dufu: somebody with too limited an acquaintance with Peppi to be in serious conflict with her. But if Iris Flower is to be believed, Alice and Peppi shared a long, fraught past. “New topic,” I go on. “Jason wants me to buy a gun.”
Shanelle gasps but Trixie surprises me. “He’s not the only one,” she says. “Ever since Oahu, I thought you should get one.”
“And you never told me?”
“I didn’t think you’d like the idea.”
“I don’t. But I understand Jason’s reasoning. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“I know what I’m going to do.” Shanelle turns the ignition and the engine leaps to life. “Play like Scarlett and think about it tomorrow. Tonight all I want to do is get in my PJs and find me some milk and cookies.”
We find Jason and Pop in Mario’s media room, beers in hand, watching
SportsCenter
on the massive flat-screen TV. I resist suggesting we watch Mario’s show instead.
America’s Scariest Ghost Stories
is on Tuesday nights and I made sure earlier that the DVR was set to record it. Jason showily checks the time on his watch.
“I know,” I say. “I’m sorry. We stayed later than I thought. But I found out lots of good stuff. Where’s Rachel?”
“Asleep. On an air mattress in Lou’s room,” Jason adds with a meaningful look.
“And Mariela hasn’t escaped?” Shanelle wants to know.
“Not unless she climbed out her bedroom window,” Jason says. “That girl’s a trip.”
“I have a friend whose 13-year-old fell off the roof climbing out her bedroom window,” Trixie says. “Broke her leg. Thank the Lord it wasn’t worse.” She spins out of the room. “I’m going to put on my nightgown.”
After I’ve changed into my cotton pajama bottoms and tank top, I pad into the kitchen for some water. I find Pop filling a glass from the SubZero’s dispenser. I watch him and start to feel bad. This week is a wonderful opportunity to spend more time with him and I’m making zero use of it. I give him a little nuzzle, vowing to do better. “Did you have a good day?”
“Not bad.” Then he eyes me. “You’re gonna get your wish.”
“How do you mean?”
“I’m not gonna buy a condo down here.”
My heart would leap were it not for the fact that he looks so sad. “Why not?”
He shrugs. “I haven’t seen one that grabs me. Plus Jason said a few things that made sense.” He pauses, then, “You put him up to that.”
“He doesn’t like the idea of you moving in with Maggie any more than I do.”
“So for now I’ll slow down.”
“Thank you, Pop.” I kiss his forehead. “I love you,” I call after him as he shambles away. Moments later, back in the media room, I plop next to Jason on the couch and ask what he said to my father.
Jason lowers the volume on the TV, now tuned to local weather. It appears it will continue to be warm and sunny. “I told him that if he’s not sure he wants to marry Maggie he shouldn’t move in with her. That he’s holding all the cards and should take his sweet time.”
“Was he hard to convince?”
“Not really.”
That gets me to thinking. “You know how Mom always got on Pop’s case, calling him a pushover? Maybe he kind of is. After all, she pushed him around. I’m worried Maggie does. And we kind of did, too, with this.”
“If he really wanted to move in with Maggie, he would. He might be glad we’re giving him an excuse not to.”
“Maybe. But he looked so sad just now. He’s probably lonely.”
Jason turns off the TV and rubs my leg. “You worried about him?”
“A little. You know, Mom thought that was why Pop never got promoted. Because he couldn’t stand his ground.” It would be sad if my dad’s shortcomings were the reason he failed to achieve his dream of becoming a homicide detective. Then again, I suppose it’s always our failings that impede us.
I feel Jason’s eyes on me. Then all of a sudden he rises to his feet. “I’ll go get the Kleenex,” he says just as the first tears drop from my eyes. I realize as I start to weep in earnest—over my parents’ divorce and how lonely I know both of them to be—that no one will ever understand where I come from the way Jason does. He knows all the history. He lived through most of it.
