CHAPTER SIX
I am happy to report that my first press conference as a national beauty pageant winner comes and goes without a single disaster. I think that’s pretty impressive given that I hadn’t slept all night and was still in kind of a daze over the fact that I’d won.
Jason waylays me the second my stilletoed feet step off the dais. “Hey, Ms. America.” His smile is as bright as neon. He gives me a soft kiss on the lips, about the most we can swing given that reporters and pageant people are still milling around the banquet room. “I told you you’d win! Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” I grin. I’ve been grinning a lot in the last few hours.
“You look pretty darn hot, too.”
I must agree. I’m wearing a “ladies who lunch” suit, a bright pink Jackie O affair with a sweet little collar and three-quarter-length sleeves and big cloth-covered buttons and a slim knee-length skirt. Unlike Jackie’s, mine is accessorized with a rhinestone tiara. I bought the suit for the preliminary interviews with the judges, which calls for a classier look than other competition events. Like swimsuit, for example, which demands skin and spray tan and little else.
“So.” He lowers his voice. “Now that the competition’s officially over, think we can celebrate in private?”
I give him a sly wink. “I don’t see why not.”
His smile gets wider.
“But it has to be later.” The grin fades. “Mr. Cantwell says I have paperwork to sign. The contract, I think.”
“You sign that baby fast. The quicker you do
—
”
“The quicker I get the prize money. I know.” I can’t believe it. A quarter of a million dollars. It’s a mind-boggling amount of cash. It’s more than our house is worth. That makes something occur to me. “You know what? Maybe you can go after
your
dream now.”
“You’re right!” He rubs his hands together. “Flat-screen TV, baby. HD, 47-inch widescreen
—
”
“That’s not what I meant, Jason.”
He looks confused.
“Pit school! You’ve been talking about it for years.”
“Well … sort of.” He frowns. “It’s a lot of time away from home.”
“The point is, now we can afford it. And the timing’s good because I’ll be away sometimes traveling for the pageant.”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. Most people who do the training don’t get a NASCAR job anyway. So it’s kind of a waste of time.”
I slap him playfully on the arm. “Since when is bettering yourself a waste of time?”
He narrows his eyes. “You’re not trying to get rid of me, are you? I saw that Mario Suave guy giving you the eye.”
“He was not!” Was he? Kind of a flattering idea. “Anyway, remember when I researched pit school on the web?” I’m the one in our family who does the legwork. “If I recall, there was a program in North Carolina that lasted for twelve weeks or so. And it cost something like twelve grand.”
“Which is a ton of money. We could get six flat-screens for that.”
“We only need
one
flat-screen.” Actually, we don’t even need that. “I was just thinking that with Rachel giving me guff now about applying to private universities, we have more than enough to cover pit school, too.” Not that I’m happy about Rachel’s attitude. And she knows it. Which is why she’s not calling me much.
But if I’ve learned one thing from how my mother pushed me into pageants, it’s not to make your child do what you couldn’t yourself. That’s a recipe for resentment.
Jason gives me another soft kiss. “Let’s talk about it later.”
“Okay. It’s just that I’m so excited. This prize money means that everyone in this family can take a few steps forward.”
“Right now the only steps I want to take are into Best Buy, to see what’s up with flat-screens.” He kisses my forehead. “See you later.”
I watch him go. I guess my husband isn’t the most ambitious guy I ever met. But he’s just such a darn good mechanic! He could make something more of himself, I know it. I bet that if he pushed through pit school, he could get a job with NASCAR.
I turn to exit the banquet hall and end up barreling into Trixie. Like me, she’s showered and dressed and looks a lot better than she did at 4 AM.
She grabs me and squeals loud enough to wake the dead. “Happy, Happy, Happy, I just heard and I am so happy for you! Whoops, I knocked off your tiara.”
I sense the thing sliding leftward. It feels like the Titanic on my head. “Now I know why Queen Elizabeth practices wearing hers before big occasions.”
Trixie continues to talk with a bobby pin between her teeth and both her hands righting my crown. “I should get a job doing horoscopes. I predicted you’d win and what do you do? Go and win.” She steps back, beaming. “You’re on straight now. I’m so happy for you. Let’s celebrate by eating real food.”
“I could stand getting my breakfast drink but after that I have to see Mr. Cantwell and sign the paperwork.”
“Ooh!” she squeals again. “Well, I’m going to eat like a pig and then be a saint after 10 AM.”
We head for the hotel’s casual café, where Trixie selects a lemon poppyseed muffin the size of a newborn’s head. The girl behind the counter looks at me and asks, “The usual?”
“Please.”
Trixie and I sit at the counter to watch my morning concoction being concocted. Pineapple juice, strawberries, a banana, a dash of vanilla extract … Then, “Is wheat germ good for anything but fiber?” Trixie asks me.
“I think it’s good for PMS.”
She regards the brew with heightened appreciation then lets out a yelp. “Oh my Lord, I cannot believe I almost forgot to tell you. There’s news about Tiffany Amber. A rumor the police took some man in.”
“They arrested somebody already? Are you kidding me?”
“I’m not sure they arrested him. They may have just brought him in for questioning.”
“Does anybody know who the guy is?”
Trixie shakes her head, pops some muffin in her mouth. In silent rumination she munches and I gulp. I wonder if this man the cops took in killed Tiffany. If he did, wow. We queens have been on Oahu only two weeks. In that short a time, how could somebody get a man mad enough to snuff her? Somehow, knowing her as I do, I think Tiffany Amber is capable of that achievement.
My appreciation for Oahu PD grows with this revelation. And once someone does get arrested for murdering Tiffany, I’m off the hook. The tiara will rest safely on my head, even minus a few bobby pins.
Trixie whispers in my ear. “There’s Tiffany’s husband again. Tony Postagino.”
So like me, Tiffany Amber had a stage surname. “Him?” I didn’t get a very good look at him the prior night. I give the once-over to a thirty-something dark-haired man walking through the lobby. He’s slightly heavyset but not bad-looking. He’s wearing a bright Hawaiian shirt not so different from Detective Momoa’s. “Those aren’t exactly widow’s weeds,” I mutter.
“No. But what do people in Hawaii wear when they’re sad?”
That is a true imponderable. I set my empty concoction glass back on the counter. “All right, on to the paperwork. Then I’m going to try to get away with sleeping all day.”
An hour later, when I make it back to my room, Shanelle is there wearing a bright yellow sundress, which looks gorgeous against her mocha-colored skin.
Her hands fly to her hips. “What did I tell you, sister?” Then I find myself being hugged even more vigorously than I was by Trixie. “I was about to lay a bet on you but you didn’t even give me time.” She pulls back and eyes my ensemble from bow to stern. “And who says rhinestones don’t go with a linen/cotton blend? You look sweeter than pie in summer.”
“Thank you kindly.” I often get a little southern when I chat with Shanelle. I start taking off the suit. “I am whipped, though. Do you mind if I pull the drapes and have a long snooze?”
She narrows her eyes at me. “You were awfully rambunctious last night. What was up with that?”
“Well …” My addled brain tries to think fast. “Magnolia Flatt called me really early to come up to Cantwell’s penthouse suite.”
“That must be a sight to see.”
“It sure is.” I glance at the desk near the sliding glass doors. “Your laptop’s booted up, right?” Back home in Mississippi, Shanelle is some kind of computer geek. She’s on her laptop constantly, just like Tiffany was reputed to be. “Do you mind if I check out the news about Tiffany Amber before I take my nap?”
“Be my guest.” She moves toward the laptop, clicks a few keys. “Our gal is a top story. Nothing like a beauty queen cut off in her first bloom. Or in the case of our pageant, maybe her third or fourth.”
She chuckles and moves aside to let me sit in the desk chair. I’m now wearing the hotel’s fuzzy robe. With the tiara. For some mysterious reason I can’t bring myself to take it off. My eyes run down the first story. “So Tiffany sold real estate for a living. I didn’t know that.”
“In Riverside County, California.” Shanelle moves away toward the bathroom. “Foreclosure central, from what I understand.”
“It says here her husband’s a lawyer. So he must haul in the bucks.”
The rest of the article tells me things I already know. I google Tiffany’s name, which brings up a bunch more stories with no fresh information. Then I google Tony Postagino. I don’t admit it to myself but I’m sort of investigating. One thing Pop often says: in a murder, always look first at the spouse.
Tony Postagino didn’t have opportunity, though, because none of the husbands were allowed backstage. Almost no men were, because it was where we contestants changed clothes between competitions. It was like a women’s locker room.
“The husband has a website,” I tell Shanelle, clicking on the link.
She returns from the bathroom, mascara wand in hand, just in time to see a slick-looking website fill the screen. “Fine-looking graphics,” she remarks.
Which spell out 1-216-GOT-TONY? NO RECOVERY, NO FEE. And
Hablamos
Espanol
. “He does personal injury,” I say.
“In other words, he chases ambulances.” Shanelle clucks her tongue. “Nice.”
“And lucrative, probably. Although in the photo he’s wearing the exact same Hawaiian shirt I saw him in this morning.”
Shanelle waves her wand in the air. “You cannot get a man to shop. Unless he’s gay.”
“I feel really bad for him.” I turn from the screen. “His wife dies all of a sudden, in this really bizarre public way. And he’s got two little girls at home, both younger than five. Did you hear that some local guy got called in for questioning?”
“Mark my words.” Shanelle points the mascara wand at me. “That girl had some nasty ghosts in her closet.” She sashays away. “And they’ll all slither out now, like worms after a rain.”
