Ms America and the Offing on Oahu (Beauty Queen Mysteries No. 1) by Diana Dempsey
Authors: Diana Dempsey
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forgotten about the short and are on our way to the buffet, served at the lower-level restaurant that fronts the ocean, directly below the lobby lounge area. It’s quite the spread every morning, and I usually have only my breakfast drink concoction and don’t partake, but some mornings it gets me. We pull plates and begin loading.
“The only other time I was in Hawaii,” I tell Shanelle, “when Jason and I went to Maui, I realized I ate bacon four meals in a row. At the breakfast buffet, like this, then in a BLT at lunch, spaghetti carbonara at dinner, and again the next morning in the buffet.”
“And in the middle of all that you had to get into your bikini.” She’s a sausage girl, I can tell from her plate.
“I was younger then.”
We see a few contestants clearing out from Trixie’s table and take their places. I think Trixie might hold court in this location about two hours every morning, not eating so much as chatting. It’s the Miss Congeniality thing.
“Your mom’s fun,” Trixie tells me.
“She’s certainly” — I struggle to find an appropriate adjective — “outspoken.”
Shanelle pops some kiwi into her mouth. It’s not all fat on her plate. “She’s going with you to the mani/pedi place later, right?”
I chipped the polish on my big toe. The imperfection is driving me crazy. “She wants a manicure. And she doesn’t want to pay the hotel salon prices.”
“It’s like 75 dollars for a pedicure here,” Trixie says.
“We’re not in Kansas anymore,” Shanelle singsongs. She looks at me. “You could do it yourself, you know.”
“I always mess up the polish.” This should be part of my beauty queen skill set, but sadly it is not.
Trixie moves over to sit next to me. “So I’m dying to know what happened yesterday!” she whispers. “I couldn’t ask last night with your mom around. What did you do after you left me at the pool?”
“You don’t have to whisper.” I point my empty fork at Shanelle. “She knows all about it. In fact, she was an accomplice.”
Trixie looks impressed. In low tones Shanelle and I report on my mail room escapade and what we learned from Tiffany’s laptop. Trixie is as mystified by the currency trading as we are. “That girl had secrets. I bet that’s what got her killed.”
I freeze, my fork suspended in midair. Some distance away but in my line of sight is the hostess desk. And who do I see standing there but Detectives Momoa and Jenkins.
Trixie follows my gaze. “The policemen are back. I wonder what part of the investigation they’re conducting now.”
Pushing past them, none too gently, is Ms. Arizona Misty Delgado. She ignores the hostess and breaks into the buffet line, grabbing a plate out of turn and causing a minor commotion. Two older women ahead of her turn around to see what’s up and she snaps at them. “What the hell are you looking at?” They raise their brows at each other and pivot back around.
“Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the lanai this morning,” Shanelle says.
I watch Momoa, whose beady eyes are trained on Misty. “I wonder if she’s in a lousy mood because she just got interrogated by the cops.” I’ve never been that keen on Misty but in this case I feel her pain.
“Maybe they grilled her,” Trixie says. “Because of her being Tiffany’s roommate and all. Ex roommate.”
Shanelle spears a piece of sausage. “So they know there was bad blood there. ‘Course, there was bad blood between Tiffany and almost everybody she had any dealings with.”
Except maybe Keola Kalakaua. His reaction to her death seemed pure grief.
Misty continues to behave like a buffet bully, darting in front of people to take what she wants without waiting. I wince when she slams a man’s hand in the cover of a warming dish. He yelps but she sails right on.
Trixie shakes her head. “This is not going to convince the policemen that Misty’s a nice person.”
“Ain’t no cop dumb enough to buy that
“The only other time I was in Hawaii,” I tell Shanelle, “when Jason and I went to Maui, I realized I ate bacon four meals in a row. At the breakfast buffet, like this, then in a BLT at lunch, spaghetti carbonara at dinner, and again the next morning in the buffet.”
“And in the middle of all that you had to get into your bikini.” She’s a sausage girl, I can tell from her plate.
“I was younger then.”
We see a few contestants clearing out from Trixie’s table and take their places. I think Trixie might hold court in this location about two hours every morning, not eating so much as chatting. It’s the Miss Congeniality thing.
“Your mom’s fun,” Trixie tells me.
“She’s certainly” — I struggle to find an appropriate adjective — “outspoken.”
Shanelle pops some kiwi into her mouth. It’s not all fat on her plate. “She’s going with you to the mani/pedi place later, right?”
I chipped the polish on my big toe. The imperfection is driving me crazy. “She wants a manicure. And she doesn’t want to pay the hotel salon prices.”
“It’s like 75 dollars for a pedicure here,” Trixie says.
“We’re not in Kansas anymore,” Shanelle singsongs. She looks at me. “You could do it yourself, you know.”
“I always mess up the polish.” This should be part of my beauty queen skill set, but sadly it is not.
Trixie moves over to sit next to me. “So I’m dying to know what happened yesterday!” she whispers. “I couldn’t ask last night with your mom around. What did you do after you left me at the pool?”
“You don’t have to whisper.” I point my empty fork at Shanelle. “She knows all about it. In fact, she was an accomplice.”
Trixie looks impressed. In low tones Shanelle and I report on my mail room escapade and what we learned from Tiffany’s laptop. Trixie is as mystified by the currency trading as we are. “That girl had secrets. I bet that’s what got her killed.”
I freeze, my fork suspended in midair. Some distance away but in my line of sight is the hostess desk. And who do I see standing there but Detectives Momoa and Jenkins.
Trixie follows my gaze. “The policemen are back. I wonder what part of the investigation they’re conducting now.”
Pushing past them, none too gently, is Ms. Arizona Misty Delgado. She ignores the hostess and breaks into the buffet line, grabbing a plate out of turn and causing a minor commotion. Two older women ahead of her turn around to see what’s up and she snaps at them. “What the hell are you looking at?” They raise their brows at each other and pivot back around.
“Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the lanai this morning,” Shanelle says.
I watch Momoa, whose beady eyes are trained on Misty. “I wonder if she’s in a lousy mood because she just got interrogated by the cops.” I’ve never been that keen on Misty but in this case I feel her pain.
“Maybe they grilled her,” Trixie says. “Because of her being Tiffany’s roommate and all. Ex roommate.”
Shanelle spears a piece of sausage. “So they know there was bad blood there. ‘Course, there was bad blood between Tiffany and almost everybody she had any dealings with.”
Except maybe Keola Kalakaua. His reaction to her death seemed pure grief.
Misty continues to behave like a buffet bully, darting in front of people to take what she wants without waiting. I wince when she slams a man’s hand in the cover of a warming dish. He yelps but she sails right on.
Trixie shakes her head. “This is not going to convince the policemen that Misty’s a nice person.”
“Ain’t no cop dumb enough to buy that
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