Ms America and the Offing on Oahu (Beauty Queen Mysteries No. 1) by Diana Dempsey Page B
Authors: Diana Dempsey
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America now and maybe I should try to patch things up between you two.”
“Why bother? Once we leave Hawaii, I’m never going to see that bitch again.”
“She might compete in the next Ms. America pageant.” Some girls compete year after year in an effort to win. Good for them. But if Misty does, and succeeds next time, I’ll be the one who has to pin the tiara on her arrogant head. Yuk.
“If I have to work with that pointy-chinned witch again, I’ll quit,” Magnolia declares. “If I still have a job to quit.” She hangs up.
She’s a tougher nut to crack than Keola. What a surprise.
I put down the in-room phone and pick up my cell. Time to make another call. A few seconds later this one gets answered, too. “Hi, Pop,” I say.
“My beautiful girl!” he booms. “How are you?”
“Fine. It’s kinda wild around here, you know, with details emerging about Tiffany Amber’s life.” Some of which I’ve ferreted out on my own, using, shall we say, unorthodox techniques.
“The girl who died? Well, that’s how it goes.”
“I guess so. Turns out she was into foreign-exchange trading. Isn’t that weird? I wonder if maybe it was a money thing that got her killed?”
“Oh, sweetheart, you shouldn’t be filling up your head with that. Think about what my beautiful girl just achieved! You’re Ms. America now!”
“I know, but — ”
“Don’t you have appearances to plan?”
“Not really. Everything’s kind of on hold until Tiffany Amber’s death is explained.” I should be reading the material in the 3-ring binder Magnolia gave me but I’m not even doing that.
“Everybody around here is asking me if this means you’ll compete in an international pageant down the road.”
“Ms. World, right, but — ”
“That’s what you should be focusing on, my beauty.”
I sigh. He doesn’t want me to investigate. I already knew that.
“You make me so proud, sweetheart.”
“Thanks, Pop.” I hear a knock on the door. “Mom’s here. I gotta go.”
The mere mention of his ex-wife is enough to clear my father off the line. I answer the door with my cell still in my hand.
My mom glances at it as she enters my room. She’s in a cute shorts and top set we picked out at Chico’s. “You’d rather make a phone call than talk to your mother who’s here in the flesh?”
“I’m just finishing a call.”
“With Rachel?”
“No, she and I talked this morning. Pop.” My mother’s face somehow manages both to crumple and light up at the same time. “He’s fine,” I tell her.
“Did you hear me ask how he was?” She looks away. “What he does, how he is, it’s no longer any of my concern.”
You may have gathered by now that their divorce is fairly fresh. It happened only four and a half months ago, after 49 years together. And no, it was not her choice.
“Mom.” Maybe here, so far away from home, she’ll be more willing to talk about it. I sit down on my bed and pat the coverlet. She settles beside me, with obvious reluctance. She knows what’s coming. “You don’t have to pretend with me,” I say. “You can tell me how you really feel. I want you to.”
She’s staring out the sliding doors to the balcony as if there’s something fascinating out there. Her lips set in a thin line. She’s silent for a long time. Then, “I think enough has been said,” she pushes out. “By everyone concerned.”
“I really think you’ll feel better if you talk about it.” She seems to spring from the generation that believes it’s not right to discuss these things. Even among family.
“What’s to talk about?” She turns her head to look at me. It breaks my heart to see so much pain in those light blue eyes of hers. “You give a man your whole life, everything you’ve got, and he takes it as if it’s his God-given right, and then one day he comes home and tells you he doesn’t want you anymore. And what does he leave you with, after you’ve given him everything? Nothing,
“Why bother? Once we leave Hawaii, I’m never going to see that bitch again.”
“She might compete in the next Ms. America pageant.” Some girls compete year after year in an effort to win. Good for them. But if Misty does, and succeeds next time, I’ll be the one who has to pin the tiara on her arrogant head. Yuk.
“If I have to work with that pointy-chinned witch again, I’ll quit,” Magnolia declares. “If I still have a job to quit.” She hangs up.
She’s a tougher nut to crack than Keola. What a surprise.
I put down the in-room phone and pick up my cell. Time to make another call. A few seconds later this one gets answered, too. “Hi, Pop,” I say.
“My beautiful girl!” he booms. “How are you?”
“Fine. It’s kinda wild around here, you know, with details emerging about Tiffany Amber’s life.” Some of which I’ve ferreted out on my own, using, shall we say, unorthodox techniques.
“The girl who died? Well, that’s how it goes.”
“I guess so. Turns out she was into foreign-exchange trading. Isn’t that weird? I wonder if maybe it was a money thing that got her killed?”
“Oh, sweetheart, you shouldn’t be filling up your head with that. Think about what my beautiful girl just achieved! You’re Ms. America now!”
“I know, but — ”
“Don’t you have appearances to plan?”
“Not really. Everything’s kind of on hold until Tiffany Amber’s death is explained.” I should be reading the material in the 3-ring binder Magnolia gave me but I’m not even doing that.
“Everybody around here is asking me if this means you’ll compete in an international pageant down the road.”
“Ms. World, right, but — ”
“That’s what you should be focusing on, my beauty.”
I sigh. He doesn’t want me to investigate. I already knew that.
“You make me so proud, sweetheart.”
“Thanks, Pop.” I hear a knock on the door. “Mom’s here. I gotta go.”
The mere mention of his ex-wife is enough to clear my father off the line. I answer the door with my cell still in my hand.
My mom glances at it as she enters my room. She’s in a cute shorts and top set we picked out at Chico’s. “You’d rather make a phone call than talk to your mother who’s here in the flesh?”
“I’m just finishing a call.”
“With Rachel?”
“No, she and I talked this morning. Pop.” My mother’s face somehow manages both to crumple and light up at the same time. “He’s fine,” I tell her.
“Did you hear me ask how he was?” She looks away. “What he does, how he is, it’s no longer any of my concern.”
You may have gathered by now that their divorce is fairly fresh. It happened only four and a half months ago, after 49 years together. And no, it was not her choice.
“Mom.” Maybe here, so far away from home, she’ll be more willing to talk about it. I sit down on my bed and pat the coverlet. She settles beside me, with obvious reluctance. She knows what’s coming. “You don’t have to pretend with me,” I say. “You can tell me how you really feel. I want you to.”
She’s staring out the sliding doors to the balcony as if there’s something fascinating out there. Her lips set in a thin line. She’s silent for a long time. Then, “I think enough has been said,” she pushes out. “By everyone concerned.”
“I really think you’ll feel better if you talk about it.” She seems to spring from the generation that believes it’s not right to discuss these things. Even among family.
“What’s to talk about?” She turns her head to look at me. It breaks my heart to see so much pain in those light blue eyes of hers. “You give a man your whole life, everything you’ve got, and he takes it as if it’s his God-given right, and then one day he comes home and tells you he doesn’t want you anymore. And what does he leave you with, after you’ve given him everything? Nothing,
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