Ms America and the Villainy in Vegas (Beauty Queen Mysteries No. 2) by Diana Dempsey Page A
Authors: Diana Dempsey
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number.” I hoist my cell phone in the air. “Speed dial?” I remind her.
“It’s not fair!” She sounds like Rachel now. “I could do everything you want and you could still call the cops.”
That’s true. In fact I’m pondering whether to call Detective Perelli. After all, she may not know about this Hans character and he could prove a fine lead.
It is on occasions like these when my investigative heart wars with my inclination to be an upstanding, crime-reporting citizen.
Usually the latter wins. But not always.
“I’ll tell you what,” I say to Cassidy. “You do something for me and I won’t call Detective Perelli.”
She eyes me with deep suspicion. “What do you want me to do?”
I lay out my request, which has two components.
“I could do that,” she says.
I hold out my hand. “Then we have a deal.”
We shake on it. I am a tad worried that striking a bargain with Cassidy the Trick Roller moves my moral compass off due north. But I decide that homicide investigation requires compromise of all sorts.
Cassidy grumbles throughout the long march to the Brutus Palace reception desk. “This is humiliating to have to tell them that some guy left these things in my room.”
“This is Vegas.” I almost add “baby” in homage to Sally Anne. “It’s the sort of thing they hear all the time.”
I part from Cassidy after witnessing her relinquish her booty, then reconnoiter with my mom, Shanelle, and Trixie back at my room at the Cosmos. Delectable aromas are in the air. I nose inside the takeout bag they’ve brought back from the restaurant.
“I got two things for us to share,” Trixie tells me. “Pizza with sundried tomatoes, artichoke hearts, and Kalamata olives, and tagliatelle with porcini mushroom sauce.”
Shanelle pipes up. “Trixie is of the mind that we should carbo load for our rehearsals.”
I am only too willing to embrace that philosophy.
Once we’ve reviewed the evening’s discoveries—which are intriguing, indeed—Trixie wants to know who is my number one suspect in the murder of Danny Richter.
I don’t know which of my current crop of contenders—Frank, Cassidy, Samantha, or the mysterious Hans—to put at the top of my list. And now there’s Detective Perelli’s elusive possibility: the man who tried to give Danny counterfeit bills.
One thing I do know: today’s investigation has proved fruitful.
I can hardly wait for what tomorrow might bring.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I text Rachel the next morning when I know she’s not in class. Instead of texting me back, she calls.
“You will not believe what happened last night,” she says.
I prepare myself not to believe. “What?”
“Grandpa had that hookup of his stay over .” Pause. “ In the guest room.” Pause. “ With him.”
I don’t want to believe it. That much is true.
“What are you going to do about it?” Rachel demands.
“I’m not sure.” It’s not as if the man is doing anything illegal. Immoral? That we could debate. I’ll tell you one thing. This behavior does not jibe with the code I’m trying to instill in my daughter. And since it’s my house, it’s my rules.
“If you’re okay with it,” Rachel says, “you should let Ryan stay overnight in my room.”
“Nice try.”
“I am so not okay with it. I think it’s disgusting .” She hesitates, then, “Plus I feel bad for Grandma.”
I do, too. “I want to talk about this with your father.”
“Good. He won’t like it, either.”
Jason and I communicate via text. What do we know about this woman? Jason wants to know, which makes me think he’s worried about theft. Not that we have all that much to steal at our house. I take my tiara with me when I travel.
I share my meager knowledge with Jason.
I don’t like it, he informs me, as Rachel predicted. I’m calling him.
I embark on my day confident that my husband will read my father the riot act. I’m not sure it’s rational but it’s what I want to see happen. I
“It’s not fair!” She sounds like Rachel now. “I could do everything you want and you could still call the cops.”
That’s true. In fact I’m pondering whether to call Detective Perelli. After all, she may not know about this Hans character and he could prove a fine lead.
It is on occasions like these when my investigative heart wars with my inclination to be an upstanding, crime-reporting citizen.
Usually the latter wins. But not always.
“I’ll tell you what,” I say to Cassidy. “You do something for me and I won’t call Detective Perelli.”
She eyes me with deep suspicion. “What do you want me to do?”
I lay out my request, which has two components.
“I could do that,” she says.
I hold out my hand. “Then we have a deal.”
We shake on it. I am a tad worried that striking a bargain with Cassidy the Trick Roller moves my moral compass off due north. But I decide that homicide investigation requires compromise of all sorts.
Cassidy grumbles throughout the long march to the Brutus Palace reception desk. “This is humiliating to have to tell them that some guy left these things in my room.”
“This is Vegas.” I almost add “baby” in homage to Sally Anne. “It’s the sort of thing they hear all the time.”
I part from Cassidy after witnessing her relinquish her booty, then reconnoiter with my mom, Shanelle, and Trixie back at my room at the Cosmos. Delectable aromas are in the air. I nose inside the takeout bag they’ve brought back from the restaurant.
“I got two things for us to share,” Trixie tells me. “Pizza with sundried tomatoes, artichoke hearts, and Kalamata olives, and tagliatelle with porcini mushroom sauce.”
Shanelle pipes up. “Trixie is of the mind that we should carbo load for our rehearsals.”
I am only too willing to embrace that philosophy.
Once we’ve reviewed the evening’s discoveries—which are intriguing, indeed—Trixie wants to know who is my number one suspect in the murder of Danny Richter.
I don’t know which of my current crop of contenders—Frank, Cassidy, Samantha, or the mysterious Hans—to put at the top of my list. And now there’s Detective Perelli’s elusive possibility: the man who tried to give Danny counterfeit bills.
One thing I do know: today’s investigation has proved fruitful.
I can hardly wait for what tomorrow might bring.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I text Rachel the next morning when I know she’s not in class. Instead of texting me back, she calls.
“You will not believe what happened last night,” she says.
I prepare myself not to believe. “What?”
“Grandpa had that hookup of his stay over .” Pause. “ In the guest room.” Pause. “ With him.”
I don’t want to believe it. That much is true.
“What are you going to do about it?” Rachel demands.
“I’m not sure.” It’s not as if the man is doing anything illegal. Immoral? That we could debate. I’ll tell you one thing. This behavior does not jibe with the code I’m trying to instill in my daughter. And since it’s my house, it’s my rules.
“If you’re okay with it,” Rachel says, “you should let Ryan stay overnight in my room.”
“Nice try.”
“I am so not okay with it. I think it’s disgusting .” She hesitates, then, “Plus I feel bad for Grandma.”
I do, too. “I want to talk about this with your father.”
“Good. He won’t like it, either.”
Jason and I communicate via text. What do we know about this woman? Jason wants to know, which makes me think he’s worried about theft. Not that we have all that much to steal at our house. I take my tiara with me when I travel.
I share my meager knowledge with Jason.
I don’t like it, he informs me, as Rachel predicted. I’m calling him.
I embark on my day confident that my husband will read my father the riot act. I’m not sure it’s rational but it’s what I want to see happen. I
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