Free Ms America and the Offing on Oahu (Beauty Queen Mysteries No. 1) by Diana Dempsey Page B

reading the label on the box.
    Her eyes move slowly to my face. “I will ask you again. What you got there?”
    “How much time do you have?”
    She sits on my bed. “Start from the top.”
    The story does sound fairly preposterous when I hear it aloud. When I finish, Shanelle has this to say. “You’re in deep, girl.”
    I don’t like how serious that sounds.
    She goes on. “Have you lost your mind? You just won the title of Ms. America and a quarter million dollars. That would all go bye-bye if anybody found out about this. And the cops do have some idea how to do their job. Even if they don’t, it’s not your business. Tiffany was no friend of yours.” Somewhere in there she rises to her feet and puts her hands on her hips. “So what is this really all about?”
    That is a good question, given everything that’s on the line. “Part of it,” I say, “is that I’ve kind of got this in the blood. Investigation, I mean. My dad’s a cop.”
    “So he’s a pro.”
    The phrase unlike you hangs in the air. “There’s something else, too. I’m under suspicion myself since I was the last one in the isolation booth with Tiffany.” I tell her about Momoa questioning me, and that it was he who showed up at our door at 5 the morning after the finale. “It’s better for me if I can figure out who killed Tiffany. If Momoa keeps sniffing around me, it might make Cantwell decide I shouldn’t wear the crown. He might give it to somebody else in the top five.” I’m suddenly inspired. “Like Sherry Phillips.” I know Shanelle’s opinion of Ms. Wyoming.
    Sure enough, Shanelle scrunches up her face as if a foul odor were pervading our room. “He wouldn’t dare. Half the synapses on that girl don’t fire.”
    “But she could be in third position.” I’ve had another inspiring idea since we’ve been talking. “You know what? You could help me investigate. You work in information technology, right?”
    “I manage the I.T. department at a bank.” Her eyes narrow. “Why do you ask?”
    “Guess what I might have in that box. Tiffany’s laptop.”
    “Are you telling me we could read her email?”
    “If you can figure out how to get into her computer.”
    I have never seen Shanelle move faster. She pushes past me and hoists the box on my bed, using her manicure scissors to slice through the shipping tape. In seconds we’re inside. And soon we’re fist-bumping each other.
    “There’s her laptop bag!” I singsong. I was right that it wouldn’t be in one of Tiffany’s suitcases.
    I’m lifting the bag out when Shanelle grabs my arm. “This is unchristian.”
    “There is nothing wrong with doing our level best to bring a homicidal maniac to justice.”
    “Well, when you put it that way.”
    We relocate to the desk, where we push the vase of yellow roses out of the way. Shanelle, by the way, was highly entertained hearing who they came from. She begins to boot up the laptop. Soon we’re asked for a password.
    “I was afraid this would happen,” I say.
    Shanelle’s fingers hover over the keys. “Usually it’s a telephone number or a birth date or a kid’s name or a wedding date.”
    “Hmmm. I use my daughter’s birth date.”
    Shanelle glances at me. “Don’t we have a list of the contestants and their contact information?”
    “That has home addresses and phone numbers. And email addresses.” I go in search of the paperwork, meanwhile trying to remember what Trixie told me Tiffany’s daughters’ names are. I read off Tiffany’s phone number.
    Shanelle types it in. “Nope.”
    “Try the work number.” That gets us nowhere. “How about her street address?”
    Shanelle tries a couple variations. “Nope.”
    “Try Ava.” The name of one daughter.
    She shakes her head.
    “Madison.”
    “No go. I’m glad this isn’t configured to lock down after a lot of mistakes.”
    “No kidding. Hey, wait a minute.” A light has gone off in my head. I jog to the bathroom and dig into my makeup