Free Ms America and the Villainy in Vegas (Beauty Queen Mysteries No. 2) by Diana Dempsey Page B

Happy Pennington”—Trixie gives me a playful poke in the arm—“I hope you finally believe in destiny because there is no other way to explain the Sparklettes booking. It is obvious that the fates have conspired to keep you in Las Vegas so you can solve the murder of the best man from Sally Anne’s wedding and burnish your reputation as the beauty-queen sleuth. Oh my word!” She pivots me toward the window so she can peer at my face in the strong afternoon sunlight. “What have you been doing to your skin? Your pores are as tiny as pinpricks!”
    Cryotherapy strikes again. I explain how the treatment works while we make our way to the hotel cab line.
    “Could you get Frank to let me try it, too?” Trixie wants to know.
    “I can ask.” All three of us settle in a cab’s rear seat and I give the driver the address Sally Anne gave me. “What about you, Shanelle? You want to try it, too?”
    “No way. I do not believe black people are meant to get that cold.”
    Mood-boosting though I have found cryotherapy to be, my spirits sink as we arrive at the Desert Paradise Funeral Home, a drab low-slung structure that seems an unlikely gateway to eternal bliss. And while wakes are depressing even if they’re crowded, they are downright wretched if almost nobody shows up. Yet, sadly, that is the case for Danny Richter, whose near and dear apparently number in the single digits.
    The mourners include Frank and Sally Anne and a 50-something woman I learn is Danny’s mother. My heart breaks for her as I watch her sob quietly into a Kleenex. There is no Cassidy in sight.
    We offer our condolences and glide past the casket. I note the embalmer has taken care that Danny will not go to his reward with a black eye. It’s been hidden under several layers of the sort of foundation I slather on for pageant competition.
    As our trio moves further afield from the deceased, I realize anew that solving murders is not just about showing how clever you are. It’s about delivering justice to the victim. Danny deserves that as much as anyone.
    We accept coffee and shortbread cookies from a portly man in a dark suit whom I take to be the funeral director and contemplate the would-be bride and groom from a distance. I detect a chill between them. More than once Sally Anne murmurs something to Frank only to have him turn away without reply.
    “What is going on between those two?” Trixie whispers.
    “I for one do not foresee a second attempt at a wedding,” Shanelle mutters. “The bloom seems off that rose.”
    I down my cookie. “I’m going to work the room,” I murmur, and set off to engage a few of the assembled in conversation. In short order I learn that several of Danny’s casino coworkers are in attendance, as well as a friend or two from high school.
    The low attendance is a definite negative investigation-wise. I’d hoped I’d encounter someone who would generate a lead I could follow. No one I’ve spoken to either seems to have a killer gene or has spilled any useful information about Danny’s life. Unfortunately, that means this queen is flummoxed.
    The event does perk up when Cassidy breezes in. Though she’s wearing neither short shorts nor a corset, I do not judge her attire to be appropriate for the occasion. She is squeezed into a leopard-print mini dress paired with over-the-knee boots. She throws a glance at me, another at Frank and Sally Anne, then sashays over to the casket. Knowing what I do of Cassidy, I would not expect wailing and gnashing of teeth. Nevertheless I am surprised when she pauses for about two seconds before making a beeline for the guestbook. She scribbles something and bolts.
    I go after her. “Cassidy, I know it’s not really my business—”
    “No, it’s not.” She keeps moving.
    I follow her out to the parking lot and buttonhole her next to her beat-up Corolla. “You know, Danny’s mother is in there. It would be nice for you to say something comforting to her about her