Free Ms America and the Mayhem in Miami (Beauty Queen Mysteries No. 3) by Diana Dempsey Page B

says.
    “But information rich.” I cock my chin up the street. “Let’s get lunch and I’ll bring you up to speed.”
    We settle at an outdoor table at a Brazilian restaurant and order everything grilled—chicken, steak, and sea bass—with plantains and charbroiled veggies on the side. I relate what Campshirt Man told me.
    “That story might not have a speck of truth to it,” Shanelle says. “Personally I would not put it past Ms. Dobbs to use Peppi as a scapegoat for her own financial woes.”
    “Especially now that Peppi’s not here to defend herself,” Trixie points out.
    “A business arrangement gone bad could be a motive for murder.” I sip my soda water with lime, a good antidote to the bubbly still streaming through my system. “Though if Peppi’s dead she’ll never put up her share of the money.”
    “Maybe Jasmine didn’t think it through,” Trixie says. “Didn’t you say yesterday you think Peppi’s murder was a crime of passion?”
    Our lunch arrives and we dig in. Somehow everything being grilled makes me feel like it’s lower calorie. “I wonder what the landlord meant by the so-called gravy train that’s supposed to roll in for Peppi,” I say during a rare lull when my mouth isn’t full.
    “Maybe it’s her inheritance from Don Gustavo,” Trixie breathes. “Last I heard, he was at death’s door.”
    “If I can get Paloma alone tomorrow at the funeral lunch, maybe I can probe the inheritance issue.”
    “Why not?” Shanelle says after I explain to her who Paloma is. “It’s not like that’s a sensitive topic or anything.”
    “I will have you know, Ms. Walker, that in the course of my investigating I routinely get people to share highly confidential information with me.”
    “You’re good at that, too, Shanelle,” Trixie says. “You knew just what to say to Jasmine to get us inside her boutique.”
    “That was easy as pie.” Shanelle sips her iced tea. “Just ask yourself why a woman like Jasmine Dobbs would open a boutique. She doesn’t need to work. So she’s doing it for identity. Self-respect.”
    “Something to call her own, she said.” I ponder that. “I can really see there’d be two sides to marrying somebody famous and successful, like an NBA player.” Like Mario Suave , a little voice says in the back of my head. “On one hand, a man who could have anybody picks you, so you’d feel pretty special. But on the other hand, you spend all your time in his shadow.” In my marriage, that’s what Jason has to put up with, I realize, as I have long enjoyed some celebrity from my successful pageant career. I’m a little shocked that I haven’t fully grasped that before.
    “Every woman needs something of her own,” Shanelle opines. “You cannot base all your identity on your man or your children. That is a recipe for heartache.”
    “I agree,” Trixie says, then her face falls. “I used to get that from competing in pageants and working at the bridal shop. Now there are no more pageants to compete in and I lost my job.”
    I rub her arm. “That means you’re ready to start a new chapter in your life, Trixie. This time in Miami is perfect for thinking about what you want that to be.”
    “We’ll help you, girl,” Shanelle says. “You got a lot going for you so there are a gazillion possibilities in your case.”
    “I hope so.” She looks teary for a moment then brightens. “At least I’m really happy at home. To me Jasmine seemed not totally sure about her husband.”
    “That’s another reason she’d have that boutique,” Shanelle says. “As a backup plan for the high likelihood that her marriage does a belly flop.”
    “Those basketball wives have to worry about that big-time,” I say.
    “Which is a prime reason they hate the dancers,” Shanelle says. “I sure as heck wouldn’t want gorgeous women in skimpy clothes gyrating themselves in front of my husband every day of the week.”
    “I wouldn’t, either,” Trixie says.