CHAPTER TWELVE
Suddenly the evening is degenerating fast. Of course Mario invites Consuela to join us for dinner and of course she accepts.
Shanelle sidles next to me in the dining room as Trixie and I set the table. Naturally Consuela is keeping Mario entertained in the kitchen. “She may not have gotten her hooks into Mario back in the day,” Shanelle observes in a low voice, “but I’d say girlfriend is more than ready to rectify that mistake now.”
“You think?” I say as Consuela’s laughter burbles across the first floor. I did note she’s not sporting a wedding band. It appears she’s available. And how.
“I don’t think she’s being very subtle,” Trixie observes. Which is a nice way of saying Consuela couldn’t be more obvious if she suddenly leapt onto Mario and performed a lap dance.
“She gets one look at you staying in this house,” Shanelle says to me, “and girlfriend starts thinking she best make her move.”
Shanelle slips away as Consuela, Mario, and Mariela join us bearing plates heaped with paella. The one Consuela sets before me has twice as much food as anybody else’s. “Somehow I get the idea you’re a big eater,” she murmurs as she slithers away.
People think beauty queens aren’t insecure about their looks but let me tell you something: we’re more insecure than
anybody
. Which is why I immediately worry that Consuela has X-ray vision and can see beneath my little black dress the cellulite threatening my thighs. Which of course she wants to encourage. I am
so
glad I did a full workout today.
I am a terrible person, I decide as Consuela plunks down next to Mario. If I weren’t, I would be delighted that Mariela’s parents might get together. After all, Mariela may be a snot but even snots deserve intact families.
And I have no skin in this game, I remind myself. I’m married.
As I carefully consume a small fraction of the meal before me, Pop and Rachel return from their protracted outing.
This time Consuela is charming as can be. “How did your interview go?” she asks Rachel. “I bet you wowed them!”
Rachel manages not to faint at this unnatural exhibition. “It went pretty well,” she begins and both Consuela and Mariela pepper her with questions. I prepare a plate for Rachel while my father gets a warm welcome from Shanelle and Mario both. When Pop excuses himself to wash his hands, I’m pleased to see Mario escort him to his room, less delighted that Consuela’s eyes track Mario every step of the way.
“What took you so long to get back?” I ask Rachel during a lull in the conversation.
“Grandpa wanted to drive through a whole bunch of neighborhoods.” Rachel is inhaling her paella so fast she can barely speak. “It was fine but kind of weird. No place we went was interesting at all.”
“Sometimes what’s interesting to one person isn’t interesting to another,” Consuela says. “Or sometimes people like all the same things, like Mario and me.” Consuela winks at him as he reappears in the dining room. “I bet you’re going dancing tonight, am I right?”
“We were thinking of it,” he says.
Consuela raises her arms in the air and does a little shimmy, proving she doesn’t need a pole to shake her booty. “I love to dance!” she cries.
I can see it coming.
“Would you like to join us?” Mario asks.
“I would love to!” Consuela exclaims.
It’s official. The evening is ruined.
I try to salvage something. “How about we go to Diego’s?” Alfonso Ramos tweeted he was going there. Which means I might be able to do some investigating after all.
Consuela’s eyes fly open as if she can’t believe I’ve even heard of Diego’s. Of course I never would have if not for a certain weatherman I consider a person of interest. “If you’re with Mario and me, they
might
let you in there,” she allows.
“Diego’s is great,” Mario says. “Why there in particular?”
Since I don’t care to discuss my sleuthing objectives in front of Consuela, I decide to be evasive. “I’ve just heard good things about it.”
“I bet I know why you want to go there!” Trixie cries. “For your investigation!”
Fabulous. Here we go.
“What investigation?” Consuela wants to know.
“Not that again!” Pop shouts, having returned just in time to share his views.
Mario looks at me as he answers. “Happy is a budding amateur sleuth. She’s solved a murder or two.”
“It’ll be three when she figures out who killed poor Peppi,” Trixie says.
“How bizarre is that?” Consuela is frowning. “What business do you have involving yourself in police matters?”
“You’re telling me,” Pop says, finding the one thing on which he and Consuela Machado could possibly agree.
“I think it’s fantastic,” Rachel puts in. “It’s a lot more worthwhile than all that pageant stuff.”
“That’s enough, Rachel.” I am in no mood for another catfight between her and Mariela. “Besides, that ‘pageant stuff’ will pay for your college education.”
“What makes you think this Alfonso Ramos is the one who murdered Ms. Lopez?” Mariela asks.
“Who is he, anyway?” Consuela demands.
There’s no avoiding it now. “He’s the other weatherman at Peppi’s TV station. He did the weather for her last night.”
“And you think that gives him a reason to kill her?” Consuela could not sound more incredulous.
“Wouldn’t it be a promotion for him, Mario?” I ask. “To get Peppi’s job and do the news at night rather than in the morning? It’s a very competitive business,” I add, trying to make my reasoning sound less pathetic.
“It would be a promotion,” Mario agrees, “though that’s not much of a motive for murder.”
Great. Now I feel really lame. Which Consuela swiftly picks up on. “It’s no motive at all,” she opines. “Who knows who killed that girl but she must have done something to get herself into so much trouble.”
There’s Consuela for you. Full of compassion. Like daughter, like mother.
“I don’t know if you’re interested in a career change, Happy,” Mario says, “but if you are, TV news is something you should consider. You’d be great at it.”
I remain silent though I appreciate Mario trying to make me feel better. I’d feel better still if he said I should become a private detective when my reign is over.
“TV news! That would be a good career for Happy,” Pop says.
“At her age I don’t think it’s practical to start,” Consuela puts in. She slides her eyes to me. “You’re married, am I right? What does your husband think about this investigating of yours?”
I’m framing a reply when Pop pipes up. “He doesn’t like it any more than I do.”
“Then he should man up and tell you to stop,” Consuela concludes, managing in one fell swoop to dis both Jason
and
me.
“That doesn’t work with her,” Pop says. “I’ve tried.”
Consuela leans toward Mario and points toward me. “See? She’s stubborn.”
I must look like I’m ready to throttle Consuela because Shanelle abruptly rises and starts clearing plates. “We’ll have to tell your housekeeper that paella was fantastic, Mario. Now let’s clean up so we can go dancing. This girl is ready to get her groove on!” She busts out an impressive move as she heads to the kitchen.
In the end we have no time for a movie because it takes so long for Consuela to “pop” home to change clothes for dancing. I’m forced to admit that she returns looking sensational in a chili-pepper-red sequin sheath dress with skinny straps, a dangerously low V neck, and a mid-thigh hem.
Astonishing events continue as Mariela apparently forgives Rachel’s latest slam of pageants and invites her to make popcorn and watch a romantic comedy on the huge flat screen. I catch up with Pop in his room, where he escaped with a beer. “Are you okay with staying in tonight?” I ask him.
“I’m happy as can be.” He mutes the sound on the Heat game—his bedroom also has a flat-screen TV—as I perch next to him on the bed. “You’ve got real nice friends,” he tells me.
“I really do. I’m very lucky.”
“I’m taking more of a shine to that Consuela.”
I sigh. “Did you and Rachel have a good time today?”
“We always do. They’re going to pick her for that overseas program, you know.” He pats my leg. “She’s like her mom. She can do anything she sets her mind to.”
“Oh, Pop.” I give him a hug.
“That doesn’t mean I’m behind you looking into that murder.” He shakes his head. “That’s not for you, my beauty. Besides, you’re Ms. America now. That’s a big responsibility. That’s what you should be thinking about.”
As thrilled as I am being Ms. America—and believe me, I am—Jason was right when he said it’s not enough for me. Partly because there will come a day when I’m not Ms. America anymore. And partly because Happy Pennington wants to be known for doing more with her life than strapping on a sash and pinning on a tiara.
But that’s too big a topic to bite off tonight. “I’ll leave you to your game. By the way I chatted with Mom today. She’s doing fine.”
His gaze returns to the TV. “That’s good.”
My mom is a topic
he
doesn’t want to engage on. Since politeness requires I ask after his girlfriend, I do. “How’s Maggie?”
“Fine. Busy.”
Okay. Topic covered. I kiss his head. “Let’s go to church together in the morning. Not too early a Mass.”
That gets a smile out of him. “You’ve got a date.”
“And please check on Rachel a time or two.” I don’t want her and Mariela suddenly becoming besties and going out on the town together.
“I’ll keep an eye on them.”
I’m in a contemplative mood as I return to my room to refresh my lipstick. Pop and I may disagree on a few things but we’ve never had the friction I’ve had with my mom. For one thing we never fought about Jason. Of course Pop could’ve killed him for getting me pregnant in high school, but from the day Jason said he wanted us to get married Pop has given him credit for “doing the right thing.” My mom would rather have had every tooth in her head extracted without Novocain than have Jason as a permanent member of the family.
We have to take Consuela’s Mercedes to South Beach since we can’t all five fit in Mario’s Z8. Consuela insists he drive, of course rides shotgun, and touches his arm at 1-minute intervals whether she’s making a point or not.
South Beach at night is dazzling: eighty degrees, little white lights glittering in the palm trees, mannequins in shop windows replaced by live half-naked humans gyrating to a primal beat. On this Saturday night it’s as crowded as it was at noon.
There’s a huge line outside Diego’s but the bouncer takes one look at our quintet, slaps Mario’s back, and waves us inside. The interior is pitch black and raked by colored strobe lights. My senses are assaulted by the pounding music and the pulsing mob. I grab Trixie’s hand to keep her behind me as I try to follow Mario, who’s being pulled deep inside by Consuela. No doubt she’s trying to lose us, and would probably succeed if Mario didn’t twist around a time or two to make sure we were still behind him.
Somehow we score a booth—another perk of Mario’s celebrity, I presume—and in short order a bottle of champagne appears, complete with a sparkler on top as if it were a firecracker and tonight the 4
th
of July. Our faces glow in the crackling circle of light.
Mario pours. “What shall we toast to?”
“Leaving our inhibitions at home!” Consuela cries, and one sip of bubbly later she drags Mario from the booth to points unknown.
