Ms America and the Brouhaha on Broadway by Diana Dempsey Read Free Book Online Page B

found anything.”
    “No, but we learned good stuff from Oliver’s call with Enzo. And I’ve already put you two through enough. It’s time we get some shuteye.”
    Maybe it’s because I’m exhausted, but while I was crouching over that staircase I began to feel like a lunatic. Did I really drag Shanelle and Trixie to an empty theater in the middle of the night to look for clues into a death that nobody but me thinks might have been a murder? Indeed I did. And why? Because apparently I think I know better than everybody else, including New York’s Finest, the N.Y.P.D. That makes me pretty arrogant. It probably also makes me an addict. Yes, Ms. America Happy Pennington is a murder addict. It’s been a month since her last homicide so naturally her system needs a fix. Too bad Dr. Phil tapes in Los Angeles because I could use an emergency intervention. Beauty Queen Needs a Murder a Month To Keep Her Spirits High! Can Dr. Phil Break Her Homicidal Habit?
    “I’m buying dinner tomorrow,” I tell Trixie and Shanelle as we hail a cab. Even at three in the morning, we have to wait only five minutes to get one. “It’s the least I can do to thank you for coming back here with me tonight.”
    “As Rhett always says,” Trixie chirps as she climbs into the taxi, “it’s the least I could do, so I did it!”
    Twenty minutes later, as Trixie and Shanelle tuck themselves into bed no doubt dreaming of their husbands, I retire on the pull-out sofa bed acutely aware that Jason and I haven’t communicated for more than 24 hours. No calls; no texts.
    Not good. So even though it’s 3 a.m., I text my husband that I love him.
    We queens awaken to gray skies overhanging the cityscape, light snow flurries, and a shocking discovery.
    “Oh, my Lord, I can’t believe it. Look!” Trixie is yelping so frantically that I sprint out of the bathroom wrapped only in a towel to find her in the kitchen wearing a white flannel nightgown, clutching a coffee mug, and pointing at the tiny TV on the counter next to the stainless steel knife block. It’s tuned to LIVE with Kelly & Michael and you’ll never guess who’s on the show.
    Yes. Mario Suave.
    I watch, stunned, as Shanelle hikes the volume. There’s Mario, every hunky inch of him, laughing and chatting with the hosts, decked out in a perfectly tailored blue check sport coat that I bet is made of ultra-soft Italian wool. He’s paired it with a dark blue shirt, silver and gray tie, and light gray trousers. His dimple flashing, he looks healthy, relaxed, and, even though it’s January, tanned.
    Of course, he was in L.A. over New Year’s.
    Michael Strahan keeps teasing him about whether he really believes in ghosts, but clearly Kelly Ripa has had enough of that topic. “I want to know about you and Esperanza Esposito!” she cries. “We’ve all seen the tabloids.” She bats him playfully on the arm. “So what is going on there, Mr. Suave?”
    Mario gives a sheepish grin. I clutch the toothbrush I carried from the bathroom, wanting to hear his answer and yet not wanting to.
    “We’re friends,” he allows, and the crowd jeers in obvious disbelief.
    “We all think you’re more than that,” Kelly says. “And why wouldn’t we when she posts photos like this to her Instagram?”
    On screen a picture pops up of Mario and Esperanza, their heads close together and her arm around his shoulders, both of them so dazzlingly attractive even I have to admit they should just go forth and multiply.
    Mario shakes his head and keeps his lips zipped.
    “The man is pleading the fifth,” Michael says, and gets off his chair to high-five Mario. They chuckle like they’re sharing a guy joke.
    “I will tell you she’s here in New York,” Mario says, and that gets Kelly and the crowd going again. I feel a pang deep inside.
    “Well, you’re being very discreet,” Kelly says, “but she is just gorgeous, and even though I don’t know what the heck she’s saying on her telenovela Todos los