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

minus a few bobby pins.
    Trixie whispers in my ear. “There’s Tiffany’s husband again. Tony Postagino.”
    So like me, Tiffany Amber had a stage surname. “Him?” I didn’t get a very good look at him the prior night. I give the once-over to a thirty-something dark-haired man walking through the lobby. He’s slightly heavyset but not bad-looking. He’s wearing a bright Hawaiian shirt not so different from Detective Momoa’s. “Those aren’t exactly widow’s weeds,” I mutter.
    “No. But what do people in Hawaii wear when they’re sad?”
    That is a true imponderable. I set my empty concoction glass back on the counter. “All right, on to the paperwork. Then I’m going to try to get away with sleeping all day.”
    An hour later, when I make it back to my room, Shanelle is there wearing a bright yellow sundress, which looks gorgeous against her mocha-colored skin.
    Her hands fly to her hips. “What did I tell you, sister?” Then I find myself being hugged even more vigorously than I was by Trixie. “I was about to lay a bet on you but you didn’t even give me time.” She pulls back and eyes my ensemble from bow to stern. “And who says rhinestones don’t go with a linen/cotton blend? You look sweeter than pie in summer.”
    “Thank you kindly.” I often get a little southern when I chat with Shanelle. I start taking off the suit. “I am whipped, though. Do you mind if I pull the drapes and have a long snooze?”
    She narrows her eyes at me. “You were awfully rambunctious last night. What was up with that?”
    “Well …” My addled brain tries to think fast. “Magnolia Flatt called me really early to come up to Cantwell’s penthouse suite.”
    “That must be a sight to see.”
    “It sure is.” I glance at the desk near the sliding glass doors. “Your laptop’s booted up, right?” Back home in Mississippi, Shanelle is some kind of computer geek. She’s on her laptop constantly, just like Tiffany was reputed to be. “Do you mind if I check out the news about Tiffany Amber before I take my nap?”
    “Be my guest.” She moves toward the laptop, clicks a few keys. “Our gal is a top story. Nothing like a beauty queen cut off in her first bloom. Or in the case of our pageant, maybe her third or fourth.”
    She chuckles and moves aside to let me sit in the desk chair. I’m now wearing the hotel’s fuzzy robe. With the tiara. For some mysterious reason I can’t bring myself to take it off. My eyes run down the first story. “So Tiffany sold real estate for a living. I didn’t know that.”
    “In Riverside County, California.” Shanelle moves away toward the bathroom. “Foreclosure central, from what I understand.”
    “It says here her husband’s a lawyer. So he must haul in the bucks.”
    The rest of the article tells me things I already know. I google Tiffany’s name, which brings up a bunch more stories with no fresh information. Then I google Tony Postagino. I don’t admit it to myself but I’m sort of investigating. One thing Pop often says: in a murder, always look first at the spouse.
    Tony Postagino didn’t have opportunity, though, because none of the husbands were allowed backstage. Almost no men were, because it was where we contestants changed clothes between competitions. It was like a women’s locker room.
    “The husband has a website,” I tell Shanelle, clicking on the link.
    She returns from the bathroom, mascara wand in hand, just in time to see a slick-looking website fill the screen. “Fine-looking graphics,” she remarks.
    Which spell out 1-216-GOT-TONY? NO RECOVERY, NO FEE. And Hablamos Espanol . “He does personal injury,” I say.
    “In other words, he chases ambulances.” Shanelle clucks her tongue. “Nice.”
    “And lucrative, probably. Although in the photo he’s wearing the exact same Hawaiian shirt I saw him in this morning.”
    Shanelle waves her wand in the air. “You cannot get a man to shop. Unless he’s gay.”
    “I feel really bad