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

the camera. Big broadcast camera with a huge lens. Behind me. Then to the side of me. Now in front of me. Shooting all my bikinied action, up and down and up and down my body.
    And not just mine. Mr. Six-Pack Abs, too.
    Then I see the two of us up on the big screen. Ms. America and a man who is most assuredly not her husband. And—I hate to say it—but we look like we’re appearing in a What Happens In Vegas, Stays In Vegas ad.
    Except we all know it doesn’t really work that way.

CHAPTER SIX

    “Who the heck knows what moral turpitude is, anyway?” Shanelle asks me.
    It’s early evening and we’re cabbing it to Cassidy’s apartment. I’m getting my first taste of Las Vegas beyond the Strip and after the afternoon’s events I’m ready for a break from the neon and the naughtiness.
    “There’s a clause about it in my Ms. America contract.” I’m such a worrier that I pulled the document up on my laptop after I got back to the hotel. “I just hope my dancing with that guy doesn’t violate it.”
    “I don’t see why it would. Lighten up!” Shanelle gives me a playful slap on the thigh. “You did nothing illegal, immoral, or unconstitutional. So forget it. Nobody’ll see that video anyway.”
    Hard as I try, I cannot convince myself that few Americans tune in to a cable show featuring nearly naked people drinking, dancing, and making out. Plus the DJ knows who Shanelle and I are: he made a point of getting our names. I understand I didn’t do anything actually wrong in dancing with the buff guy. But viewers might well get an eyeful of our poolside action and conclude the two of us engaged in mattress dancing as well. And we beauty queens know one thing for sure: sometimes appearance is everything.
    A few minutes later our cab stops at the address Cassidy gave us. It’s a neighborhood of mid-sized apartment buildings with a few bungalow-style houses squished in between. The environs are grotty enough that I would forbid Rachel from walking around at night. The Webster Garden Apartments, where Cassidy lives, are a compound of two-story stucco buildings in a vibrant terra cotta color, except for those places where the paint has chipped off. The landscaping is heavy on cacti, pretty standard around these parts.
    “Let’s get this over with,” Shanelle says as we pay the cabbie, “so we can get back to the Strip and get us some dinner. We need calories for those dance rehearsals.”
    Those start tomorrow. Trixie will miss the first one because she won’t arrive from North Carolina till the afternoon. Her manager at the bridal-wear shop is only too happy to give her time off for Ms. America bookings. It’s the same for Shanelle and me: our employers enjoy the cachet our beauty-queen status confers. Usually they don’t pay us while we’re gone but very often they let us go. It’s a compromise I’m happy with.
    “So you’re clear on your marching orders?” I whisper to Shanelle as we stand outside Cassidy’s door.
    “At some point, engage her in one-on-one conversation so she doesn’t notice that you’ve gone AWOL to sneak around.”
    That’s about the size of it. In my detective work, I try to keep it simple.
    Cassidy lets us into her apartment wearing a lacy camisole and denim shorts of the 1-inch-inseam variety. If she bends over far enough, I suspect I’ll get a view of not only Paris but the entire Riviera. Immediately I see she’s renting a one-bedroom, isn’t the tidiest of housekeepers, and has a cat, who scuttles away as I approach.
    “I only got her out of the shelter a few weeks ago,” Cassidy says. “She’s still nervous.”
    “That’s nice that you rescued her,” Shanelle says.
    “Yeah, I help out there when I can. Either of you want a beer?”
    “Sure!” I reply for both Shanelle and me. Neither of us is a beer drinker but I want to be hospitable. Cassidy heads to her shoebox of a kitchen.
    I glance around. The furniture is neither stylish nor new but one item sticks