Read Online Ms America and the Mayhem in Miami (Beauty Queen Mysteries No. 3) by Diana Dempsey - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Diana Dempsey
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in the lobe and another dangling three inches below from a platinum rope. Her hair is slicked back in a ponytail and her makeup is photo-shoot perfect.
She unlocks the door and sets her hand on her curvaceous hip. “Girls, the way you’re put together you just might be the perfect clientele for Sugarbabies. You cannot wait until this boutique opens, can you?”
I hold out my hand. “Jasmine Dobbs? I’m Happy Pennington, the reigning Ms. America. And these are my friends Trixie Barnett, our Ms. Congeniality, and Shanelle Walker—”
“The outgoing Ms. Mississippi,” Shanelle finishes. “You best open before Wednesday, Miss Thing, because I know I can’t wait that long.”
Jasmine cackles. “So you three are real beauty queens, huh? How’d you hear about me?”
“From Peppi Lopez,” I say.
Jasmine’s grin disappears. “That is one shady situation I do not care to discuss further. I lost half the morning talking to the cops about her.”
Though I’m glad to hear that, as it gives me a wee bit more confidence in Detective Dez, I note that Jasmine does not appear convulsed with grief at her business partner’s demise. I explain how I knew the deceased before I ask if we could come in to chat a bit.
She narrows her eyes. “You’re tripping if you think I have anything more to say in that sorry regard. And how is what happened to her your business?” Now her tone is a trifle contentious. Her cell rings and we enjoy a few beats of “What Doesn’t Kill You” by Kelly Clarkson before Jasmine turns away to take the call.
“Don’t you keep calling my ass!” she hisses into the phone. “You’ll get it when you get it.” Pause, then, “I don’t know what I’m gonna do. Don’t ask me. And don’t show your face around here,” she warns before disconnecting the call.
Whoa. Something mighty unfriendly is going on there.
Jasmine pivots back around to face us. “Look, I got a lot goin’ on—”
“It’s just that Peppi made a big impression on me and I’m sure she did on you, too.” I’m winging it here. “She spoke very highly of you,” I lie, when in fact Peppi didn’t say boo about either Jasmine or the boutique.
“You don’t say?” Jasmine gives me a skeptical arch of the brow.
Shanelle pipes up. “She said she respected how you conduct business.”
Jasmine harrumphs. “Wish my husband shared that point-of-view.”
“Girl, since when do men understand professional women?” Shanelle demands. Her kind of boldness often helps in these tricky investigative situations. “Hell, when I get promoted at work, half the time my man Lamar thinks it’s luck that did it, not how hard I been workin’ my ass!”
I pinch Trixie’s arm to keep her from protesting. I can tell she believes that story about as much as I do.
“That is exactly like Donyell!” Jasmine cries.
“So what you gonna do?” Shanelle wants to know. “Draw strength from the women around you. That’s what I say.”
“I agree. We got to have each other’s back.” Jasmine steps aside. “All right, then, come on in. I got some bubbly on ice.”
Shanelle throws me a look of triumph as she follows Jasmine inside. Trixie whispers in my ear. “Wow! Investigating while drinking champagne!”
I soon find out it’s not the cheap stuff, either. Nor are we drinking it out of paper cups, as no doubt Consuela would have preferred we do.
The rear office is small and cramped. I haven’t seen this many boxes since Jason and I moved from his mother’s house into our own place with toddler Rachel in tow. The desk barely has a square inch of surface free—what with folders and catalogs and invoices and what all. Needless to say, it’s standing room only.
I’m next to the desk gearing up to enjoy my liquid refreshment when Jasmine muscles me aside to sweep something into a drawer. I don’t get the best look at it but I could swear it’s a black and red jock strap.
I’m thinking that’s a bizarre item to have in
She unlocks the door and sets her hand on her curvaceous hip. “Girls, the way you’re put together you just might be the perfect clientele for Sugarbabies. You cannot wait until this boutique opens, can you?”
I hold out my hand. “Jasmine Dobbs? I’m Happy Pennington, the reigning Ms. America. And these are my friends Trixie Barnett, our Ms. Congeniality, and Shanelle Walker—”
“The outgoing Ms. Mississippi,” Shanelle finishes. “You best open before Wednesday, Miss Thing, because I know I can’t wait that long.”
Jasmine cackles. “So you three are real beauty queens, huh? How’d you hear about me?”
“From Peppi Lopez,” I say.
Jasmine’s grin disappears. “That is one shady situation I do not care to discuss further. I lost half the morning talking to the cops about her.”
Though I’m glad to hear that, as it gives me a wee bit more confidence in Detective Dez, I note that Jasmine does not appear convulsed with grief at her business partner’s demise. I explain how I knew the deceased before I ask if we could come in to chat a bit.
She narrows her eyes. “You’re tripping if you think I have anything more to say in that sorry regard. And how is what happened to her your business?” Now her tone is a trifle contentious. Her cell rings and we enjoy a few beats of “What Doesn’t Kill You” by Kelly Clarkson before Jasmine turns away to take the call.
“Don’t you keep calling my ass!” she hisses into the phone. “You’ll get it when you get it.” Pause, then, “I don’t know what I’m gonna do. Don’t ask me. And don’t show your face around here,” she warns before disconnecting the call.
Whoa. Something mighty unfriendly is going on there.
Jasmine pivots back around to face us. “Look, I got a lot goin’ on—”
“It’s just that Peppi made a big impression on me and I’m sure she did on you, too.” I’m winging it here. “She spoke very highly of you,” I lie, when in fact Peppi didn’t say boo about either Jasmine or the boutique.
“You don’t say?” Jasmine gives me a skeptical arch of the brow.
Shanelle pipes up. “She said she respected how you conduct business.”
Jasmine harrumphs. “Wish my husband shared that point-of-view.”
“Girl, since when do men understand professional women?” Shanelle demands. Her kind of boldness often helps in these tricky investigative situations. “Hell, when I get promoted at work, half the time my man Lamar thinks it’s luck that did it, not how hard I been workin’ my ass!”
I pinch Trixie’s arm to keep her from protesting. I can tell she believes that story about as much as I do.
“That is exactly like Donyell!” Jasmine cries.
“So what you gonna do?” Shanelle wants to know. “Draw strength from the women around you. That’s what I say.”
“I agree. We got to have each other’s back.” Jasmine steps aside. “All right, then, come on in. I got some bubbly on ice.”
Shanelle throws me a look of triumph as she follows Jasmine inside. Trixie whispers in my ear. “Wow! Investigating while drinking champagne!”
I soon find out it’s not the cheap stuff, either. Nor are we drinking it out of paper cups, as no doubt Consuela would have preferred we do.
The rear office is small and cramped. I haven’t seen this many boxes since Jason and I moved from his mother’s house into our own place with toddler Rachel in tow. The desk barely has a square inch of surface free—what with folders and catalogs and invoices and what all. Needless to say, it’s standing room only.
I’m next to the desk gearing up to enjoy my liquid refreshment when Jasmine muscles me aside to sweep something into a drawer. I don’t get the best look at it but I could swear it’s a black and red jock strap.
I’m thinking that’s a bizarre item to have in
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