Read Online Ms America and the Mayhem in Miami (Beauty Queen Mysteries No. 3) by Diana Dempsey - Free Book Online
Authors: Diana Dempsey
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Even back then I was embarrassed for him.
“Didn’t know if I had the right place,” he murmurs now.
“I don’t think you do,” Consuela says.
I hug him. “Of course you’re in the right place, Pop. Did you have any trouble finding it?”
“I guess not. Had the address written down.”
“I’m sure you’ve never been in this neighborhood before,” Consuela says.
I grit my teeth. “You need help bringing your things in?”
“Nope. I don’t have much.”
“Big surprise,” Consuela says.
I take my father by the arm. “How about I get you something to drink?”
“Don’t use glass,” Consuela says. “There should be paper cups in the kitchen.”
If I were not a guest in this home, I would deck her. I spin around. “How about you and Mariela go off on your shopping expedition? We’ll take it from here.”
Her eyes fly open. I know it’s presumptuous of me to act like the mistress of the house but I’ll do worse if Consuela lets fly one more ungracious remark in my father’s direction. She must sense I’m near a boiling point because she resettles the strap of her designer handbag on her shoulder and brushes past me. “I’ll be back later,” she calls over her shoulder.
“It’ll be lovely to see you!” I keep my tone sweet, proving I can act after all.
My father gives me a worried look. “She live here, too?”
“No, thank God. My friend Mario lives here, and his daughter Mariela when he’s in town.”
Trixie comes forward. “I’m so happy to meet you, Mr. P! I’m Trixie Barnett.” She grabs Pop in a hug and immediately puts him at ease. Now that Mario’s house is minus Consuela and Mariela, I feel my blood pressure return to a sustainable level.
We settle Pop in a lovely room with a black and white theme. Rachel and I are in the largest bedroom on this floor, which features subtle purple details and a canopy bed.
“What happened to you being nice to Mariela?” I ask my daughter.
“Yeah, that.” She sighs. “I’ll try harder.”
I hug her. Mariela isn’t making it easy for me, either.
We get something cold to drink and don’t even consider trying to find paper cups. The kitchen is as much a marvel as everything else, with white marble countertops and a natural-wood beamed ceiling and huge windows overlooking the garden.
“I wouldn’t mind washing dishes in here!” Trixie chirps.
I’m having a few domestic diva fantasies of my own. Which is particularly dangerous in my case.
“Shanelle’s landed!” Trixie cries, reading a text. “Let’s pick her up and go to South Beach.”
Rachel frowns at me. “Aren’t you supposed to be investigating? Grandpa said he’d take me to my interview but I want you to take me if you’re not investigating.”
Pop slaps the countertop. “Not that again!”
It’s my daughter who springs to my defense. “She has to, Grandpa. Take me to lunch at Chipotle and I’ll explain why. You are investigating, right, Mom?”
I assure her I am. It’s a whole new thing, this being in sync with my teenager. After making sure Pop has a second helmet and that he won’t let Rachel drive the hog no matter how much she begs, they split off.
I look at Trixie. Trixie looks at me. “You thinking what I’m thinking?” I ask.
She takes off at a dead run. “Beat you to the stairs!”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Of course I didn’t lie down on Mario’s bed!” I reach forward to the minivan’s front seat to give Shanelle a playful slap on the arm. It’s not the first semi-teasing accusation she’s made as Trixie and I described our surreptitious tour of the second floor of Mario’s home.
Shanelle looks her usual adorable self, outfitted in emerald-colored skinny jeans and an animal-print chiffon blouse with voluminous sleeves and smocked cuffs. Her hair is styled in a natural afro, held off her face by a trendy, twist-front headband. “You thought about it, girl.”
“I plead the fifth.”
“We did look in his closet,” Trixie
“Didn’t know if I had the right place,” he murmurs now.
“I don’t think you do,” Consuela says.
I hug him. “Of course you’re in the right place, Pop. Did you have any trouble finding it?”
“I guess not. Had the address written down.”
“I’m sure you’ve never been in this neighborhood before,” Consuela says.
I grit my teeth. “You need help bringing your things in?”
“Nope. I don’t have much.”
“Big surprise,” Consuela says.
I take my father by the arm. “How about I get you something to drink?”
“Don’t use glass,” Consuela says. “There should be paper cups in the kitchen.”
If I were not a guest in this home, I would deck her. I spin around. “How about you and Mariela go off on your shopping expedition? We’ll take it from here.”
Her eyes fly open. I know it’s presumptuous of me to act like the mistress of the house but I’ll do worse if Consuela lets fly one more ungracious remark in my father’s direction. She must sense I’m near a boiling point because she resettles the strap of her designer handbag on her shoulder and brushes past me. “I’ll be back later,” she calls over her shoulder.
“It’ll be lovely to see you!” I keep my tone sweet, proving I can act after all.
My father gives me a worried look. “She live here, too?”
“No, thank God. My friend Mario lives here, and his daughter Mariela when he’s in town.”
Trixie comes forward. “I’m so happy to meet you, Mr. P! I’m Trixie Barnett.” She grabs Pop in a hug and immediately puts him at ease. Now that Mario’s house is minus Consuela and Mariela, I feel my blood pressure return to a sustainable level.
We settle Pop in a lovely room with a black and white theme. Rachel and I are in the largest bedroom on this floor, which features subtle purple details and a canopy bed.
“What happened to you being nice to Mariela?” I ask my daughter.
“Yeah, that.” She sighs. “I’ll try harder.”
I hug her. Mariela isn’t making it easy for me, either.
We get something cold to drink and don’t even consider trying to find paper cups. The kitchen is as much a marvel as everything else, with white marble countertops and a natural-wood beamed ceiling and huge windows overlooking the garden.
“I wouldn’t mind washing dishes in here!” Trixie chirps.
I’m having a few domestic diva fantasies of my own. Which is particularly dangerous in my case.
“Shanelle’s landed!” Trixie cries, reading a text. “Let’s pick her up and go to South Beach.”
Rachel frowns at me. “Aren’t you supposed to be investigating? Grandpa said he’d take me to my interview but I want you to take me if you’re not investigating.”
Pop slaps the countertop. “Not that again!”
It’s my daughter who springs to my defense. “She has to, Grandpa. Take me to lunch at Chipotle and I’ll explain why. You are investigating, right, Mom?”
I assure her I am. It’s a whole new thing, this being in sync with my teenager. After making sure Pop has a second helmet and that he won’t let Rachel drive the hog no matter how much she begs, they split off.
I look at Trixie. Trixie looks at me. “You thinking what I’m thinking?” I ask.
She takes off at a dead run. “Beat you to the stairs!”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Of course I didn’t lie down on Mario’s bed!” I reach forward to the minivan’s front seat to give Shanelle a playful slap on the arm. It’s not the first semi-teasing accusation she’s made as Trixie and I described our surreptitious tour of the second floor of Mario’s home.
Shanelle looks her usual adorable self, outfitted in emerald-colored skinny jeans and an animal-print chiffon blouse with voluminous sleeves and smocked cuffs. Her hair is styled in a natural afro, held off her face by a trendy, twist-front headband. “You thought about it, girl.”
“I plead the fifth.”
“We did look in his closet,” Trixie
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