Read Online Ms America and the Mayhem in Miami (Beauty Queen Mysteries No. 3) by Diana Dempsey - Free Book Online Page A

says. “He didn’t have as many clothes as I thought he would.”
    “That’s because this is his second home.” I find that astonishing given how amazing it is. “He doesn’t live in Miami most of the time.”
    “His job is in L.A., right?” Shanelle says.
    “Yup.” That’s where Mario hosts America’s Scariest Ghost Stories . For this beauty queen, it’s Must Watch TV.
    “His bedroom has a fireplace, too,” Trixie puts in. “And a balcony.”
    “Designed for romantic interludes.” Shanelle pivots around to give me one of her trademark penetrating looks. “You best plan one of those soon with your husband, girl.”
    “Oh my Lord, look at that!” Trixie cries.
    On the street corner just ahead stands a shirtless young man with six-pack abs entertaining the crowd by cradling a writhing python in his arms.
    “We be in South Beach!” Shanelle shouts.
    I point further ahead. “Look at those women!” A trio of long-haired lovelies is strolling the streets wearing nothing but tiny bikinis and high heels. It’s the sort of thing I do only in pageant competition.
    “We’d fit in better if I had a fancier car,” Trixie moans.
    “Or at least a convertible minivan,” Shanelle says.
    “Did you see those three huge cruise ships?” I say. Maybe they account for the horde of people. I haven’t seen crowds like this since Vegas. It’s a similar glitzy party scene, though here the vibe is tropical and Latin, there are scads of roller-bladers, and the ocean breeze puts up a good fight against the hot sun. And instead of gargantuan hotels lining the main boulevard, small Art Deco buildings the color of Necco wafers are tucked in among the palm trees.
    “You best dress to impress here,” Shanelle says.
    “If you wear anything at all,” I add. “I wish I had the spray tan concession.”
    An undercurrent of sexual tension thrums through South Beach just like it does in Vegas. You get the idea lots of people are hiding a secret or two when they board their return flight home.
    “Madonna has a house here,” Trixie says. “And Cher. And Sly Stallone.”
    “Beyonce and Jay-Z come here all the time,” Shanelle says. “And doesn’t J Lo live here?”
    “Don’t mention that name,” I mutter. “She makes me think of Consuela.”
    “You really think that woman did Peppi in?” Shanelle asks. “Over a top five list? I mean I know pageant competition is fierce but still.”
    “For sure I’m going to follow up. She wasn’t at lunch with everybody else when Peppi was killed. So where was she?” I want to hear Consuela’s alibi. It better be good.
    Trixie parks the minivan and we join the pulsing mob on Jefferson Avenue, a pedestrian-only street lined with restaurants, art galleries, nightclubs, and boutiques like Sugarbabies, which is in a prime location. It boasts a chic all-white interior—which is apparently all the rage in these parts—and a spiffy new awning. But the clothes racks are half empty and the door is closed.
    “Fear not.” I peer through the front window past naked mannequins. “The official opening day is Wednesday but I bet Jasmine Dobbs is here.” As evidence of exactly that, the glam track lighting is on.
    “I’d be here if I were opening for business in four days,” Trixie says.
    I knock on the glass-paneled front door. In short order the non-Peppi half of the Heat game catfight emerges from the rear of the boutique and weaves her way past half-open wardrobe boxes toward the entry.
    “Dang!” Shanelle says. “If the clothes she sells are half as good as the clothes she wears, I’ll fly in from Biloxi to shop here.”
    Indeed Jasmine is done up in a pretty snazzy manner for a woman slaving away in a back room. She’s wearing a silky one-shoulder color-block dress in pink and maroon with a high slit up the leg that reveals black and white striped lining. As in the YouTube video she’s sporting big earrings, but on this occasion they’re drop style, with one diamond stud