CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“Share it with me, Hector!” I implore. “It will bring us even closer.”
He glances around the lobby. “Now is not the time.”
Darn it!
“But the time will come,” he adds. “Now I must go.”
“I hope I haven’t ruined your afternoon with Consuela,” I lie.
“She’ll be fine. She wants to go sun on the beach.” He brushes my fingers with one last kiss. “May I offer you a lift somewhere?” he asks as he rises to his feet.
“Is your car here?” I ask, though I know. When he affirms that it is, I pose another question. “What kind of car do you drive, Hector?”
He frowns. “Why do you want to know that?”
“I ache to know every last thing about you,” I breathe.
Hector is undone by such lovesick dedication. This time he kisses my forehead. If Consuela were a witness to this display, she’d fling her crocodile overnighter at my head. “It’s a Maserati.”
“There’s more than one model, right?”
“Mine’s a Quattroporte Sport GT S.” He lowers his voice. “Someday I’ll take you for a ride.”
“I would love that. But what I would love even more is to know the most intimate secrets of your heart and soul.” I bat my lashes a few times for effect.
He lays his hand on his heart and takes his leave.
The second Hector squeals away in his red Maserati, I approach the valet parker who brought out Hector’s car. It happens to be the same young man who checked in the vehicle when Hector arrived. “Isn’t that a Maserati Quattroporte Sport GT S?” I ask him.
The valet looks at me with admiration. “It sure is.”
“I find those so much less ostentatious than the Grancabrios, don’t you?” I made good use of the last few minutes by doing some research on my cell phone. “And I’ve never believed their performance suffers by comparison to the Granturismo Sport.”
“It performs good enough for me!” the valet agrees.
“Are there a lot of red Quattroportes in Miami or was that the same one I happened to see here Friday?”
“Oh, it’s the same one,” the valet assures me. “It’s here every Friday.”
“Really? Does the owner ever come and go while he’s here? Like maybe go to lunch somewhere and then come back?”
“If he has lunch, he has it here.” The valet winks at me. “Just be here noon on Friday if you want to see it again.”
“Maybe I will.” I give him a smile and sashay off.
So Hector was here at the Hotel Roca, per usual, when Peppi was killed. And the valet asserts he didn’t take his car out again until he left the premises. That doesn’t preclude Hector from using different transportation to get to the pageant venue, for example Consuela’s Mercedes. I wonder if her car was valeted, too, and if so, was it in the hotel garage the whole time. That seems to me something for Detective Dez to ascertain. I’ll try to get him on it … as soon as I finish up with Ms. Machado.
The Hotel Roca’s private beach is one glorious stretch of sand dotted with oversized tangerine and white striped umbrellas. I find Consuela lying on her back in full sun wearing a teeny-tiny tribal-style bikini with bead detailing. I get her attention by standing between her and the orb she’s worshipping.
She rises to her elbows and shades her eyes. “You
again
! I told you not to follow me! This beach is for hotel guests only so you can just go!”
I ignore that. “So
Hector
is what you’re up to in the middle of the day Friday when you claim to be teaching class after pole-dancing class.”
“What’s it to you?”
“I think it’s interesting that you find it necessary to lie about your activities.”
“You are completely
loca
, you know that? I told that to Hector! You little crazy detective, you’re so convinced I had something to do with what happened to Peppi! I bet you think Hector did, too!”
“He stands to inherit a lot more of his father’s estate with Peppi out of the picture,” I point out. “Which is better for you if you can get him to marry you.”
“Why wouldn’t he marry me? I’m beautiful, I’m young, I’m fun … all the things his sourpuss of a wife isn’t!”
So Consuela
does
want to marry Hector. “Seems to me Hector’s in no hurry to get rid of his wife. What does Mario think about this affair of yours?”
She hesitates a beat too long. “He doesn’t know about it,” I conclude. “And you don’t want me to tell him.” Of course if I were Consuela, I wouldn’t tell Mario, either. If you’re making a play for a guy, don’t let him know you’re making a play for another guy at the same time. In my humble opinion, that’s not the sort of thing they like.
“Go ahead and tell Mario! What do I care?” Consuela sits up straighter and jabs her finger toward my face. “You sicced that detective on me and what good did it do you? So blab your mouth to Mario. He’ll think you’re crazy just like Hector does.”
“Well, Hector must like crazy women because I got a real strong impression just now in the lobby that he’d love to add me to his list of mistresses.”
She throws out her hands. “
Ay Dios mio
, why did I put Mariela in that stupid pageant? I wish Hector had never said a word about it! Then I never would have had to see that ugly face of yours!” She grabs a silver bell lying next to her beach blanket and rings it madly. A handsome young man wearing board shorts and nothing else scampers over carrying a small silver pail.
“What’s in there?” I ask him.
“Fiji water,” he tells me.
“Don’t talk to her!” Consuela shrieks, turning onto her stomach. “Do my butt and then get her off this beach! She’s got no right to be here! She’s not a guest at this hotel!”
“That’s all right, I’m done here.” I walk away after I watch the young man carefully upend his Fiji water over Consuela’s behind to get off the sand.
Now that’s service.
Once back in the Durango I give Detective Dez a ring. With the revelation that pole-dancer Consuela is conducting an affair with Peppi’s half brother, I am able to interest him in investigating both of their alibis.
“I’m looking forward to that cocktail you promised me,” he whispers huskily.
“You share that information with me, we’ll have that cocktail.” That’s a promise I’m willing to keep.
Once again I’m running late so I punch the address of my next appointment into the Durango’s GPS and speed across town. Again today my goal is a dance studio, but this time it’s not Luscious Lady Pole Dancing. It’s Salsa Addiction. And my instructor is Alfonso Ramos.
He’s waiting for me, dressed all in black with his satiny shirt open halfway to his navel. I get an early clue that his mood matches his dark clothing.
“You’re late,” he informs me as I race inside and deposit my handbag on one of the chairs pushed back against the wall. It’s a high-ceilinged brightly lit space with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the street and a huge dance floor. People are milling about, some practicing dance moves and others chatting. Salsa music fills the air.
“I’m really sorry,” I say. “But I’m here now. And I’m so grateful for your offer to teach me.”
“Your dress is too long. How are you supposed to dance in that?”
That didn’t occur to me when I chose my black and burgundy maxi wrap dress this morning. “It’s really easy to move in this dress. I don’t think it’ll be a problem.”
He grunts. “Whatever. We’ll have to make it work. Watch me first and then you try it,” and he proceeds to demonstrate the most basic salsa move: forward with the left foot, return it to the middle position, back with the right foot, return it to the middle position. All this while the hips and arms sway in a sensual manner.
It looks easy until I try it. On my first few attempts I feel out of balance. “Saturday night I thought I could dance,” I giggle.
“Do you want to laugh or do you want to learn?”
I’m guessing “both” isn’t the right answer. “I want to learn,” I declare.
“Then try it again. And this time don’t bounce. Keep your chin up and check your movements in the mirror to keep your body level all the time.”
On my second attempt I must show some improvement because Alfonso mutters a terse “good.” “The not bouncing is important,” he tells me, “because any move you do transfers to your partner. Now let’s try this,” and he teaches me a variation on the basic move. It’s not all that different but still it takes a while for me to feel natural doing it.
We go at it for about twenty minutes before he suggests a break. He hands me a bottle of water and takes a swig from his own.
“When do you need to get to work?” I inquire. It’s well past 3 and I know his station has a news show around 6.
“I’m done with work today.” He slams his water bottle down on the counter. “You want to talk or you want to dance?”
Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the Everglades this morning. “I want to dance,” I say, and we move on to another set of moves. They wouldn’t be so challenging if I weren’t flummoxed by Alfonso’s statement that he’s already done with work. Did he get fired? Is that why he’s in such a foul mood?
He leads me through some arm movements, and trying to coordinate those with what the rest of my body is doing is no joke. “You don’t want your arms hanging at your sides like that,” he says. “They look like limp fish. Bend your elbows at a 45-degree angle so your wrists stay centered around your torso.”
Between trying to move my arms in unison with my feet and each arm with the opposite leg, I feel like my brain is getting a workout, too.
“Think of the arm movements this way,” Alfonso says as I pant to a frustrated halt. “Pretend you’re drawing small circles with your elbows.”
Believe it or not that tip actually helps.
“Good!” he eventually says. “The movement should look easy and effortless. You’re getting better with the hips, too. You don’t want to look too proper.”
In other words, forget everything the nuns taught me in Catholic school. “How about another break?” I suggest a few minutes later. Alfonso seems a mite less sullen. Maybe I can pry some information out of him.
This time we sit down with our water bottles. We chitchat for a bit before I dive in. “I’m surprised you don’t have to go to work later. Don’t you work nights?”
“I
used
to work nights.”
“Then what happened?”
“Then I got moved back to mornings. So
she
could work nights.”
“Who’s she?” I ask, though I hardly need to.
“Perpetua Lopez Famosa.” He almost spits out all nine syllables.
“The woman who got killed?” I draw in a horrified breath. “
She
took your job?”
“She used to be a dancer for the Heat. So our news director got the bright idea to call her in to audition for the morning weather job. Can you believe that?” He glowers at me as if I were the boss who had that brainstorm. “Like being a dancer meant she knew something about doing the weather.”
I resist the impulse to point out that Alfonso has the same two items on his resumé. “You’re saying she wasn’t qualified?”
“She couldn’t spell meteorology. All she knew was how to get on her back.”
I feign astonishment. “You don’t mean she slept her way into your job?”
“I have to spell it out for you?”
I’m not sure I believe this accusation. Alfonso wouldn’t be the first man who preferred to think that a woman bested him at work only because she slept with the boss. I hesitate, then, “I’m still confused. You said she auditioned for the morning job but you also said
you
got moved back to mornings so she could work nights.”
“That’s what makes it even worse! Not only did they hire that”—he stops himself from calling Peppi by some vile epithet or other—“they gave her my job!
My
job at night! How am I supposed to go clubbing if I have to be at work every morning before the crack of butt?”
“It would be impossible,” I agree, though I don’t think that’s the sort of thing most employers worry about. I also suppose Alfonso could go straight from clubbing to work. I wouldn’t recommend it. Can you imagine how exhausted he’d be? He wouldn’t be able to tell one end of the weather maps from the other. He’d be forecasting snow for Miami. “It might be rude of me to ask”—I lower my voice—“but do you think you might get your nighttime job back now that the weathergirl got killed?”
