Ms America and the Mayhem in Miami (Beauty Queen Mysteries No. 3) Read Online Free PDF Page B

fool of yourself.”
    It’s not news to me that I’ve humiliated my daughter a time or two. It’s one of the main sins we moms commit.
    “But Grandpa was a cop,” Rachel goes on, preparing to cram cinnamon-dusted churro in her mouth. “Why doesn’t he like it?”
    I glance at Trixie, who’s making solid inroads on the rum-soaked sponge cake. “That’s complicated. It’s partly because he never got to do it himself. And partly because he can be a little old-fashioned and think women should only do girly things.”
    “You’ll understand when you’re older,” Trixie says. “Sometimes parents get an idea in their head what would be best for their kids to do and it’s really hard not to push them in that direction.”
    “Like Grandma pushed you into pageants,” Rachel says.
    My fork digs into the Mexican coconut flan. “Exactly. Though it’s working out pretty well, I have to say.”
    “And like you pushing me into college,” Rachel goes on. “I get it. You’re only doing what you think is right.”
    Trixie winks at me. I could kiss her. Somehow her sweet, accepting presence is making it downright easy to get along with my teenager.
    In the minivan on the way back to the hotel, I use my cell phone to google Peppi’s name. “She gets lots of hits,” I observe.
    “She is a local celebrity,” Trixie says. “Was.”
    “I want to watch her news show at 10 o’clock and see what they say about her,” Rachel says from the back seat. “I bet I know enough Spanish to understand. And it’ll help me practice for my interview tomorrow.” All discussion of bolting has ceased.
    “Good idea,” I say, but I am once again distracted, this time by Peppi’s appearance on a YouTube video from a few years before. I watch it once and then all I want to do is watch it again. With the volume all the way up this time.
    “What is all the screaming on that video?” Trixie wants to know.
    “It’s a catfight at a basketball game between Peppi and an African-American woman named Jasmine Dobbs. Somebody taped it on a cell phone. Oh my God! Did you hear that?”
    “You skank! All you ever do is thrust your vajayjay around! You think I don’t know what you’re after?” That from Jasmine Dobbs, a tall, striking woman with long straightened hair wearing a low-cut U-neck tank and the largest hoop earrings I’ve ever seen in my life.
    But Peppi gave as good as she got. “You are so lucky my ass is sober! Otherwise I would deck you so hard those implants would come flying out of your boobs!”
    “Then they throw their drinks at each other!” Rachel cries. “The people around them try to pull them apart but they can’t because they’re kicking and screaming so much! Wow! I didn’t know this stuff happened in real life!”
    My daughter may be off school but she’s getting some real-world education here in Miami. “This is not how I think of Peppi,” I remark. “She looked different then, and sounded different. Sort of”—I struggle with how to phrase it—“less classy.”
    “What was her problem with this Jasmine Dobbs?” Trixie asks.
    “I wonder.” I google that name. “She gets a fair number of hits, too. She’s married to one of the Heat players. Donyell Dobbs.”
    “I’ve heard of him,” Trixie says. “So she’s a basketball wife. Was she sitting in the front row?”
    “Almost. Peppi was, too.”
    “Maybe Peppi got a good seat because of her job in the news,” Rachel suggests.
    “Maybe.” But the proximity of Peppi and Jasmine’s seats does not explain their enmity. From that snippet of argument I’d say those two really had it in for each other.
    Interesting.
    I eye the passing scenery. We have the minivan windows open since it’s such a pleasant night. The air, with its teasing hint of the sea, is caressing my skin. It’s Friday and fairly early so lots of people are out. They’re dressed for warm weather and why wouldn’t they be? It’s November in Miami.
    A selfish part of me