Ms America and the Naughtiness in New Orleans

By Diana Dempsey

(Beauty Queen Mysteries #6) Who better than Ms. America Happy Pennington to grace Mardi Gras festivities in never-say-die New Orleans? She packs good looks, party moves, and sleuthing smarts—which come in handy when the king for an elite old-line krewe is bumped off during a Carnival parade.

All too soon Happy learns the centuries-old French Quarter is not all jazz, Creole cuisine, and cocktails: evil lurks there, too, even amid the pageantry of the Big Easy’s most gleeful season. Yet no ghost, vampire or even voodoo spirit will keep our scrappy beauty queen from nabbing the killer—not when the stakes are sky-high for someone near and dear to her heart.

Find out why readers call the Beauty Queen Mysteries “super-fun reads” they can’t put down until the last page is turned ...

Author Diana Dempsey never competed in beauty pageants but she did the next best thing: she worked in TV news. After a dozen years as an Emmy-winning anchor and reporter, Diana hung up her mic to become an author of fast and fun romantic fiction. Her novels have been called “almost impossible to put down” (Romance Reviews Today), “skillfully plotted and filled with realistic detail” (Library Journal), and “spicy, sexy, and sultry” (Booklist). Romance Writers of America nominated her first novel for a RITA award for Best First Book. Another was a Top Pick of Romantic Times and a third was a selection of the Doubleday Book Club.

To find out about all of Diana’s titles, and to contact her:
Visit Diana’s website at DianaDempsey.com
Join Diana on Facebook at DianaDempseyBooks
Follow Diana on Twitter at Diana_Dempsey

• Language: English
• Publisher: Diana Dempsey
• Release date: Jan 17, 2017
• ISBN: 9780990696452

Diana Dempsey

Diana Dempsey traded in an Emmy-winning career in TV news to write fast, fun romantic fiction. Her debut novel, FALLING STAR, was nominated for a RITA award for Best First Book by the members of Romance Writers of America. It centers on the personal and professional travails—and eventual triumphs—of a primetime anchorwoman. TO CATCH THE MOON, a Romantic Times Top Pick, combines a murder mystery with a love triangle. TOO CLOSE TO THE SUN goes behind the glossy veneer of a Napa Valley winery to find forbidden love, intrigue, and betrayal. CHASING VENUS is a romantic suspense about Annie Rowell, who discovers that being a best-selling novelist can be a killer ...Since Diana enjoys the occasional well-executed murder, she's launched a cozy mystery series. MS AMERICA AND THE OFFING ON OAHU introduces beauty queen and budding sleuth Happy Pennington, who must clear her name when her fiercest competitor tumbles dead out of the isolation booth during the pageant finale. The ongoing installments are MS AMERICA AND THE VILLAINY IN VEGAS, MS AMERICA AND THE MAYHEM IN MIAMI, and MS AMERICA AND THE WHOOPSIE IN WINONA.In her dozen years in television news, the former Diana Koricke played every on-air role from network correspondent to local news anchor. She reported for NBC News from New York, Tokyo, and Burbank, and substitute anchored such broadcasts as Sunrise, Today, and NBC Nightly News. In addition, she was a morning anchor for KTTV 11 Fox News in Los Angeles. She started her broadcast career with the Financial News Network.Born and raised in Buffalo, New York - Go, Bills! - Diana is a graduate of Harvard University and the winner of a Rotary International Foundation Scholarship. She enjoyed stints overseas in Belgium, the U.K., and Japan, and now resides in Los Angeles with her husband and a West Highland White Terrier, not necessarily in that order.Diana loves to hear from readers! Visit www.DianaDempsey.com to email Diana, and sign up to her mailing list to hear first about her new releases. Also join her on Facebook at Diana Dempsey Books and follow her on Twitter at Diana_Dempsey.

Book preview

MS AMERICA

AND THE

NAUGHTINESS IN NEW ORLEANS

(Beauty Queen Mysteries, No. 6)

Diana Dempsey

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Ms America and the Naughtiness in New Orleans

All Rights Reserved

Copyright © 2017 by Diana Dempsey

This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by any means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

ISBN: 978-0-9906964-5-2

First electronic edition January 2017

Table of Contents

TITLE PAGE

LETTER TO READERS

SOCIAL MEDIA

BEAUTY QUEEN MYSTERIES

ALSO AVAILABLE FROM DIANA DEMPSEY

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

DEDICATION

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Excerpt from CHASING VENUS

Dear Reader:

Writers come in all colors, shapes, and sizes, and we differ from one another in how much we enjoy research, too. It so happens I like it a lot, and that’s true even when my subject is less colorful than New Orleans.

This city whose citizens have experienced so much joy and heartbreak was new to me. One visit allowed me only to scratch the surface. And while I had a wonderful time during the Mardi Gras season, I look forward to returning at a quieter time. I want to enjoy the museums and ride the historic streetcars up and down St. Charles Avenue. And it’ll be easier to get restaurant reservations!—though somehow Happy and her BFFs never had a problem.

I played fast and loose with a few details in service of this story. I changed the times of certain events, including parades, and renamed some oft-visited sites. Those of you who know New Orleans will quickly spy my inventions, I’m sure.

Also, the two krewes that loom largest do not exist in New Orleans at this time: the Krewe of Harmonia and the Krewe of Plutus. Who knows whether they will in the future? In New Orleans, anything can, and does, happen. That’s what makes the city so magical.

All best to you. Keep reading.

Diana Dempsey

Social Media

www.DianaDempsey.com

www.Facebook.com/DianaDempseyBooks

www.Twitter.com/Diana_Dempsey

Beauty Queen Mysteries

Ms America and the Offing on Oahu (No. 1)

Ms America and the Villainy in Vegas (No. 2)

Ms America and the Mayhem in Miami (No. 3)

Ms America and the Whoopsie in Winona (No. 4)

Ms America and the Brouhaha on Broadway (No. 5)

Ms America and the Naughtiness in New Orleans (No. 6)

Also available from Diana Dempsey

Falling Star

To Catch the Moon

Too Close to the Sun

Chasing Venus

A Diva Wears the Ring (novella)

Ring of Truth (anthology featuring A Diva Wears the Ring)

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Several people helped a great deal with the research and writing of this book. Top of the list is Tracie Richardson Donnell, a former New Orleanian who is also a wonderful friend and writer. She not only made introductions but attentively pored over the manuscript. If I made any mistakes, and I’m sure I did, they are mine and not Tracie’s.

While I’m at it, let me thank Tracie’s husband, Kelly Donnell, also a sometime NOLA man, for his insights.

A former resident of the French Quarter pitched in to help in a variety of ways, and that’s New York Times bestselling author Ciji Ware. My thanks also to Raya Albin, who worked in New Orleans as both a reporter and a lawyer and, like everyone else I spoke to, loves the city to this day.

I’m thankful to Dr. M.L. Cissy Petty, of Loyola University, educator and speaker, for her wisdom about New Orleans. And my gratitude also goes to Pam Cohn of WWL-TV, who is knowledgeable not only about NOLA but also about krewes and how they operate. She was a godsend.

My great friend Bill Fuller, TV writer and novelist rolled into one, dug out his trusty red pen for me on this book as he has on all the others. Where would I be without him? Not to mention our wide variety of festive escapades ...

I was quite the minx the last time I wrote an acknowledgments section and failed to recognize our dear friend Leo Levin, brownie maker extraordinaire. I appropriated a line of Leo’s for Ms America and the Brouhaha on Broadway as if it were my very own! Well, Leo, I’m thanking you now. After all, it’s the least I can do, so I’ll do it. ;-)

In this book’s final chapter, Trixie Barnett quotes a terrific line: If you die of old age in New Orleans, it’s your own damn fault. That pearl came from longtime New Orleans Times-Picayune columnist Angus Lind, now retired, and it’s a classic.

Finally, I had two marvelous helpers throughout the writing of this book, one with two feet and one with four. My husband Jed is here to enjoy the finale, and I thank him for his unending efforts—and his love—with all my heart. My stalwart little companion Bunter, with us for seventeen and a quarter years, didn’t quite make it till the end. Somewhere in the middle of chapter twenty-two, we had to bid him farewell. Our loss is doggie heaven’s gain.

To my sweet Bunter,

whose paw prints

will forever be on my heart

CHAPTER ONE

People of America, heed this advice. Should there come a time in your life when you need relief from your burdens, head to New Orleans. And if your woes happen to overwhelm you during Carnival season, which spans the Feast of the Epiphany and Ash Wednesday, so much the better. For if ever a metropolis were made for escaping one’s troubles, New Orleans—or the Crescent City or the Big Easy or whatever you want to call it—is it. Especially during that bacchanalian interlude that culminates in Mardi Gras, when the locals really put the F in festive.

It is this party attitude that explains why my begowned self is currently appearing on live New Orleans television with not only my fellow beauty queens Trixie Barnett and Shanelle Walker at my side, but a cocktail as well. And not a faux cocktail, either, but a full-fledged Hurricane, sporting two types of rum, grenadine, citrus juices, and a skewer teetering under an explosion of fruit garnish. The Hurricane is not New Orleans’ official cocktail—that would be the Sazerac—but NOLA is the only city in the nation to boast an official cocktail.

Now that tells you something.

Antoine Duval, the sandy-haired host of Live at 5, decked out in a tuxedo in honor of tonight’s merrymaking, pivots toward my BFFs and me. At this twilight hour we’re broadcasting from an outdoor platform in the Garden District high above famed St. Charles Avenue. The location affords a glorious view of the subject of this special telecast: the Carnival parade by the Mystic Krewe of Plutus. Revelers line the avenue to enjoy not only the floats but also the marching and jazz bands.

Last week I had no idea what a krewe even was. But now I know it’s a social club whose biggest whoop-de-do of the year is putting on a Carnival parade. And from what I can tell, partying beforehand, afterwards, and during.

So, Antoine, I say, how many parades does New Orleans have leading up to Mardi Gras? Which is, of course, French for Fat Tuesday.

Over fifty. Antoine preens with civic pride. With more than a thousand floats. And if you line up all the parade routes, it adds up to three hundred miles.

That’s amazing. It goes to show what a huge deal the parades are that local TV covers them live for hours on end. Which explains our presence. Guests like us can help fill all those hours of programming. I love how so many of the krewe names come from mythology, I go on. Greek, Roman, Egyptian—

The names are so fun and magical! Trixie giggles, her hazel eyes shining and copper-colored hair very stylish with its new pixie cut. Cleopatra, Athena, Pygmalion, Morpheus—

And Nyx and Endymion and Pontchartrain. Shanelle is particularly lovely tonight with her Afro held off her face by a sparkly gold headband. Maybe she can pronounce that last krewe name so easily because it’s also the name of a local lake and her hometown of Biloxi is only a hundred miles away. So she sort of grew up in these parts. Or maybe she’s just great at pronunciation. After all, she is one of those rare peeps able to whip off my surname of Przybyszewski.

Truth be told, I haven’t deployed that four-syllable behemoth since my mom got me into pageantry. I protested mightily when she began stoking rhinestone ambition deep in my soul, but look where it’s gotten me. Now I proudly wear the Ms. America crown. Five months into my reign, it still stuns me that Ohio’s Happy Pennington is the titleholder for the nation’s leading pageant for married women.

Let’s just hope I can keep the tiara atop my brunette head. My pageant owner has been less than thrilled with me lately and the state of my marriage is—how shall I put it?—precarious.

You ladies might be visiting from out of town, Antoine says, but you’ve certainly embraced the Carnival spirit.

I gesture to our gowns. Are you referring to these? All three are identical in style, with a rhinestone brooch securing the sideswept waist and the soft fabric dipping low and sexy in the back. But in honor of Mardi Gras’ trademark colors here in NOLA, Shanelle’s gown is purple, Trixie’s is green, and mine is gold. Am I right, Antoine, that this trio of colors was selected way back in 1872? I can’t resist showing off my research at least a little.

Yes, by our first Rex, our first king of Carnival.

Purple for justice, Shanelle says.

Green for faith, Trixie adds.

And gold for power, I finish off. The colors are everywhere this time of year, decorating homes, people, pets, businesses, and of course the floats rolling up and down the avenues. And let me add that we’re just thrilled to be honorary guests of the Krewe of Harmonia this year.

We can’t wait to ride in their parade next week, Trixie goes on. It’s right up our alley since we represent the Ms. America pageant. After all, Harmonia is the Greek goddess of harmony and concord, particularly in marriage.

I won’t mention the irony that Harmonia was born after Aphrodite had an adulterous affair with Ares. We still have to finish making our tiara throws for the parade, I say instead. It’s so fun that we beauty queens get to decorate tiaras.

The throws are a highly entertaining element of the parades. The krewe members playfully toss all manner of items out to the crowd and everybody goes crazy trying to catch something. Strings of beads are the most common throw, but it sure doesn’t stop there.

Antoine launches into Mardi Gras lore and Trixie and Shanelle get into peppering him with questions. I allow myself to sit back and listen.

It almost feels like the first time I’ve relaxed since the Krewe of Harmonia invited us to New Orleans. The request for our presence came in pretty late as these things go, and since I’d never been here before I wanted to bone up on this US city so unlike every other.

Shall I count the ways in which New Orleans stands alone? Let us begin with its French and Spanish roots and strong ties with Africa and the Caribbean. Then we can move on to its amazing architecture, extraordinary food and music, and ongoing flirtation with the paranormal, from ghosts to vampires to voodoo. I love how this city embraces pretty much everything that diverges from the norm, which makes it such a draw to creative types. And beyond all that, there’s its phenomenal ability to come back from disasters that are truly epic in scale, from outbreaks of yellow fever to devastating fires, floods, and, yes, hurricanes. A lesser city would’ve surrendered a few centuries ago. But not New Orleans. Not only does it fight on, it does so with a cocktail aloft and beads looped around its neck.

Around here people say Laissez les bon temps rouler! That’s French for Let the good times roll! So even though, or maybe because, the city lies five feet below sea level and faces a worsening threat from rising waters, and who knows what else, its spirit remains unbowed.

Fatalistic? Maybe. But how can you not love it?

Antoine’s voice breaks into my thoughts. It’s almost here now. The float bearing the king of the Mystic Krewe of Plutus.

I see it on the TV monitor set up across our platform. Antoine, how does the krewe select the king?

Well, usually they choose a local luminary. But every so often, like this year, the selection is a nationally known celebrity who’s also a native son.

I know you have to be a big shot just to be a member of an old-line krewe like Plutus. Until the early nineties, you had to hail from one of the right families, in other words, rich and white. Eventually people got fed up with all that and now the krewes must be more open. But still they can be pretty secretive.

The mob below is increasingly raucous as the king’s float nears. Who can blame them? Lots of these folks have been camped out for hours, even all day. I giggle as I watch kids blow their purple and green trumpets, adults grab for beads as if their lives depended it, and everybody pretty close to delirious with all the noise and fun.

Antoine raises his voice over the hubbub. Can you guess why the cornucopia of grain is associated with Plutus?

He’s the god of wealth. Clearly Trixie did her homework, too. Of course she’s never one to rest on her Ms. Congeniality laurels. And we all know that the cornucopia symbolizes the abundant blessings of wealth.

And guess who’s super blessed? The man the Krewe of Plutus chose as this year’s king. I’m guessing everybody (but me) is really stoked because, as Antoine said, this guy is a native and a big-name celebrity all rolled into one. Yes, the man of the hour is none other than famous actor and local boy Dennis Garrity.

I apologize that I cannot hide a certain snarkiness toward Mr. Garrity. Ever since his reality show had the nerve to come on the air directly, and I mean directly against the show hosted by one Mario Suave, he has annoyed me. Especially since his show is beating Mario’s in the ratings. Don’t ask me how a show called Who Among Us? could prevail over a show called America’s Scariest Ghost Stories. The premise isn’t even believable, in my opinion. It profiles people who embrace the vampire lifestyle. I mean, really. Who does that?

I get so upset when I think about it. I cannot help but remember last month in New York, when among other highly revealing confessions Mario admitted to me that he was worried about his show’s ratings. He feared the network might move the show to another night, which could prove its death knell.

I am well aware that I shouldn’t be getting all het up about this. After all, when I got home from Manhattan I forced myself into Mario Rehab, a treatment program for those of us addicted to all things Mario Suave. (In my case I had to get off a dangerous path—one that could even have ruined my marriage given how vulnerable I am to Mario’s charms.) Even though I myself concocted the Mario Rehab rules, the regimen is severe. No social media: no liking, no following, no snapping, no pinning, no nothing. No surfing the web for news updates. I’ve asked Trixie and Shanelle to avoid mentioning Mario’s name. I don’t even allow myself to watch Mario’s show anymore, which makes me feel especially bad because what if Nielsen is monitoring my set? I could unwittingly be helping to torpedo Mario’s ratings, which would truly be tragic.

Anyway, in the aftermath of this purge I have no clue what’s up with Mario. He could be anywhere, doing anything, and I wouldn’t know it. I do not allow myself to think about him, though as you can tell I’m not very good at that. This last minute I’ve been pondering him so intently that Shanelle just had to pinch my thigh to get my attention. I swing my head left to find her dark eyes boring into mine.

Antoine wants to know if you’ve dined at Le Comte yet, she says.

I’m dying to! I lie, and smile brightly in Antoine’s direction. "If we can snag a reservation. Since Dennis Garrity is king of the Krewe of Plutus this year, his restaurant is the hottest place in town."

I’ll pull a few strings for you ladies. Antoine winks. And you can all have a Vampire’s Punch on me.

Le Comte is a French restaurant with a vampire theme. Fictional and supposedly real bloodsuckers are what made Dennis Garrity famous, so I suppose the concept makes sense. Anyway, for Mario’s sake I hate to support the restaurant.

Oops. I thought of Mario again.

I force myself to shove him and his Latin sexiness out of my mind. Actually it’s not that hard, since I do get swept up in the crowd’s jubilation as the king’s float nears. A close-up shot appears on the monitor, and now that it’s pitch dark out the float looks extremely dramatic all lit up.

This float is a real classic, Antoine says with admiration. Decades old. Clearly it was built to last. The chassis isn’t as big as we see nowadays, but still I find it very impressive.

I must agree. The float has only one level, dominated by a gold throne upon which Dennis Garrity has planted his middle-aged butt. But behind the throne is an attention-getting tableau.

Life-size golden statues depict a toga-clad Plutus with a laurel wreath atop his head. He’s distributing gold coins to similarly attired mortals, men and women, young and old. Some look virtuous but some appear downright malevolent, leering at Plutus even as he gifts them with riches.

I don’t understand what’s going on in that tableau, Trixie says.

Antoine has a ready answer. Mythology has it that Zeus blinded Plutus so he would distribute wealth indiscriminately, to those who don’t deserve it as well as to those who do.

That sounds like something Zeus would do, Shanelle says. I’m more an Achilles fan, especially when Brad Pitt plays him in the movies.

As Antoine laughs, I imagine Pitt instead of Garrity atop this float. After all, he may not be a native, but he’s tried to help NOLA in all sorts of ways. And he’s far better eye candy than Garrity, who’s let himself go in recent years. Couldn’t he at least have dyed the gray in his mussed brown hair for his stint as king?

I know I’m not being fair. I just don’t like the guy.

He is strikingly dressed, in a white toga with black and gold embroidery at the hem and gathered waist. He’s also sporting a gold crown, leather wrist cuffs, and gladiator sandals, but what really catches the eye is the outsized medallion hanging from a chain around his neck.

Tell us about that medallion, Antoine, I say.

It’s very famous. His tone is reverent. The cameraman, who’s hearing us through an earpiece, zooms in for a close-up. The only person ever allowed to wear the medallion is the king of the Krewe of Plutus, on parade night. It’s centuries old and comes from Greece itself. Of course the medallion is real gold. You’ll note that it’s as big as my fist and quite bulky and has an ornamental oval on one side made of blue ceramic.

The cameraman returns to a wider shot and I realize the float is close enough to our platform that we can see it clearly. We twist away from the monitor to watch it approach.

Garrity is alone atop the float, and as we’ve seen other kings and queens do, he lifts a flute of champagne toward the cheering onlookers held at bay by waist-high barricades. At that moment, sparkler fireworks in brilliant gold shoot up from all four corners of the float. The crowd shrieks in exhilaration, which I’d do, too, if I weren’t wearing a mic.

Hail, Plutus! Antoine booms.

Hail, Plutus! Trixie, Shanelle, and I repeat, raising our Hurricanes in the air.

Plutus has had some popular kings in its day, but few to rival Dennis Garrity. Antoine practically has to shout to be heard over the crowd. And boy, I’ve always loved the sparklers on this float, from when I was a kid. I remember—

I don’t catch the rest of Antoine’s remarks, even though he’s sitting right next to me, for in that instant a ball of fire erupts from the float and a thunderous boom rents the air. I swear that I feel a wave of heat slap my face.

Oh my Lord, what was that? Trixie cries from Antoine’s other side.

My thudding heart and I are pretty sure what that was, but I don’t want to even say the words. I grab for Shanelle, whose hand latches on tight.

Now the crowd isn’t roaring. It’s screaming, the sort of frenzied high-pitched screams that come from shock and fear.

Because it’s all too clear what happened here. An explosion happened here. And it seemed to be centered right on the float carrying Dennis Garrity. I throw a frantic glance at Shanelle, who looks petrified. I bet she’s thinking what I am: that might not have been the only explosion. More might follow. When these horrible things occur, they often come in twos or even threes. And here we are, so close, and down below us are all those other innocent people, even closer.

Everyone, remain calm, Antoine exhorts. But I hear the barely concealed panic in his voice. I feel dread coming in waves from the people on the avenue, where pandemonium reigns.

I struggle to find my voice. It’s so hard to grasp, how in one second everything can turn from joy to terror. There’s so much smoke! I don’t know how I manage to spit out the words, since the air is now so choked that it’s hard to speak. What can you make out, Antoine? I can’t really see much of anything.

I lean forward and squint in the direction of the float, my eyes tearing from the smoke. But now that it’s dissipating a bit, I almost wish it weren’t. For in the ashy blackness left by that dreadful burst of flame, I find only emptiness where Dennis Garrity used to be.

CHAPTER TWO

The next minutes swim by in a rush of sound and fury: helicopters thudding overhead, sirens wailing, armored vehicles swarming, disembodied voices booming from police bullhorns, people yelling as they stampede from the scene. A flinty smell that I associate with fireworks hangs in the smoky air. Producers and techs crowd onto our broadcast platform. Clearly their first priority is to hustle Shanelle, Trixie, and me off the set.

I understand why. This is not a party anymore. This is a crisis, possibly a terrorist event. Now Antoine is every inch the self-possessed newsman as he reports on the events going on around us.

As we three queens are stripped of our mics, I see on the monitor that one of the station’s reporters, down in the melee, is on the air. Antoine uses that break to rise to his feet and clasp my hands. You ladies go straight home. And don’t go out again tonight.

You don’t have to tell us twice, Shanelle says.

You be careful, too, I say, though I’m well aware there’s little any of us can do to protect ourselves from follow-on explosions. And Antoine and his entire crew have to stay put in this highly exposed spot.

With those terrifying thoughts in mind, we make our way down from the platform to the street. People laden with picnic baskets, coolers, ladders, and folding chairs stream past us in both directions, parents pulling frightened children by the hand, seniors struggling to walk just that little bit faster.

I feel like Scarlett O’Hara in that scene where Atlanta’s burning and everybody’s trying to get out whichever way they can, Trixie says.

Shanelle gets her bearings first and points toward the river. Let’s go back to the house that way. The crowds are thinner.

Trixie and I fall in behind her, all of us hoisting our gowns to keep from tripping. Fortunately, the home where we’re staying is also in the Garden District, so we don’t have far to go. Until this minute, I couldn’t walk through this area without gawking at the nineteenth-century mansions that line the avenues, but now the beauty fails to distract me. All I want is to get indoors as quickly as possible. All I want is to feel safe.

Which is why I feel more than the usual surge of joy when I spy our home away from home, a circa 1847 beige clapboard mansion that its owners describe as a raised Center Hall cottage. This is a cottage like the White House is a family home. Surrounded by an ornate latticework fence, this is 6600 square feet on half an acre, with four bedrooms, four baths, and a sizable guesthouse, as if anybody would ever need it. A deep porch the width of the home is set off by Corinthian columns. The façade is dominated by floor-to-ceiling paned windows with crown moldings and black shutters, draped inside by voluminous ivory-colored silk that crashes onto the hardwood floor.

To make the house even more spectacular, it’s decorated for Mardi Gras. Purple, green, and gold beads dangle from the fence; garlands in those same hues festoon the porch railing; and matching wreaths with gold masks at their centers hang on the glass-paneled double front doors.

I always suffer a wee crisis of confidence when I enter this home. It is so elegant, with so many moldings and such luxurious furnishings that I always feel a bit like an imposter. Should little old middle-class me be walking on this impossibly shiny hardwood? Should I be sitting below crystal chandeliers in antique chairs upholstered with brocade and velvet, gazing at oil paintings whose frames alone I probably couldn’t afford?

Then I remind myself that this is one of the delectable perks of my Ms. America titleholder status. The Krewe of Harmonia invited Trixie, Shanelle, and me to be its honorary guests, and the owners of this home—close pals of one of the krewe’s leading lights—invited us to stay here. In their absence, mind you. Even though clearly they love Mardi Gras decorations, they can’t stand the hullaballoo of Carnival and so decamp every year to the Caribbean.

Their loss is our gain.

It’s only once the home’s front doors are bolted shut behind us that I breathe easier. Standing in the central hall, which runs the full length of the house from front to back, I stretch out my right hand and hold it level. I think I’ve finally stopped trembling.

"I don’t want to tempt