Death by Tiara

by Laura Levine

  “See you later,” she said to the judge with a jaunty wave.

  Before she could take two steps, however, she was intercepted by a gawky kid in a bellhop’s uniform.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” he said. “I’m afraid I can’t let you on the elevator with your garment rack. It’ll take up too much space. Just give me your room number and I’ll bring it up to you when the crowds die down.”

  Reluctantly Heather gave him her room number.

  “Be careful,” she warned. “There’s a fifteen-hundred-dollar Vera Wang gown on that rack.”

  The bellhop assured Heather he’d take the utmost care of Vera Wang.

  By now, of course, the elevator was long gone.

  Spotting Dr. Fletcher still waiting in the crowd, Heather sprinted back to his side to regale him with breathless accounts of Taylor’s many accomplishments. She was in the middle of telling him about Taylor’s performance as Turnip #3 in her elementary school production of Farmer in the Dell, when the elevator returned.

  As soon as she heard the ding of the doors opening, she made a run for it, plowing her way past several indignant moms. Somehow she managed to get us on board. She held open a space for Dr. Fletcher, but he shook his head no.

  “Ride up on an elevator with you? Are you kidding? I’d rather book passage on the Titanic.”

  Okay, so what he really said was, “Thanks, anyway. I’ll wait for the next one.”

  But we all knew what he was thinking.

  We spent what seemed like an eternity riding up in that damn elevator, packed like sardines and breathing the heady aroma of bubble gum and hair spray.

  When at last we arrived at our floor, I bid Heather and Taylor adieu and headed for my room down at the end of the hall.

  Alas, I regret to report it was not much bigger than the elevator.

  I glanced around in dismay at the sagging double bed, crammed in between two battered nightstands. And I didn’t even want to think about what kind of stains were lurking in the stiff patterned comforter.

  Across the room—all three feet away—an ancient TV sat atop a dresser built some time during the Punic Wars. Over it all wafted a fog of stale cigarette smoke.

  When I went to open the window, I discovered it was sealed shut.

  I stood there a minute, admiring my view of the parking lot, then started to unpack, hanging what clothes I could fit on the four wire hangers dangling in the closet.

  Oh, well. At least I could melt away some pounds in the Amada Inn’s sauna. If I hurried, I figured I could squeeze in a quick session.

  Stripping down to my bra and panties, I donned the threadbare bathrobe I found hanging in my closet and scooted out the door.

  No way was I about to waste time waiting for the one and only working elevator. So I proceeded to clomp down five flights of stairs to the lower level, home of the Amada Inn’s sauna, gym, and hair salon.

  As I walked along the dimly lit corridor, I heard voices coming from a room to my right. I peeked inside and saw a small office with a desk and computer and a shelving unit stocked with rhinestone tiaras and tin trophies. Sitting on the top shelf was an elaborately studded tiara, bigger than the others, with what looked like a clock in the middle.

  This had to be Pageant Headquarters.

  Two nearly identical looking blondes were working in the office. One wore a red blazer; the other wore blue. Both had tortured their hair into helmet-like pageboys, not a strand out of place.

  On closer inspection, I realized that one of the blondes, the one in the blue blazer, was the older of the two, and clearly the boss.

  “Hurry up with that Krazy Glue, Amy!” she barked at her young assistant. “The rhinestones keep falling off the tiaras.” She bent down to scrape some errant rhinestones from the carpet. “I swear, that’s the last time I ever order tiaras from Ulan Bator.”

  “I found it!” the young assistant cried, holding up a tube of Krazy Glue.

  “Good,” the older woman snapped, thrusting a tiara in her hand. “Now start gluing.”

  Scooting past the pageant ladies, I came upon the Amada Inn gym, a sorry collection of outdated equipment. No wonder it was empty.

  Beyond the gym was the hair salon. A sign on its front door informed me it was closed indefinitely for remodeling.

  At last I reached the sauna, only to discover that it, too, was closed for repairs.

  Did anything in this hotel actually work?

  I thought about exercising at the gym, but nixed that idea, given the fact that underneath my robe I was wearing only a bra and panties.

  With a sigh, I headed back to the stairwell, passing the pageant organizers’ office, where the young blonde was busy gluing rhinestones on a tiara, and the older blonde was yelling into her cellphone.

  I rang for the elevator, and waited. And waited. And waited.

  After a while I gave up and began the long trek back up the five flights of stairs to my room. Not nearly as easy as it was going down. By the time I got to my floor, I was ready to call room service for an oxygen tent. But of course, at the Amada Inn, I was sure there was no such thing as room service.

  I staggered to my room, hoping that maybe I’d sweated off a couple of pounds climbing the stairs.

  Once inside my little hideaway, I hurled myself on my bed, gasping for air, praying I wasn’t sucking in too many carcinogens from the cigarette smoke in the air.

  I was lying there, panting, when the phone rang.

  Wearily, I picked it up.

  “Jaine!” Heather’s voice came on the line a panicked screech. “Get over here right away. The Vera Wang is missing!”

  I raced down the hall to the room Heather was sharing with Taylor—much nicer than mine, by the way, with two double beds and a scenic view of the Denny’s across the street—and found Heather stomping around on her five-inch wedgies, boob implants bouncing, outrage steaming from every pore.

  “Someone stole our Vera Wang!” she cried when she saw me. “When the bellhop delivered our garment rack, the dress was missing.”

  Taylor looked up from one of the double beds, where she was trying to read Siddhartha, and sighed.

  “Calm down, Mom. It’s only a dress.”

  “It’s a Vera Wang, for heavens sake! It cost me fifteen hundred dollars.”

  “It cost Daddy fifteen hundred dollars,” Taylor muttered under her breath.

  Heather headed over to the other bed, where Elvis was busy chewing on the strap of a huge leather tote bag.

  “Naughty dog!” she tsked. “Mustn’t eat Mommy’s Gucci.”

  Wrestling it from his grasp, she fished around inside and pulled out her cell phone.

  “I’m calling 911.”

  Taylor sprang from her bed and grabbed the phone.

  “You can’t call 911 for a missing pageant gown. 911 is for emergencies only.”

  “If a missing Vera Wang isn’t an emergency,” Heather huffed, “I don’t know what is.”

  Taylor threw up her hands in disgust.

  “Why did you have to go bragging about the dress to everyone, anyway? You might as well have pinned a sign on the garment bag that said ‘Steal Me.’ ”

  “I’m sure it wasn’t stolen,” I said, eager to calm them down. “I bet someone took it by mistake.”

  “It was no mistake,” Heather insisted. “And I know exactly who took it. That redhead on line behind us. She had the nerve to call me an animal!”

  “Only after you said her daughter needed a nose job,” Taylor pointed out.

  “It was the redhead, all right,” Heather said, ignoring Taylor’s voice of reason. “And I’m calling the cops.”

  Once again, she reached for her phone. And just as one of her acrylic tips was poised to tap 911, there was a knock on the door.

  “I’ll get it,” I said. “Maybe they found your dress.”

  And indeed I opened the door to see the older blonde from the pageant office, carrying a garment bag. According to the tag on her blue blazer, she
was CANDACE BURKE, PAGEANT DIRECTOR.

  She glided into the room, tall and poised, an unflappable smile on her face. I’d bet my bottom Pop-Tart she was a former Teen Queen herself.

  “Mrs. Van Sant,” she said, holding out the garment bag, “we found your Vera Wang.”

  “Who stole it? The redheaded bitch?”

  “No one stole it, Mrs. Van Sant,” Candace cooed in slow even tones, as if talking to a cranky toddler. “The bellhop accidentally put it on the wrong garment rack.”

  Heather shot her a skeptical look.

  “How did he ‘accidentally’ take a garment bag from one rack and put it on another?”

  Another mollifying smile from Candace. Any minute I expected her to hand Heather a lollipop.

  “In the hustle and bustle of loading the racks onto the elevator, the bag fell,” she explained. “And when the bellhop picked it up, he put it on the wrong rack. It’s that simple.”

  But Heather was not convinced.

  “I still say the redhead stole it.”

  “Let’s not make any accusations we can’t back up,” Candace replied, her smile turning a tad steely. “And what’s this?”

  She’d turned her gaze on Elvis, who’d abandoned Heather’s Gucci tote and was now busy gnawing on the TV remote.

  “We can’t have your doggie damaging hotel property.”

  She walked over to Elvis, who began growling a most hair-raising growl.

  “Be careful,” Taylor warned. “He bites.”

  But Candace did not seem the least bit cowed.

  “Oh, he won’t dare bite me.”

  Then she beamed Elvis a laser glare.

  I swear, it was like holding up garlic to a vampire. Instantly Elvis dropped the remote and shrank back into the pillow shams, whimpering.

  Wow, this Candace dame was one tough cookie. I reminded myself to stay on her good side and keep my remote in perfect working order.

  After having put the fear of God into Elvis, Candace pasted her pageant smile back on and bid us a fond farewell.

  “See you soon at Mocktail Hour!” she said, heading out the door.

  When she was gone, Heather plopped down on her bed, sulking. “I don’t care what anybody says. That redhead stole the Vera Wang.”

  Taylor, meanwhile, had taken the gown out of the garment bag. She was about to hang it in the closet when she brought it up to her nose and sniffed.

  “It smells,” she said. “Of perfume.”

  She handed it to me, and I took a sniff. Sure enough, it had a sweet citrus scent.

  “Aha!” Heather leapt up from the bed and grabbed the gown. “You’re right.” She sniffed. “It does smell of perfume.” A triumphant look crossed her face. “I knew it! The redhead’s daughter has been prancing around in your Vera Wang. For all we know, the redhead was wearing it, too!”

  Her eyes burned with fury.

  “Well, if she thinks she’s going to get away with it, she’s crazy!”

  I could practically see the wheels in her brain spinning with plots of revenge.

  “We’re going to get even with that mean old redhead, aren’t we, Elvis?”

  But Elvis, tuckered from his encounter with Candace, was fast asleep, unaware of the storm clouds brewing above.

  Chapter 5

  Mocktail Hour was in full swing when I showed up at the Amada Inn’s Grand Rooftop Ballroom, a not-so-grand cavern of a space with a panoramic view of the 405 freeway. All around me, precocious teens were swilling virgin daiquiris, virgin Marys, and virgin piña coladas.

  Why did I get the feeling the drinks were the only virgins in the room?

  A buffet table had been set up off to the side, manned by the mousy blond assistant I’d seen earlier in the pageant office, now wearing a bright red blazer and a nervous smile.

  I gazed longingly at the glorious array of hors d’oeuvres on display: stuffed mushrooms, cheese puffs, Swedish meatballs, and franks-in-a-blanket.

  I was dying for a frank-in-a-blanket, but in an effort to stay as svelte as possible for that night’s dinner with Scott’s parents, I didn’t have a single one.

  Okay, so I had one. Okay, two. Okay, four, if you must know. But I was famished from trekking up all those stairs from the broken sauna.

  Next to me, Heather swatted Taylor’s hand away from a stuffed mushroom. “Do you realize how many calories are in that thing?”

  And Heather was not alone in her vigilance. Most of the moms were strong-arming their daughters away from the high calorie snacks.

  But then from down at the other end of the table, I heard a loud, braying voice. “My Gigi can eat anything she wants, and never gain an ounce.”

  We turned and saw the redhead from the check-in line, with her daughter in tow, stuffing their faces with Swedish meatballs.

  “There she is,” Heather hissed, fire in her eyes. “That awful woman from the lobby. I’m going to find out if she took your Vera Wang.”

  She was just about to stomp off when Taylor grabbed her by the elbow.

  “If you go over there and make a scene, I swear I’m going to quit the pageant.”

  “What makes you think I’m going to make a scene?” Heather sniffed, indignant.

  “Because that’s what you always do. Honest, Mom, if you go over there, I’m quitting.”

  Heather blinked, taken aback. It was clear Taylor meant business.

  “Okay, darling,” Heather cooed. “If that’s how you feel, I won’t go.”

  “Good.” Taylor nodded, relieved.

  “Jaine will.”

  Huh???

  “What do you mean?” I sputtered.

  “Wander over there and smell them. See if their perfume is the same stuff we smelled on the Vera Wang.”

  “Look, Heather. I can’t go around smelling people—”

  “I’ll pay you a hundred bucks.”

  “Just let me finish my frank-in-a-blanket.”

  And so seconds later I was ambling over to where the redhead and her daughter were sucking down hors d’oeuvres.

  I sidled near them and took a sniff, but unfortunately all I could smell were Swedish meatballs. Somehow I had to zero in closer on their necks.

  Then I got an idea.

  I walked over to the redhead, whose name, according the name tag slapped on her chest, was Luanne.

  “Omigosh!” I cried. “A bee!”

  “What bee?” Luanne looked around, alarmed. “Where?”

  I leaned in toward her neck and swatted the imaginary bee away, all the while taking a healthy sniff.

  “Oh, no!” I said, turning to her daughter. “Now it’s on your neck!”

  I then repeated the process with Gigi, who, unlike her mom, was gazing at me with unabashed cynicism.

  “I didn’t see any bee,” she said.

  “Didn’t you? I swear I saw one flying around.”

  “So then where is it?” she challenged.

  “I don’t know. It must have flown away. You know bees. Always flitting here and there. To and fro. Busy little critters. Pollinating flowers. Spreading nature’s glory.”

  I tend to babble when I’m nervous.

  But Gigi wasn’t about to let this drop.

  “What’s a bee doing inside a hotel, anyway?” Then, turning to the nearby moms and teen queen wannabes, she asked, “Have any of you seen a bee?”

  A chorus of no’s filled the air. Accompanied by lots of suspicious stares.

  “Oh, dear. I guess I was seeing spots again. It’s been happening to me a lot lately. I really must go see my doctor. Well, see you later!”

  And without any further ado, I slunk back to Heather and Taylor. I was beginning to think it would have been better if Heather had gone over and made a scene.

  “Well?” Heather hissed as soon as I returned. “Did you smell anything?”

  “Not a thing. Except Swedish meatballs.”

  “See, Mom?” Taylor said. “They didn’t take my gown.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure of
that. They probably showered off the evidence, knowing I’d be on to them.”

  The next fifteen minutes or so were spent mixing and mingling, pageant moms and daughters slugging down mocktails as they checked out the competition.

  Heather, however, barely listened to the chatter around her, too busy shooting death rays at Luanne.

  The mixing and mingling came to an abrupt halt when Candace strode over to a podium on stage at the front of the room.

  “Attention, everyone!” she barked into a microphone. “Let’s all take our seats!”

  She pointed to the rows of folding chairs that had been set up for the occasion.

  I followed as Heather nabbed us seats in the front row.

  “Welcome,” Candace said, when everyone had scurried to their seats, “to the Alta Loco division of the Miss Teen Queen America pageant. I’m your pageant director, Candace Burke.”

  She smiled coolly as pageant moms and daughters, eager to suck up to her, applauded wildly.

  “Over there behind the buffet table is my assistant, Amy Leighton.”

  The mousy blonde in her red blazer waved from behind the table.

  “And here are this year’s distinguished judges.”

  Candace gestured to the stage where two men and a young woman were sitting behind a table. Hanging from the front of the table was a satin banner, with the words ALTA LOCO TEEN QUEEN AMERICA embroidered in hot pink letters. The “i” in America, I could not help but notice, was dotted with a tiny tiara.

  “First, let’s all say hello to Dr. Edwin Fletcher, principal of Alta Loco High School.”

  I immediately recognized the skinny guy with the bow tie and wire-rimmed glasses Heather had practically knocked over in her efforts to promote Taylor. Now he gave a curt nod, his lips a thin grim line. Something told me he’d not be handing out a lot of tens.

  “Sitting next to Dr. Fletcher is former Alta Loco Teen Queen, Bethenny Martinez.”

  A Hispanic beauty in her early twenties, blessed with creamy olive skin and lush chestnut hair, Bethenny flashed an Ultra Brite smile and waved to the girls, gliding her palm from side to side, much like Queen Elizabeth waving to the commoners.

  “She’s not so hot,” Heather muttered, prompting all who heard her to wonder if she needed her eyes examined.