Murder of a Sleeping Beauty

by Denise Swanson

  CHAPTER 18

  Not a Boast of a Chance

  Saturday morning at exactly five to seven, Skye maneu vered the Bel Air into her parents’ driveway. The white pea gravel shone like a sea of pearls as she guided the huge car toward the red brick ranch house.

  It was obvious that her father had cut the lawn only yesterday. The acre of grass spread as smooth as a putting green to the edge of the cornfield.

  She hadn’t been out to visit in a while and was almost afraid to look and see what the concrete goose was wearing. A quick peek revealed a pink fur bunny costume, complete with ears and a powder-puff tail. Skye vowed to try once again to talk her mother out of dressing the lawn statuary.

  Before she had fully stopped the car, May was climbing into the passenger seat. “Let’s go, you’re late.”

  Skye put the Chevy in reverse. “Why’re you in such a hurry?”

  “I promised your dad’s cousin I’d take pictures when her granddaughter competes, and I don’t know when she’s on.”

  “It doesn’t start until nine, and it’s only an hour’s drive to Bloomington.” Skye gave up trying to explain, knowing that to her mother, “late” meant you were less than fifteen minutes early. “Which cousin is this?”

  “One on the Denison side. Her mom and your dad’s father’s first wife were half sisters.”

  Skye didn’t follow the genealogy, but asked, “What’s her name?”

  “The cousin’s name or the granddaughter’s name?” May rubbed her arms. “It’s chilly this morning. Turn up the heat.”

  “The heater doesn’t work.” She handed her mother an afghan. “The granddaughter, what’s her name?”

  “Farrah Miles.”

  Skye felt a mild shock run through her. No doubt about it, she was definitely related to too many people. “I never knew they were our relatives.”

  “Someone was recently working on a family tree and discovered the connection. It’s over a hundred years old.”

  “Mom, could you kind of keep this quiet?”

  “Why?” May narrowed her eyes. “They seem like nice people. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “It’s not that. It’s just that Farrah is mixed up with the Lorelei Ingels crowd and . . .”

  “And she’s a suspect.”

  “Sort of,” Skye admitted.

  “Okay. But it’s not as if I’m the only one who knows.”

  Skye shrugged. A secret in Scumble River had about as much chance as a weed in her father’s lawn. “Do your best.”

  For the rest of the way they chatted about family matters and the latest Scumble River gossip. The drive itself was routine: a straight shot down Interstate 55, passing little towns with unusual names—Dwight, Odell, Pontiac, and Skye’s favorite, Towanda. Meticulously kept farmhouses and fields being readied for spring planting constituted most of the scenery. Even with the highway smells, the air was fresh, with only an occasional trace of hog to remind them what was around the next bend.

  As they neared the exit for Jumer’s Hotel, the pageant location, the scenery changed from farmland to college town. Once Skye made the turn, she would never have guessed that crops would soon be growing less than a mile away.

  They parked in the hotel’s lot and hiked across the asphalt to the elaborate entrance. Jumer’s had been built to resemble an elegant French château, but the furnishings looked truer to the owner’s original German roots. The lobby was full of heavy, carved wooden furniture, elaborate artwork, and tapestries.

  Skye was relieved when May spotted a Miss Central Illinois pageant sign. She had been half-afraid that Lorna Ingels would get the governor to call off the contest and award the crown to Lorelei posthumously. Obviously that hadn’t happened. Abby had said that it was highly unlikely since the state government had nothing to do with the pageants, which were all privately run.

  Part of the contest was already over. On Friday, the preliminary competition had been held. Today were the finals. The crowning would take place on Sunday. After purchasing tickets, Skye and her mother moved farther into the convention area. Older teens and young twentysomethings scurried up and down the hall, usually followed by their mothers. One of the pair was often screaming or crying.

  Skye found the room where the first round of the finals was being held and guided her mother to a front-row seat. They had ten minutes to spare. She wondered if any of the girls from Scumble River had made the cut.

  According to the program, the girls were judged on intelligence, poise, personality, beauty of face and figure, grooming, and speaking ability. Prizes ranged from five-hundred- to twenty-thousand-dollar scholarships.

  Having seen the little girls compete, Skye was prepared for the spectacle of the older teens. May was not. Lights dimmed, and the emcee climbed onto the makeshift stage.

  He welcomed everyone, and said, “Our first round today is Modeling. Points will be awarded for beauty, grooming, and personality. Our first contestant is Caresse Wren.”

  May gasped and clutched Skye’s arm. “Do you see what that girl is wearing?”

  Caresse wore formfitting black satin pants that rode low on her hips and were connected to her skimpy halter top by silver laces. Over this was a chiffon bolero jacket trimmed in marabou.

  “Prepare yourself, Mom,” Skye warned. “That may well be one of the milder outfits. You should have seen what the little kids wore last weekend.”

  “Do you mean the twins let their daughters expose themselves in public like this?”

  “They did last weekend.”

  May sputtered. “I always knew those girls were a few feathers short of a whole duck, but I didn’t realize they were dumber than a box of hair.”

  “Lots of people do this.”

  “I wonder if Minnie knows about it.” May had a gleam in her eye, and Skye knew that her aunt, her cousins’ mother, would be informed by this evening.

  As more and more contestants came onstage, it was all Skye could do to contain her mother’s comments. Most of the teens wore incredibly titillating outfits and paraded around as if they were dancing at a “gentleman’s club.”

  When Farrah Miles was finally announced, Skye held her breath, afraid that if she were dressed too provocatively, May would charge the stage. Luckily for everyone, the girl wore a relatively modest yellow sundress with a matching hat and jacket. She still looked ten years older than her actual age, as did the other contestants, but the hooker quality was muted. May happily snapped several pictures for Farrah’s grandmother.

  The next round was Talent. Most of the girls seemed to do some variation of song, dance, or gymnastic routine, though a few performances were truly unique.

  May whispered to Skye, “Whoever let that poor girl come out here and pack a suitcase for her talent should be horsewhipped.”

  “Or forced to watch that first girl, over and over,” Skye said, agreeing with her mother. “The one who showed the video of herself doing tractor drills.”

  “True.” May crossed her arms. “When’s lunch?”

  After a quick meal in the hotel restaurant May and Skye hurried to the conference theater for the Interview competition. It was the longest segment and often the one that separated the winners from the losers.

  Skye scanned for seats in the already-full auditorium. She spotted two near the front and took her mother’s arm. May was still complaining about the prices at the restaurant.

  As the women sat down, the lights dimmed. The emcee came out, and after a brief spiel he introduced the judges. There were five. Charlie and Abby were the only two Skye recognized.

  Skye perked up when she realized that Zoë VanHorn was the first contestant. She came onstage dressed in a shocking-pink-and-black suit. The pleated skirt barely covered her derriere, and she wore nothing under the jacket.

  The emcee approached her with a broad smile. “Good afternoon. Zoë, your question is: If you were given a hundred thousand dollars and had to spend it on yourself, what would you do with it?”

&n
bsp; A murmur ran through the audience. This was a tough one. Almost anything the girl said would make her look bad.

  Thirty seconds went by, and the emcee called time. “Do you have an answer for us, Zoë?”

  Skye had never seen the teen at such a loss for words.

  Zoë fumbled with her hair and tugged at her skirt, losing points for poise. Finally, she said, “I’d use it to go to college and medical school.”

  The audience let out its breath. An acceptable answer.

  “What would you specialize in?” the emcee asked.

  Zoë blurted out, “Plastic surgery. No emergency calls to interrupt my beauty sleep.” She flashed a smile that seemed to say, see how clever I am, but no one laughed.

  Skye heard Priscilla VanHorn’s groan from three rows away.

  Her daughter must have heard it, too, because she quickly continued. “Just kidding. Really I want to ah . . . help burn victims and others with deformities.”

  The emcee raised an eyebrow, but moved on to the other contestants without comment. The next girl was asked: Why did you enter this pageant? Others were given questions such as: What can you contribute to the Miss Central Illinois pageant organization? and Who are your heroes?

  After the program ended, Skye and her mother were chatting with someone May knew as they made their way out of the theater. A commotion onstage caught Skye’s attention, and she turned in time to see Priscilla VanHorn confront the emcee. Skye edged backward toward the front.

  After a minute or so of intense whispering between Priscilla and the emcee, Skye heard, “That was an unfair question. None of the other girls were asked anything nearly as tricky.”

  The emcee replied, “As I’ve been telling you, I don’t make up the questions. The judges hand me a sheet of paper with a list of the contestants’ names and a question next to them.”

  Priscilla’s face turned red. “I see. So one of the judges had it in for my daughter.”

  “I’m sure the process is completely random.”

  “And I’m Princess Grace. I need to talk to the judges.”

  “You can’t do that, ma’am. Not until after they hand in their score sheets.”

  “Are you an idiot, or do you just play one on TV? It’ll be too late by then.” Mrs. VanHorn ran from the theater.

  Skye debated. Should she follow, or try to notify someone? Finally, she grabbed May with the intention of running after Priscilla.

  May didn’t budge. “What in the world are you doing?”

  “Hurry, Mom, I think she’s going after the judges. If she murdered Lorelei, she might do some serious harm to one of them.”

  “Who?” May had still not moved.

  “Zoë’s mother.” Skye was trying to shake off her mother’s restraining arm so she could pursue the woman alone.

  May started running, yelling over her shoulder, “When I asked Charlie to go to lunch with us, he said they had a room set aside for the judges. He pointed in this direction.”

  As they hurried along, Skye kept an eye out for an official. Of course, the halls were now deserted. Most contestants had retired to their rooms to rest before the night’s Evening Gown competition, and the audience was probably in the bar.

  Skye heard several people shouting before they rounded the corner. Security guards were holding Mrs. VanHorn by both arms, and she was swearing like a rap singer on an MTV video.

  Charlie was sitting on the floor with blood coming from his forehead. Skye and May ran up to him.

  May whipped a Wash’n Dri from her purse and ripped open the foil packet. “What happened? Are you alright?” She pressed the damp paper to his wound and ordered, “Skye, call 911.”

  Charlie stood up slowly. “I’m fine. It’s just a scratch. Don’t call an ambulance.”

  Skye put her fingers to his wrist. His pulse was rapid and weak. His color was pasty, and he was shivering. She turned to the guards still struggling with Priscilla VanHorn. “Can you get hold of Abby Fleming? She’s another one of the judges, but she’s also a nurse.”

  One of the guards nodded and spoke into his radio.

  Skye led Charlie to a chair and checked his cut. The bleeding had nearly stopped, but his breathing was shallow and his pupils dilated.

  She was trying to decide whether to go against his wishes and call 911 as Priscilla was led away by the guards, shouting, “Zoë had better win, or you ain’t seen nothing yet!”

  Abby finally arrived, complete with first-aid kit and blanket. She cleaned Charlie’s wound, had him lie down with his feet raised, and then covered him up. She tried to talk him into going to the hospital but he repeatedly refused. Abby reluctantly agreed to check back in fifteen minutes and told Skye and May to keep an eye on him.

  They all sat quietly until Charlie’s breathing was back to normal and his color was returning. He said, “She came out of nowhere. Everyone else was already in the judge’s room, but I stopped to use the toilet. She was screaming at me about her daughter’s interview question. When I said there was nothing I could do about it, she started to claw at me, like a cat out of hell.”

  “How scary,” Skye said.

  “I couldn’t do anything. I just froze. Men don’t hit women.”

  “That was the olden days, Charlie,” May said. “If a crazy woman comes after you, it’s okay to smack her.”

  “You should have seen her, May. I’ve never felt such hatred. Not even when I was in the war.”

  “And all over a beauty contest,” May tsked.

  When they got the news that Mrs. VanHorn had been taken to the police station and Zoë had been disqualified, May and Skye decided to skip the evening gown competition and leave as soon as they were sure Charlie was fully recovered. Skye tried to talk her godfather into coming with them, but he insisted he was okay and wasn’t going to ruin things for the other contestants. Abby said she would keep an eye on him and follow his car home.

  As they walked through Jumer’s parking lot, May said, “Do you remember the pageant I entered you in when you were six?”

  Skye shuddered. “Too well. I didn’t even make it through the first round. I decided then and there that since I couldn’t sing or dance and I wasn’t pretty, I might as well be dead.”

  May stopped abruptly. “It wasn’t that you didn’t win. I took you out after the first round because you seemed so scared. You couldn’t even talk, you were so upset.”

  “But I thought . . .” Skye trailed off, surprised into silence. The things you learn too late.

  They’d almost reached the Bel Air when Skye spotted Abby’s silver Camaro. The bumper sticker read: SO FEW MEN. SO FEW WHO CAN AFFORD ME. The citizens of Scumble River didn’t mess around with vanity plates, at seventy-five dollars apiece, when bumper stickers cost less than a buck.

  Skye watched her mother ease herself slowly into the Chevy, her movements a far cry from this morning when she had bounced into the car. The attack on Charlie had been hard on the older woman, and for once she looked all of her fifty-seven years.

  May was asleep before Skye exited onto the highway.

  She woke as they took the Scumble River exit. “Sorry, I don’t know what came over me.”

  “That’s okay. It’s an easy drive. Are you hungry? You didn’t have much for lunch, and we seem to have missed supper.”

  May nodded. “How about getting some ice cream?”

  “Sounds good.”

  A few minutes later Skye pulled into a local drive-in. She ordered her favorite—a marshmallow sundae. May opted for a banana split. As they ate, Skye contemplated telling her mother about Kent and her recent discovery.

  Finally, she compromised. “I’m breaking up with Kent tomorrow night.”

  “Good.”

  Trust May to eulogize a six-month relationship in one word.

  CHAPTER 19

  Here, There, and Every Affair

  After Mass Sunday morning Skye hurried toward her car while mentally listing everything she had to do that day.

  �
��Skye, wait up.”

  She paused. Simon was hurrying toward her. His Lexus was one spot over from her Bel Air in the church parking lot.

  “We need to talk about the youth committee.”

  “I thought maybe you were going to have me arrested again.”

  “That business with the tox screen was not my fault,” he declared. “If I thought you were responsible, I wouldn’t have called the police. I would have handled it myself.”

  Was that last sentence meant to be as sexy as it sounded? “Well, I guess that’s good to hear.”

  “I didn’t mention your midnight escapade with the coffin, so I don’t know why Wally jumped to the conclusion you were the thief.”

  “Thank you.” Skye felt her face grow warm. “I suppose I have pulled a couple of boneheaded capers, and I shouldn’t blame either of you for suspecting me.”

  Simon slid his fingers up and down her bare arm. “You do go a little overboard once in a while.”

  “Yeah, I get too involved sometimes.”

  “I’ve been thinking about things, and caring too much isn’t the worst trait for a girlfriend to have.”

  Skye’s face flamed at the word “girlfriend.” Was she ready to make up with Simon? What about Wally? She just wasn’t sure. What response would keep Simon interested, but not lead him on? “What a sweet thing to say.”

  “Why don’t we get together sometime next week, and talk about the youth committee . . . and other things?” Simon’s voice dropped to a seductive tone on the last few words.

  “That’d be great.” Skye was stunned by his change of attitude, and a little distrustful. What was he up to? Had he heard about Abby and Wally and felt sorry for her?

  “How’s Friday?”

  She slid into the car and closed the door. “Fine.”

  He leaned into the Bel Air. “Six, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “Good.” He placed a sweet kiss on her lips and strolled away.

  Skye couldn’t believe how hard it had been to find someone to go to Meijer Superstore with her. Normally she would have gone alone, but she was still leery of the Bel Air and wanted someone along in case it quit running or she went in the ditch or something.