by Joan Hess
“She was just trying to do something with her life,” Steve protested. “She had dreams of fame and riches, but she wasn’t any more ambitious than a lot of girls her age. And she sure had a lot of them beat for looks.”
Patti silenced him with a look that was hardly the sort to which he’d been referring. “That is not the topic of conversation,” she added coldly.
“When was the last time you talked to Cyndi?” I asked Warren.
“Right after the trip to Hollywood,” he said. His cheeks turned red and he looked down at his impeccably polished shoes. “Cyndi was scheduled for some pageant in a podunk town, and decided at the last minute not to compete. Eunice was so upset that she literally kept Cyndi sequestered in her bedroom until she agreed to break off the affair. It was probably best for everyone involved.”
“The girl was a leech,” Patti said. Steve started to protest, then closed his lips and turned away to scratch his head. Warren glanced up at his boss’s wife, his expression enigmatic rather than outraged. He, too, turned away.
“So Cyndi wanted to run away to Hollywood to be a movie star,” I said conversationally, hoping one of the three would hop back in the fray. No one seemed inclined to hop, and Luanne was frowning at her watch. I gave up on my devious ploy and said, “She may still have the opportunity, since she’s already recovering from the ill effects of the gas. However, it’s almost time for the preliminary, so I guess I’d better check with everyone.”
Everyone seemed to know what to do without my admonitions or advice. The ticket booth was manned, as was the concession stand. The flowers had been arranged on the stage, and a table had been placed in front of the first row for the judges. Mayor Avery and Ms. Maugahyder were in place, legal pads positioned and pitchers of water within reach. Squeals and shrieks drifted from the greenroom; the escorts, visibly disappointed, waited in the west corridor. Eunice stood in the middle of the stage, arguing into the auditorium about the placement of the spotlights.
“If I put in another pink gel, they’ll look like a flock of flamingos,” muttered a voice from the dark.
“Complexion is everything,” Eunice shot back. “We must enhance the rose tones of their complexions. The faint blush of a dewy rose, my dear man—not pink.”
I wandered onward and found the audio booth, which was as dreary as Caron had avowed. Said avower was perched on a stool in front of an intimidating display of switches and glowing lights. To my surprise, she was not sulking. To my greater surprise, she was wearing a Viking helmet with two horns.
“That will look dandy with the black dress,” I said from the doorway. “You’ll look like a black angus out for a night on the town. Did Luanne slip it to you as an added inducement?”
“The door in the corner leads to the prop room. I found a key in a shoebox in that pile of junk, and decided to explore it instead of studying the really, really fascinating manual on electrons in the dark ages. Anyway, the room’s covered with a zillion inches of dust and packed with all sorts of awesome stuff, like moose-heads and spears.”
“Oh,” I murmured.
“I’ve been thinking,” Brunhilda continued, tilting her head until the helmet slipped over one eye, “that I have somewhat of an innate talent for the theater. I could really get into serious drama, like Shakespeare and old plays, or one of those avant-garde thingies where everybody gets naked and nobody knows why.”
“Oh,” I murmured.
“I can see myself on stage, in the big climactic scene. The object of all my love and devotion says he’s my brother or my father or broke or already married, thus ripping my fragile psyche to tatters. Since life is no longer worth living, I take the dagger from my bodice”—she took a rubber dagger from her T-shirt—“and plunge it into my breast.” She plunged it as threatened, rolled her eyes upward, and thoughtfully toppled off the stool with a series of strangled yelps meant to convey the shredding of her psyche.
“Oh,” I murmured.
She made a few more noises as she wallowed in her version of death throes, then got up and brushed off her fanny. “I think I’ll join the drama club, Mother. I’ll get the lead in the next performance, and you can watch me die every night.”
“Oh,” I murmured, this time in farewell. I cruised back through the greenroom, across the stage where Eunice was still arguing dewy roses versus flamingos, ascertained that the judges were comfortable and equipped with necessities, and went up the corridor.
As I reached the top, I heard voices around the corner in the lobby. Although I had sworn not to involve myself in the investigation, I was curious enough to stop and listen. It was, I felt certain, my duty as assistant pageant director to keep an ear on things.
“Let me hear it one more time,” Patti said in a voice devoid of any Southern warmth.
“The affair’s been over for months,” Warren said wearily. “I was madly infatuated with her, and she’s a hot little number. I was sorry when she broke it off, but not devastated. It was just one of those steamy affairs, intense but short-lived.”
“Very good, Warren. The twins might believe you. No one any older will, of course.”
Intrigued, I crept forward. They moved away, however, and their voices were lost in the babble as the doors opened and the crowd began to drift in for the pageant. Showtime.
Several hours later I parked my car in the vicinity of the curb and went upstairs. Caron trailed after me, wailing steadily about Mac’s assessment of her fine motor skills and her lineage. I should have been offended, in that I was hardly a matriarch of any of the species that he felt had produced such an inept offspring, but I was too damn tired.
I was sipping scotch and groaning over the next day’s schedule when I heard Peter come up the stairs. I let him in, fetched him a beer, and settled down next to him on the sofa.
He studied my admittedly wan face. “A disaster, right?”
“It wasn’t on par with the Hindenburg or the ’seventy-two election. It limped along without any major glitches, although we had an incessant run of minor ones. The girls were pinker than petunias onstage—complexion being everything—and the audio was spotty. The curtain closed on approximately half of the talent numbers, which wasn’t all that tragic. We knew the damned dog would piddle in the middle of the stage, and piddle he did. In the interviews, eleven of the girls were majoring in communications but hoped to work with retarded children and do a bit of modeling. The remaining seven really, really admired Mother Teresa and the First Lady. They wanted to be surgeons, pediatricians, or just like Betty Crocker.”
“Titillating and provocative answers to tough questions.”
“No one was maimed, however, and we did achieve seven finalists for the production tomorrow night. We wiped away our tears, let the lucky finalists speak briefly into the cameras about how incredibly, totally thrilled they were, and sent everyone home. Luanne could barely hobble when I dropped her at her house; I’m worried she won’t be able to show tomorrow night. Want to come?”
He put his arm around me. “No. Want to elope to Brazil?”
“No. Want another beer?”
“No. Want to hear about the investigation?”
I gave him a startled look. “What a peculiar thing for you to say, Lieutenant Rosen. One would almost suspect you’d listened to three renditions of ‘The Impossible Dream’ and gone berserk. In that I did indeed listen to them, perhaps I’m hallucinating.”
“I am not suggesting you throw yourself into it, Claire. This beauty pageant thing escapes me, and I thought we might discuss it. You’ve had a chance to observe these people. What do you think has been going on?”
I tried to hide a tidal wave of smugness behind a pensive frown. “For one thing, Cyndi Jay seems to be somewhat different than the façade she presents to her fawning fans. Warren described her as a hot number who aspired to be a Hollywood starlet rather than a modest Miss America. When Steve attempted to defend her, Patti referred to her as, and I quote, ‘a cheap, little, two-bit schemer. ’ A
ll this about our sweet, cooperative, perky Miss Thurberfest. And Eunice said something about the girl lacking gratitude. Cyndi doesn’t seem terribly popular with those who know her best, but I don’t think she’s a likely candidate for suicide.”
“Then she’s either terribly accident-prone or she was correct when she swore someone has been trying to hurt her—or kill her.”
“There was the message on the mirror,” I said, gnawing on my lip. “It could have been written by one of the contestants, although I can’t imagine why. Luanne looked through their applications, and none of them was in a pageant before and therefore might have held a grudge. Once the judges choose the successor, Cyndi will become a nonentity, one of hundreds of thousands of small-town dethroned beauty queens, unless she wins the Big One, of course.” I hummed a few bars to clue him in on the jargon.
“Or goes to Hollywood and becomes a big star,” Peter said. “I haven’t even seen her. Is that remotely possible?”
“She’s pretty, although not breathtakingly so. I had a brief glimpse of her dancing, and it was adequate but uninspired. And I’ve been wondering all along if she was quite as sweet and sincere as she seemed, which means she’s not Oscar material. I imagine she’ll be one of the great horde of nameless, faceless girls who troop to Hollywood every year and end up as waitresses and, with luck, mute extras in crowd scenes.”
“The producers won’t drool over the opportunity to cast an ex-Miss Thurberfest?” Peter put down his beer and put his other arm around me. “I would be delighted to drool over the assistant beauty pageant director, however. I’m just a small-town cop who’s easily impressed.”
I evaded his mouth and said, “All this publicity might help her, though. If the national press picked up the story of a maniac stalking a beauty queen, they might decide to play it up for the human interest element. Even a story in a tabloid would give her an advantage over the horde.”
Sighing, he picked up his beer and leaned back without a drop of drool. “But the press is much more enchanted with hit men and political figures. We’ve already had a call or two from the syndicated press boys, wanting to know if we can confirm the Senator’s story about the shot. We can’t, of course, because we don’t have the convertible.”
If he was alluding to some individual’s lack of care in leaving car keys in an inviting location, I saw no reason to delve into it. “It’s a great big convertible, all white and shiny. It has posters taped on the door and a bullet hole in the backseat. I’m surprised you and all the king’s men can’t find it, but I’m not trained in that sort of thing. I’m sure it will turn up sooner or later.”
“We can’t find the driver, either. He was supposed to return the car at four o’clock and occupy himself hosing down pickup trucks at the back of the lot, but he didn’t appear. His boss says this is not remarkable, since Arnie has a fondness for sunny afternoons and booze. There were several comments made about the missing car and its value, and even a few mutters about the Thurberfest and a possible lawsuit.”
“Do you think Arnie hopped in the car and went for a spin?”
“I don’t know; we can’t find him. I’m sure he’ll turn up sooner or later,” he said, flashing his teeth at me.
I politely overlooked his transparent attempt to needle me. “Did Eunice have any enlightening opinions about Cyndi’s frame of mind?”
“Once I convinced her to stop bellowing insults at the light booth, I asked her what she thought. She said Cyndi was perturbed that Senator Stevenson was to participate in the pageant, because that meant the aide would be there. The affair has been over for several months, but Eunice was concerned that her gal would have limp hair from the memories. On the contrary, she didn’t seem especially concerned that her gal had almost died from asphyxiation a few hours earlier. She said Cyndi was upset about the pranks in the theater and the shot during the parade, but definitely not suicidal. On that note, she returned to insulting the ceiling of the auditorium. It was most peculiar.”
“Did you question McWethy about the incidents in the theater?”
“Jorgeson did, and learned nothing useful. The nail wasn’t sticking up earlier in the week, and the ropes were replaced last year. McWethy didn’t see any unauthorized people in the theater, didn’t write on the mirror, didn’t fire a lethal weapon at the Senator, and didn’t have any idea why the gas was on when the pilot wasn’t.”
“The mirror!” I yelped.
“As in looking glass. They apply a metallic silver substance to the back of glass, although I’m unclear on the details. I could look it up at the library if you really want to know, but”
“Was the message on the mirror when you examined Cyndi’s dressing room?”
“Had it been there, someone would have mentioned it,” he said drily. “I didn’t hear about it until you stirred yourself to report the shot. Cyndi’s door was locked at that time, and we didn’t go inside. Did it occur to you to mention the threat to us when it first was discovered?”
“Of course it did. But on the way to call you, I stopped to ask Mac about the weight, and then Luanne and I were sidetracked by Steve’s arrival.”
“An attractive variety of politician—if you like the blow-dry look.”
“I suppose so,” I said agreeably. “Then he and Eunice got into a shouting match, and Cyndi was overcome with the vapors. Rehearsal ran late. I was going to ask your advice over lunch, but I ended up running Luanne home to settle her in bed for the afternoon.” I stopped rather abruptly and looked down at the ice cube bobbing in my glass. “Then I had to drive the car in the parade, and you know everything that happened after that point.”
“So the message was wiped off between the rehearsal and your return to the theater at six. Who has a key to the dressing room?”
“Mac and Cyndi, I would guess. Mac was in the theater when Luanne and I left shortly after one. He’s difficult to spot in the shadows, but he does seem to lurk about to keep an eye on things. I doubt anyone could sneak all the way down to the basement and back without being challenged.”
“And keys to the front door of the theater?”
“Mac, again, and Luanne—but she was in bed with her ankle propped on pillows, and she gave it to me tonight so we can be sure of getting in the theater to rehearse tomorrow. I don’t know who else might have a key. Most likely, Cyndi or Eunice decided to wipe off the lipstick with a tissue so that Cyndi wouldn’t have to look at it and indulge in further bouts of hysteria.” I didn’t mention that I’d ordered the two to leave the message intact for the police, nor did I mention that Cyndi was slyly proud of her crude threat.
And I saw absolutely no reason to add that Luanne was elevating her ankle with the telephone unplugged. It was neither here nor there. She was my friend, and I was fairly certain something was wrong with her. It was connected in some opaque way with the beauty pageant. Luanne was not a petty, jealous woman, and I didn’t believe for an instant that she had anything to do with the malicious pranks or the more malevolent turn of events.
I realized Peter was regarding me curiously, and pushed my worries to a corner of my mind for later consideration. To distract him, I obligingly offered to accompany him to the hospital the following morning to question Cyndi Jay. My altruistic gesture resulted in a tedious lecture about civilian status, official investigations, meddling, and previous promises that had been made under duress and therefore not kept as well as some would have preferred. Pretty standard stuff.
I meekly acquiesced to everything he said, then announced through a yawn that it was midnight. I promised to keep my charming nose out of the official machinations, gave him a lingering kiss in the doorway, and went to my bedroom to decide how next to proceed. A gossipy chat with Patti Stevenson about Cyndi and Warren’s torrid-turned-tepid affair? A candid chat with Mac about keys and weights? A booming chat with Eunice about the lipstick on the mirror? A really, really sincere chat with Julianna and Heidi about the mood in the communal dressing rooms?
The po
ssibilities were delicious, but the proximity of the finals drove me to an uneasy sleep.
When I went into the kitchen the next morning, Caron was at the table, telephone glued to her ear. “She can’t wear that orange dress,” she said to the receiver. “And the green doesn’t make her skin look sallow. It enhances her eyes. Well, it would if she’d use more eye shadow. That Emerald Reflections with the glitter, I should think, or Mystic Sea.”
“Talking to Mary Kaye?” I asked as I put on the teakettle.
“Julianna’s in the finals, Mother,” Caron hissed at me. “She has some absolutely crazy idea about her orange dress. It makes me shudder just to imagine it, but Inez simply can’t dissuade her. Will you talk to her?”
“I think I’ll pass.” I looked through the cabinets for anything at all to eat, but they were very much in the same sad state as Luanne’s. I settled for the bottom of a vaguely blue hamburger bun and hid out in the living room until Caron stopped shrieking and hung up.
“What do the girls think about Cyndi’s accident?” I called.
Caron came into the room with the top of the vaguely blue bun and a glass of milk. “They don’t think it was An Accident, Mother. They think some horrid man tried deliberately to murder Cyndi. Dixie heard a male voice in the dressing room.”
I almost dumped my tea in my lap. “When was that?”
“How should I know? All the finalists were really relieved to know that it wasn’t one of them, because that would be too creepy for words. You can’t exactly share your blusher with a schizo, or let her zip up your dress. She might strangle you!” Caron grasped her neck and stuck out her tongue at an oblique angle. Her eyelashes fluttered wildly, although she managed to watch me all the while.
“Very good. You’re ready to graduate to poisoning and suffocation. I think I’ll have a word with Dixie before the rehearsal this morning.”
“Peter won’t like it,” she said, picking up her half-eaten bread and sprawling across a wing chair. “I heard him yelling at you last night. He’ll have an absolute fit if you interfere in his investigation.”
