by Joan Hess
“Thank you, Dear Abby. I have no intention of interfering in anything; I just thought the girl might feel more comfortable talking with a woman rather than a policeman.”
“And you promised him you wouldn’t ask one little question of anyone,” she continued solemnly. “You promised, Mother, and you’re always going on and on about keeping one’s word and being honest. Don’t you care about not lying to him?”
Ah, the perspicacity of youth. I thought of several justifications, all shaky, and a couple of self-righteous explanations, both weak. I selected the best of the lot and said, “I have no intentions of lying to him. The whole thing is a messy, ill-defined jumble of pranks, and no one’s been seriously harmed.”
“Luanne’s on crutches, Cyndi’s in the hospital, and the Senator barely missed a bullet between his eyes,” she began, unimpressed by my sophistry. “Unless the bullet was meant for you, of course.”
“Me? That’s absurd, Caron. Senator Stevenson and Cyndi are deities of varying stature; I’m a mere pedestrian in the human race. I was coerced into chauffeuring them at the last moment. No one had any reason to think I’d be in the parade—or to shoot at me.”
“Whatever, Mother.” The coldblooded wretch popped the last of the moldy bread in her mouth. “I have to go to Inez’s now. Julianna needs all the help she can get. Orange. I mean, really …” With a snort, she went into her room, and a few minutes later gave me a wave and left.
I hadn’t moved. My tea was cold, my breakfast discarded. No one wanted to shoot booksellers, I assured myself—except for illiterati and television executives during sweeps month. No one had a motive. Not that I could think of a motive someone might have for trying to kill Miss Thurberfest, charming or not. A sweet girl or an ambitious schemer.
In the tradition of fictional amateur sleuths, I fetched a piece of paper and a much-gnawed pencil, then settled down to list everybody who had the least connection to the pageant. The contestants, initially eighteen but now the chosen seven, had no motive beyond jealousy, and the shot and the gas seemed a tad extreme. Mac had no motive. Eunice certainly wanted her gal healthy and curly for the Big One. Steve Stevenson and his wife had no reason to wish Cyndi harm. Warren might have been bitter and heartbroken, but if that was the case, he was hiding it well. Very well. I wrote down Sally’s name, then crossed it out with a sigh. Mayor Avery and Ms. Maugahyder seemed a little remote from the events, although anyone who agreed to judge a beauty pageant was suspect on general principles.
The notion of hired thugs from New Jersey ( or wherever they resided in the off-season) appealed, but it only made sense in relation to the incident during the parade. Surely we would have noticed men in black shirts and sunglasses if they had wandered in to watch a rehearsal.
I wadded up the paper and threw it in the direction of the wastebasket. I made another cup of tea and was considering a visit to my place of business to assess the effects of the Gala Sidewalk Sale on my next quarterly payment when the telephone rang. Hoping it wasn’t Caron with a demand that I rush over to beat some sense into misguided Julianna, I cautiously picked up the receiver.
“Claire,” Peter said, “I need you.”
“I know you do, but I’m not ready for that kind of a commitment. Although I’m not the most self-sufficient woman of the eighties, I—”
“At the hospital. Cyndi Jay refuses to speak to anyone unless you’re present. She says you’re the only person she can trust.”
“She said that?”
His voice was not happy. “That’s what she said. I pointed out that this was a police investigation and that she had an obligation to answer my questions, but she refuses. We’ve had one round of hysterical tears thus far, and another is simmering.”
What an intriguing quandry for him, I thought with a small smile. “Gee, Peter, I wish I could help you, but I don’t want to meddle in official police business. I’d better go to the theater and see what’s happening over there. But thanks for asking.”
“I need you to come here so that I can get some answers from the girl. The Feds are here, and they are increasingly impatient to hear Cyndi’s version of the shot. Will you come over here now?”
“Wowsy, the Feds and everything. It sounds too official for the likes of meddlesome me.” I held the receiver away from my ear as he produced a string of testy words, then interrupted, saying, “If you’re absolutely positive you want me to assist in the investigation, and you aren’t going to mind that I—”
“Please come to the hospital.”
I listened to his teeth grinding for a moment. “If you insist, I suppose I’ll help this one time.” I told him I’d be there before too long, and waltzed into my bedroom much like Caron Malloy on centerstage.
EIGHT
As I went through the hospital lobby, I saw a man with a television camera and the interviewer who’d caught me in front of Sally’s cafe. I gave her a smile, received a blank look in return, and continued on to the elevators, pondering the ephemerality of fame. The nurse at the desk raised an eyebrow when I asked for Cyndi’s room, but gestured down the hallway.
Peter met me at the door. “Thanks for coming, Claire. The girl still refuses to say a word to anyone, and the boys from the FBl are ready to indict her—or throttle her. Others of us might assist.”
“I have no idea why she chose me as her confidante, but I’ll do my best.” I went to the bed and gazed down at Cyndi, whose eyes were closed. Her hair was neatly curled over one shoulder and she’d found the strength to apply makeup, but her face seemed pale. “Hi, Cyndi,” I said softly.
Her eyes opened in a mascaraed flutter. “Mrs. Malloy, how kind of you to come. I just didn’t know where to turn, and you’ve been so great.” She clutched my hand with strong, white fingers neatly capped with pink nails. “I’m frightened. There’s a madman out there who’s trying to kill me, but no one will listen to me. They all say it’s some political feud or something. It’s not, though. Make them believe me, Mrs. Malloy!”
“I’ll try. I would have thought you’d prefer to have Eunice with you, since you’ve known her so much longer.”
A conservative man in a conservative suit stepped out of a corner. “How long have you known Eunice Allingham?” he asked. A second man hovered discreetly behind him.
Cyndi blinked at me, then said, “Three years, I guess. She owns a discount beauty-supply house, and I shopped there so much we became friends. My parents died when I was twelve, and I lived with my great-aunt until I got my apartment last year. My great-aunt does her best, but Eunice has been like a mother to me. She shops with me and helps me try new hair styles. She makes sure I eat a healthy diet, so that my ends won’t split.” She delicately lifted up her hair so that we could confirm the durability of her ends.
I blinked at Cyndi. “Then why don’t you want her to hold your hand and offer moral support now?” The two FBI agents were blinking, as was Peter, but I ignored them all. “It does seem more logical,” I persisted.
“She doesn’t believe me,” Cyndi said through a sniffle. “I need someone who believes me, Mrs. Malloy, and you’re the only person in the whole, entire world that I can trust.”
Peter came to the side of the bed. “Will you tell us what happened during the parade?”
As trustee, I allowed the girl to continue clutching my hand while she recited the story of the nail, the weight, the mirror, and the shot ( fired directly at her, close enough that she felt heat on her thigh, and missing her only because of a tiny bump in the street) . We waited for her to continue, but her eyes welled with tears and she began to fumble for another tissue.
Once she’d blotted her cheeks, Peter said, “What happened in your dressing room yesterday afternoon?”
“I don’t know.”
One of the Feds let out a little explosion of breath. “You went to your dressing room to wait for the police, Miss Jay. Did anyone accompany you at that time?”
“No, everyone was too busy listening to Senator Stevenson
describe his so-called brush with death. Nobody seemed to care that I was the one who was almost killed, that I was the target of this madman on the roof. It may have been dangerous for me to go to the basement by myself, but I just had to be alone so I could figure out how to protect myself.”
“Was anyone in the basement at that time?” the second Fed asked.
“I didn’t see anyone. I was sitting at the table, looking at that nasty message on the mirror and trying to think who could be that horrid. All of a sudden, the lights went out. Mrs. Malloy can tell you that it’s like a cave down there—no windows or cracks or anything. Well, I almost had a heart attack right then. It was awful.”
The Feds moved forward, enthralled by the narrative. “And then what happened, Miss Jay?” one of them said.
“My head just exploded; it was like a light show at a rock concert. I woke up this morning in the hospital with a sore throat and the worst headache of my life. A nice young orderly had to tell me where I was—and why.”
Peter glanced across the bed at the two agents. “The doctor had no reason to examine the area until she woke up this morning and complained of the pain. There’s a contusion an inch above her right ear. The blow was enough to make her unconscious, although it wouldn’t have done any permanent damage beyond a bump and some bruising afterward.”
I sank down on the end of the bed and stared up at Peter. “Someone really did try to kill her. He knocked her out, taped the keyhole, turned on the gas, and locked the door on his way out. There is a maniac stalking this girl.”
“I knew I could count on you, Mrs. Malloy,” the victim said with a teary smile of gratitude.
“I’ll do everything I can,” I said as I patted her foot through the blanket. I turned to gaze at the Feds. “What have you found out about this sniper? Did anyone see anything or hear the gun when it was fired? How about the people along the sidewalk?”
One sucked on his lip. The other looked across the bed and said, “Does this woman ride with your posse, sheriff? Is she packing a six-shooter and a shiny tin badge?”
“I am here by invitation,” I reminded them with a cool smile. “It’s rather obvious to those who were awake for the last five minutes that someone is attempting to kill Cyndi during the pageant. She’s been trying to tell us, but we haven’t taken her seriously.” I patted her foot again. “Do you have any idea who this person might be?”
“It has to be a pitiful sex maniac,” she whispered. “I get along just great with everyone, and everyone seems to like me.”
Peter and the Feds asked her numerous questions, but she continued to swear she had no clues to the identity of anyone who might try to hurt her. She listed the pageants she’d been in over a three-year span. No, she assured us, the girls were all too nice to nurse a grudge. She was a communications major but had no problems in the department. No time for friends or outside activities, since the pageants required all her free moments. Warren had been her first and only boyfriend. She’d been really, really sad when she broke up with him, but the relationship was distracting her and concentration was, well, it was like everything in the pageants. No, she hadn’t laid eyes on him for six months, although she understood he was still the Senator’s aide and likely to be around during the Miss Thurberfest events.
She broke off the monologue and looked at me. “How did it go last night, Mrs. Malloy?”
“It went just fine,” I said mendaciously. “We canceled the opening number, since you weren’t there, and the other parts of the program went fairly smoothly. We’ll miss you tonight.”
Her face crumpled and she sank back into the pillow. “I’m truly disappointed that I won’t be there. I mean, it’s such a special moment when a reigning queen has a chance to tell everyone what a special year she’s had, and how much it’s meant to her. When she crowns her successor, I use up a whole box of tissues; I honestly do.” She fluttered at the three men. “I’d like to rest now. My head is still throbbing from that horrible gas, and I can’t think of a single thing I haven’t told you.”
Peter and his friends left the room, murmuring among themselves. As I got up, Cyndi said, “I can’t thank you enough for believing me, Mrs. Malloy. You’ve been wonderful. Could I ask one tiny favor before you leave?”
“Certainly,” I said.
“Would you bring me my cosmetic bag? One of those nurses put it away in the closet, and I hate to think what those silly old tears did to my mascara. I told Eunice to bring the waterproof kind, but she brought this cheap stuff instead.”
I found a lumpy pouch on a shelf in the closet and gave it to her. “Shall I ask a nurse to bring you something for your headache?”
“No, you’ve been too kind already. If I lie here quietly, I’ll feel better. Perhaps if you closed the blinds just a tad … ?”
I closed the blinds just a tad and tiptoed out of the room. All sorts of medical persons busily strode past, dressed in pastels. A lady in a gray dress pushed a cart piled with magazines and candybars. An orderly mopped a swath down the middle of the hall. A teenaged girl in a pink pinafore gave me an incurious look as she carried a vase of flowers to some deserving soul. Peter was nowhere to be seen.
Frowning, I went to the elevators and jabbed the button. He might have had the decency to wait for me. He might have wanted to ask my opinion. He might have introduced me to his friends, although I would have been somewhat reserved after the wisecracks in Cyndi’s room.
The elevator arrived. When the doors opened, I found myself face to face with the woman interviewer. I smiled, she looked blank, and I decided to use the stairs. Once in the lobby, I went to the pay telephone and called my clerk at the Book Depot. She reported that business was better than usual, and that a short, rosy woman who’d come by to pick up a report was very disappointed not to find one. We discussed what books might be put on the table under the portico in honor of the unreported sidewalk sale, then I hung up and walked slowly across the parking lot.
The television van was parked a few rows back. I stopped to stare at it. At some earlier time, Peter had said there’d been enough publicity already. Eunice was worried that bad publicity would mar the innocence of the pageant. Luanne had said the only scheduled press conference was the one immediately after the preliminary round.
I got into my battered car and drove to Luanne’s, my forehead still creased as I thought of all the publicity - . there’d been in the last two days. Steve Stevenson had held an impromptu interview in front of Sally’s cafe at the time of the luncheon. The press had converged on the theater less than ten minutes after Steve, Cyndi, and I had arrived in the convertible. I suspected Cyndi Jay was currently answering questions in her hospital room.
Luanne was sitting on her porch, a glass of tea in one hand and a stalk of celery in the other. With a sniff of disdain for the celery, I joined her and said, “Don’t you have any Twinkies?”
“No, and I don’t have any cellulite, either. Why are you scowling so fiercely?”
“There has been entirely too much publicity.”
“That may depend on your point of view. If you’re a candidate for political office, there’s no such thing as too much publicity. Some of those people have been known to pay good money for it, you know. They like it.”
“Every time I turn around someone’s holding a press conference,” I continued. “Before the luncheon, after the parade, after the pageant, and now in Cyndi’s hospital room.”
“I fear you may have cellulite of the brain. Here, have some celery. Did you know it takes more calories to eat celery than celery has, which means it’s a negative caloric situation?”
I told her about the interview in Cyndi’s hospital room. She was as appalled as I had been that someone had made a serious attempt on Cyndi’s life. I listed everyone I could think of with any involvement in the pageant, and we both agreed we could spot no motives.
“So what’s the deal about publicity?” she asked, once we’d abandoned the futile discussion. I told her abo
ut meeting the television interviewer and cameraman in the lobby and again in the elevator. She was not exactly dumbstruck, although she managed a faint frown for my benefit.
“Then you suspect the media are conspiring to murder Miss Thurberfest?”
“No,” I said irritably, “I was simply wondering why they’ve appeared at the critical moments.”
“Steve’s interview before the luncheon was hardly critical.”
I took a stalk of celery and bit into it with unnecessary vigor. After a minute of loud mastication, I had it. “Maybe not for him. But Cyndi found the message on her mirror that morning. She might have wanted to offer her astounding discovery to the viewing public, and then lost her chance when Steve turned on the dimples. She was watching him through the window, and she looked perturbed.”
“She may have felt she deserved some of the attention, but that doesn’t mean … whatever it doesn’t mean. She was a little bit jealous.”
“Or extremely irritated—if she’d called the press and arranged for them to show up at the cafe. They did as suggested, but found a real live political candidate and jumped him. And that afternoon when we returned to the theater, I left her alone in the office while I went to find Mac. When I came back to the lobby less than ten minutes later, there were television cameras and reporters again, all screaming questions. Cyndi must have called them; otherwise, how would they have known something newsworthy had happened?”
Luanne jabbed me with a piece of celery. “And of course she was furious when they ignored her and went for the hit-man theory. She stomped down to her dressing room to sulk, and that’s when someone bopped her.”
“One of the girls heard a male voice in the dressing room,” I added excitedly, then deflated. “But I don’t know when Dixie heard the voice. It couldn’t have been at that point, anyway, because the contestants weren’t in the theater. They were home napping or padding or gluing together split ends. I wonder whose voice she heard?”
