by Joan Hess
“When?” Luanne demanded. “How?”
“This afternoon. Someone tied a hair-dryer cord around her neck before turning on the gas.”
A uniformed police officer came into the office. “The Lieutenant would prefer that no one discuss the incident until he’s had the opportunity to question each of you individually. He wants you to wait in the auditorium.”
“I’m not going back in there,” Heidi said. The others nodded. The policeman studied them for a moment, no doubt better trained to deal with school children at crosswalks and jaywalkers. “No way,” Heidi added with a sniff. Six more noses sniffed disdainfully. Caron and Inez merely blinked.
While he contemplated how best to handle the impasse, I sat down on the corner of Luanne’s desk. “In half an hour the pageant crew will arrive, and not too long afterward an audience of three to four hundred friends and doting relatives will storm the doors.”
“We’ll have to cancel as quickly as we can.” Luanne picked up the telephone receiver, but the policeman came across the room and took it from her hand.
“Lieutenant Rosen says not to let anyone do anything until he gets here, ma’am.”
“But that’s absurd. There’s been a murder here, today, in this building. A girl is dead. We can’t simply go about our business as if nothing unusual has occurred.”
“Lieutenant’s orders are not to let anyone do anything until he gets here,” the policeman repeated.
“I’m not going through with this,” Julianna squeaked. “I can’t go up on the stage and wink at the judges knowing that Cyndi’s …”
“Me, neither,” Heidi said. “Chou-Chou has a terribly delicate constitution.”
Bambi shook her head. “I’m trembling too hard to twirl anything. I probably can’t even zip my zipper or put on earrings. I want to go home.”
“So do I,” Lisa said. The second Lisa began to cry. The girls crowded around her, sending dark looks at the policeman.
The impasse was escalating into open warfare. I cleared my throat and said, “We have more than an hour before the pageant begins. I’m sure Lieutenant Rosen will allow us time to cancel before everyone arrives. Now all of you—sit!”
They sat. I slumped on one end of the couch and tried to think. I had gotten nowhere when I heard Peter’s voice in the lobby. The policeman was not keen to allow me out of the office, but Peter opened the door and crooked a finger at me.
“Mrs. Malloy, I’d like to speak to you,” he said.
I fluttered my fingers at Cerberus and went through the door. Peter and Jorgeson stood near the concession stand. Neither smiled as I joined them.
I was asked to repeat my story, which I did. “I don’t know if I heard Cyndi enter the theater at one,” I added, “but it seems logical. McWethy said he was in the prop room, and the finalists had already left.”
“But you didn’t see anyone?” Peter said.
“No, but it’s not all that odd. I’ve been using the east corridor since the office is on that side. All Cyndi—or whoever it was—had to do was slip down the west corridor and cut across the front of the auditorium to the basement stairs. I left within minutes of hearing the door, and at that point Mac was the only one in the theater.”
Jorgeson flipped open a notebook. “According to his initial statement, McWethy came in at eight-thirty and left for lunch at one-fifteen or so. He came back at five forty-five to unlock the doors for the finalists and the production people. He then went to the lighting booth to adjust some gels so that he wouldn’t have a bunch of flamingos flapping around the stage.” He stopped and reread the last few words, his lips moving silently. “I don’t know why he’d have any birds, Lieutenant. There’s a yappy little dog swimming in piss in a box in the greenroom, but no birds that I found.”
“Can anybody confirm McWethy’s alleged movements?”
“Not really. He said he wandered down the street to check out the festival. He saw a few thousand people, but he doubts anyone could swear he was in any particular place at one time. It’s pretty crazy out there, what with the noise, confusion, crowds, and free-flowing beer. It’ll be damn hard to confirm an alibi unless he asked somebody the time.”
“How long had Cyndi been dead?” I asked.
Peter flashed his teeth, but the gesture lacked warmth. “Ah, our Miss Marple of Thurber Street is at it again, Jorgeson. If she says one more word no matter how innocent, I want you to take her to the station and hold her as a material witness in a murder investigation.”
“You want I should call around for a warrant?” Jorgeson murmured. “I can think of two or three judges that would sign one, as a personal favor.”
I was formulating a response to their adolescent remarks when Luanne hobbled across the lobby. “What am I supposed to do about the pageant, Peter? I’ve got seven semihysterical girls moaning in the office, and not one of them is the least bit interested in becoming the new Miss Thurberfest. We’ve got to get the word out immediately that the pageant is canceled.”
“That’ll take the heat off someone’s burner,” I said. “Cyndi announced on the news that she was going to expose the maniac who’s been trying to kill her. I still think she and an accomplice staged some of those pranks for the publicity. She didn’t stage the final one. No one, not even a delusional beauty queen, can strangle herself with an electrical cord.”
Luanne poked me with the tip of her crutch. “So the murderer had to silence her before the pageant. Isn’t that rather obvious?”
“What about her accomplice? Wouldn’t he be equally panicked when Cyndi announced she was going to make startling revelations at the pageant?”
“It’s the same person,” Luanne said. She stopped for a moment to think it over, then said, “Are you saying Cyndi had both an accomplice and someone trying to kill her?”
Peter glowered. “How many people do you have in the cast of this fantastical conspiracy? What about the eighteen girls in the preliminary? Do you want us to bring in the thousands of people on the street for questioning? What about those who stayed home and therefore have no alibi?”
I was denying mental malfeasance when Steve Stevenson, his wife, and the twins entered the lobby. Patti held the twins’ hands in a tight grip, and they looked properly subdued after the earlier scolding. Little blue eyes were alertly casing the joint, but little pink tongues were restrained by angelic smiles.
Steve held out his hand to Peter. “I’m sorry I missed you this afternoon, Lieutenant Rosen. The primary’s less than a month away and personal contact makes a world of difference in the final tally.”
Peter shook the proffered hand. “We came by to discuss the shooting incident during the parade, but you’ve no doubt already heard that the bullet was a blank.”
“Patti told me what you said. I’m shocked that Cyndi would take that kind of crazy risk simply to get publicity,” he said with a sad smile. “I feel in some way responsible for her actions; I suggested her name to the film commission, which led to the trip and her grandiose scheme of becoming a Hollywood starlet. I hope you won’t deal too harshly with her, Lieutenant.”
“She must be stopped, however,” Patti said. “Even though the bullet was a blank, it could have done some damage had it hit someone. And this nonsense with the gas heater in the dressing room—that could have resulted in a serious tragedy.”
“Ah, well, it has,” Peter murmured.
While he told them what had transpired in the last forty-five minutes, I went back to Luanne and said, “So do we postpone the pageant?”
“We have no choice, Claire. Even if the police allowed us to use the facility, the girls certainly aren’t going to participate. If you and I were the only contestants, we’d both end up as runners-ups.” She rubbed at the black shadows beneath her eyes. “I feel dreadful about Cyndi. She shouldn’t have returned to the theater, but that doesn’t mean she deserved what happened to her. She was young and pretty, and now she’s dead.”
“Which is why we can’t let
the murderer get away with it,” I said in a low, cold voice. Jorgeson’s shoulders twitched as he moved away with great nonchalance to study the popcorn machine.
Luanne gave me a piercing look. “We? Why don’t you say that a little louder so that Peter can hear you? You know how delighted he is when he thinks you’re meddling in a police investigation.”
“Who’s meddling? I simply think we ought to assist the police, who have no idea of the identity of the murderer. It’s not necessarily a maniac off the street. It could be someone in this building.”
“Someone in this building?” she echoed incredulously.
“It’s a better theory than the maniac one. Every one of us had some free time this afternoon, you know. Warren and Steve took the twins to the street festival, and Steve has admitted he was wandering around shaking hands. Warren could have slipped the pony man a few bucks to keep the girls occupied. Patti was alone in the hotel room. Mac says he left the theater for lunch and didn’t return until time for the pageant, but he doesn’t have a solid alibi. Eunice drove away in her Cadillac three hours ago; maybe she deduced the location of Cyndi’s hideout and came here to plead the case for the Big One. One of the finalists could have gotten hold of a key. I went home and took a nap.” I took a deep breath and forged ahead. “You had your telephone unplugged. You could have come back to the theater and bumped into Cyndi.”
“Curiouser and curiouser,” she said. Her voice hinted at anger as she added, “Why would I have wanted to bump into and subsequently bump off Cyndi Jay?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know why anyone wanted to murder her, but someone did.”
“Oh, go home and unplug your brain.” Luanne hobbled as furiously as possible toward the office, her crutches leaving a trail of crescent-shaped indentations in the carpet.
When I rejoined Peter, I saw that Warren had arrived in time to hear the news. He looked ill, his face mottled and his lips trembling. Patti clung to her husband’s arm. She looked somewhat composed, but a nerve twitched along her jawline and her white fingers dug into Steve’s sleeve. Steve had a hand on his forehead, and his voice cracked as he said, “I can’t believe this. She was such a vivacious thing, so full of energy and dreams.”
“I wish I hadn’t spoken so sharply,” Patti said with a small choking noise. Her fingernails bit into her husband’s arm so deeply I feared for the Italian silk. She locked eyes with him for a moment, then shuddered and said, “Warren, take the girls down to the auditorium and let them play on the stage. I don’t think I can handle them at the moment. I need to—I need to sit down.” Her knees buckled, and Steve caught her arm before she crumpled. Peter took her other arm, and the three moved slowly toward the office.
Warren glanced at the twins, who were occupied trying to find ingress to the concession stand and several shelves of candybars. “This is so terrible, Mrs. Malloy,” he said. “Who could do such a thing?”
“The police are as eager as you to find that out. I suppose this is hardest on you, since you and Cyndi were so close.”
“That’s right.” He gave me a fleeting look before turning back to watch his charges. “We had an intimate relationship for several months.”
“Did she have her apartment then? Is that where you … spent time together?”
“She moved into it a month or so after we began dating. When I was in town, we stayed there. She occasionally visited for a weekend at my apartment. Does any of this matter—now that she’s dead?”
“Perhaps not,” I admitted with a sigh. I envisioned the messy apartment and the arthritic great-aunt moving painfully through the rooms, trying to decide how best to dispose of Cyndi’s possessions. Of which there were a lot, along with an expensive wardrobe of evening gowns, stiletto heels, and swimsuits that would most likely disintegrate in water. “Did Cyndi’s parents leave enough money to support her through college?” I asked abruptly.
“I don’t think they left much of anything. Her father was a construction worker and her mother a clerk. Typical blue-collar, struggling to pay the bills and save a few bucks for a fishing trip once or twice a year, she told me once. The great-aunt has a small annuity and Social Security, but nothing beyond that.”
“Then how did Cyndi afford the college tuition and the apartment?”
“From the pageants, I assumed. They give away scholarships and prizes, don’t they?”
“The local ones don’t give away much of anything,” I said, shaking my head. “Maybe a small scholarship or gift certificates, but no cash prizes of any consequence. How did she pay for the necessities?”
“Cassie! Get down from there, you little piglet!” He shrugged at me, then went across the lobby to save the concession stand from destruction. Once he had a child under each arm, he told them they were going to experience theater and carried them down the corridor toward the auditorium.
“Well, what did she live on?” I repeated to the empty lobby, Jorgeson having followed his superior into the office ( to tattle, most likely) . “She didn’t have an inheritance; she didn’t have a job. She did have an apartment, a car, a wardrobe that spoke of bankrolls, and sufficient funds to eat, buy gas, and stay overnight at pageants in other towns.”
To my relief, no one answered.
I went into the office, which resembled a can of sardines—although sardines hardly ever snivel, cry, moan, argue, or glower at each other. After a good fifteen minutes of the above behavior, we agreed to postpone the pageant for a week. Mac, who’d been fetched ( and most unwillingly, from the intensity of his scowl) , grudgingly admitted that the theater would be available. Steve murmured that he, too, would be available. Luanne thought she might be off crutches in a few days. The seven finalists opined they would be recovered by then and be able to sing, interpret, twirl, twirl fire, recite, tootle a clarinet, and otherwise rise to the demands of the tradition. The two members of the production crew nodded without enthusiasm, no doubt having planned to be off-Broadway bound within a week.
Peter then announced that, if everyone was now agreeable, he might conduct an investigation of the crime. We all agreed that such a thing seemed more than appropriate.
Luanne, Caron, Inez, and I dragged out of the theater several hours later, having been the last four worthy of interrogation in the auditorium. The other three had been grilled like shish-kebabs. I had been asked to sign my statement, then had received yet another interminable lecture from Super Cop. Had he paused long enough to allow me to insert a word or two, I would have suggested he inquire into Cyndi Jay’s personal financial affairs. As it was, I decided to wait until I had some information to present. On a silver platter, tied in a pink ribbon.
I dropped Luanne and Inez off at their respective houses. As I drove home, I told Caron what Mac had said about the prop room. “I hope you replaced the toys once you finished playing with them,” I concluded.
“We were rehearsing, Mother. If we can work out some mathematical connection, we’re going to do a skit at the Math Club banquet. Inez has an idea for a script about Pythagoras. He’s Greek, so there has to be tragedy in there somewhere. None of those guys expired peacefully in their togas.”
“I don’t think Greek tragedies involved guns. They tended to stab each other or drink poison,” I said dubiously. “And the Romans were the ones who ran around in the short sheets.”
“Inez and I do not intend to get bogged down in the details. It’s terribly important to see the overall picture, like who’s madly in love with whom and who’s been dropping notes from the balcony.”
“I think you’re mixing your melodramas.” I stopped at the curb in front of the duplex. “You go on inside and occupy yourself with an encyclopedia. I want to make a quick condolence call.”
“It’s almost ten, Mother. Don’t you think it’s a little bit late to drop in on people? You won’t let me make telephone calls this late. You go on and on about being considerate and not disturbing people who might want to go to bed early, although I don’t know a single pers
on who goes—”
“Go call Inez,” I said, vowing never again to offer any maternal insights into ethics, consideration, friendship, loyalty, courtesy, or anything else that might be flung back in my teeth. The child’s arsenal was already formidably stocked.
I drove to Eunice’s street and cruised slowly past her house, watching for police cars, marked and unmarked. The lights were on inside the house, but the coast seemed clear enough to risk a visit. I parked and went up the sidewalk. She came to the door, dressed in a tattered terrycloth bathrobe and floppy bedroom slippers. Her hair was wound around fat pink rollers, and her face was coated with a glistening white cream, which emphasized her red-rimmed eyes.
“I thought you might appreciate some company,” I said through the screen.
“The police came by to tell me—that Lieutenant Rosen fellow and another man. Having already given up on the girl, I myself was surprised by the intensity of emotions that swept over me when I heard what had happened. Cyndi and I were very close until that man seduced her and put all those absurd ideas into her head. Many a time we shared a motel room, drinking diet sodas and pretending the boardwalk of Atlantic City was outside our room. We used to shop for evening gowns, have a nice salad for lunch, and then simply while away the afternoon trying new hairstyles. One must have the quintessential style for the Big One; the humidity there can frizz a gal in ten seconds flat.” She wiped her eyes with a wadded tissue from her pocket, then opened the screen door. “You mustn’t stand on the porch. Please come in and have a cup of tea with me.”
I did as requested, although a short discussion led to an agreement that scotch was a more fitting refreshment. The living room was filled with ordinary furniture, but the walls were covered with photographs of smiling girls in swimsuits bisected by white ribbons to remind them who they were. A few rusty trophies gathered dust on the top of a bookshelf stacked with fashion magazines.
Eunice waved me to a brocade sofa, produced a bottle and two tumblers, then sat down across from me. “That policeman said poor Cyndi had been murdered. I was aghast, totally aghast. The class of gals in the pageants is usually quite good; the undesirables are screened out when the applications are first read, and often discreet inquiries are made concerning the family. I’m afraid I misjudged Cyndi Jay. Oh, her appearance was good and her poise a distinct advantage … but a girl who’s lacked maternal guidance in the formative years sometimes is simply simmering below the surface. The wrong sort of man comes along, and the gal is easily led astray. Moral fiber is so vital these days, so very vital.”
