“No, I'm not,” said a small voice from between the folds of the curtain.
“But you can see everybody,” Caron said, still spinning about and flapping her wings. “All I see are mouse droppings and little squiggles that are supposed to clarify the entire premise of electronics since the day Franklin flew a kite.”
“It's very dusty back here,” Inez said.
“It's very, very dreary in the closet,” Tinkerbell retorted sweetly.
I left them to debate the issue of dust versus drear, and went up the corridor to the office, thinking how exhausted I already was and how dearly I would prefer to be in my bedroom with a cup of tea and a mystery novel.
Luanne gave me a bleak wave. “Is everything under control?”
“The girls are forced to dress under the benevolent supervision of the football team, and my daughter has lost her mind,” I said. “Other than that, the reigning Miss Thurberfest is at the hospital, someone fired a shot at someone, and I allowed a new car to be stolen from under my nose. This must be Friday the thirteenth and a dozen of its sequels.”
“But we may survive. The police will eventually find both the sniper and the car. The rehearsals are over and
done with, and it's too late to worry about some baton twirler blinding a judge or that icky little dog piddling in front of three hundred people. Cyndi's recovering from that horrible accident, andâ”
Peter appeared in the doorway. “It wasn't an accident,” he said in a mild tone.
“What?” I snapped, not the least bit mild.
He held up a plastic evidence bag. “In here is a tiny square of cellophane tape, not longer than a half-inch. May I use the telephone?”
Luanne pushed it across the desk. “Help yourself. But I don't understand why a piece of tape proves ⦠anything.”
“It was taped over the keyhole of the dressing room door.”
He began to dial a number while Luanne and I gaped at each other like a pair of groupers.
“S
uicide?” Luanne murmured bleakly.
Peter put down the receiver and ran his fingers through his hair. “It could be, although we'll have to discuss that with Miss Jay. She's recovering quickly, and has been moved to a private room for the night. We can talk to her in the morning. It's difficult to imagine someone accidentally taping the keyhole to contain the gas until the room was saturated.”
“But what about all the strange things that happened?” I asked. “I'm having a hard time categorizing them as coincidences after this last incident. There really was a shot fired at us during the parade. When you find the car, you can dig the bullet out of the upholstery.”
He had the decency to look a little abashed, if not as thoroughly embarrassed as I might have wished. “I believe you, Claire. Senator Stevenson backed your story most vehemently. He's convinced the shot was fired in order to intimidate him. I've notified the FBI, and they're going to snoop around quietly. They weren't too pleased with the delay between the incident and the call to the police station, but they finally agreed that a professional sniper wouldn't linger to wave at the coroner's convertible.”
Luanne had been nodding like a dormouse in a teapot, but she shook herself and said, “You're convinced this
revolves around Steve? What about the nail and the weight?”
“The nail was pounded back into its proper level two days ago, although I doubt we could have done anything with it. The weight has vanished. The other end of the rope has been sent to the lab.” He gave me a narrow look. “I understand you went up to the catwalk to investigate?”
“Part of my job description,” I said, wondering who'd snitched on me. “Then, basically, you can't do anything until you either find the car or talk to Cyndi?”
“I'm going to talk to”âhe consulted the notebookâ“Eunice Allingham about Cyndi's state of mind. I can't imagine anyone being so depressed at the idea of turning in a pageant crown that she would do something drastic, but I truly don't understand the ritual. Why would some girl care so desperately about an inane title like Miss Thurberfest?”
Luanne sighed and leaned back in her chair. “The ones who get involved in the pageant business do care. They may enter the first time for fun, or for the opportunity to perform in front of an audience. Some of them are pushed into it at a tender age by overbearing parents. I've seen three-year-olds in tiny tuxedos wink at the judges like seasoned gigolos. The publicity, no matter how meager, begins to infatuate them, as does the perceived glory. It becomes an obsession after a few pageants.”
“I suppose,” Peter said doubtfully.
Something was disturbing me, gnawing at me like a theoretical rat on a theatrical rope, but I couldn't force it into focus. “Did you find the source of the leak?” I asked Peter.
“There wasn't a crack in a pipe; the gas was on and
the pilot was off. If we hadn't found the bit of tape, we might have assumed the pilot had been blown out by a draft. But someone put the tape over the keyhole to prevent the hallway from filling up with gas until it was nearly too late. Cyndi's darn lucky it finally seeped through the hole.”
For some obscure reason, his response failed to answer my question. I covered my face with my hands and tried to decide what I'd expected to hear. All that came to mind was the realization I was nurturing a ferocious headache. “Do you want me to go with you when you interrogate Eunice?”
“No. I don't want you to do anything except supervise the pageant, Claire. Thus far we don't know what we're investigatingâpractical jokes, hit men from out of state, attempted suicide, a maniac in an evening gown, or none of the above. But whatever it may be, we will run the investigation without any volunteers.” He smiled at me, but I could see it wasn't all that easy for him. In fact, I suspected it was all he could do not to shake a finger at me like a stern, stubbly grandfather. After a moment of silence, he said, “I know it will be a challenge to a meddler of your vast experience and expertise, and I know it'll take a lot of willpower and self-restraint, but this time I want you to stay out of it.”
“I'll stay out of it. I simply don't like the idea of someone lurking around my pageant stirring up mischief. It offends my sense of decorum. If I have to endure this with a modicum of grace, everyone else should have to do the same.” I shrank back as his eyes bored into me. My angelic smile faltered briefly, but did not fail me. “Now, don't get all excited, Peter. I shall utilize all my energy running the preliminary round of the pageant tonight.”
He wasn't especially convinced, but he stood up and put his notebook in his pocket. I suggested that he come by my apartment laterânot to tell me about the investigation, mind you, but to have a companionable beer. Even less convinced, he nodded and left to be officious elsewhere. Steve, Patti, and Warren must have been hovering outside the door, for they came into the office before the smoke cleared.
“What's going on?” Steve demanded.
“Cyndi's out of danger and has been moved to a private room,” Luanne said. She glanced at me, then added, “The police don't know if it was an accident or attempted suicide.”
Or attempted murder, I amended silently.
“Oh, my God,” Warren said. He sat down next to me and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “That poor girl. I can't believe she'd try to kill herself. She didn't have any reason to do something crazy like that. The last time I talked to her she was filled with all sorts of schemes about a career in Hollywood.”
Patti's voice was soft but it held a hint of anger. “That girl was a schemer, all right. A cheap, little, two-bit schemer.”
“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 manânot 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”âshe took a rubber dagger from her T-shirtâ“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.
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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 onstageâcomplexion being everythingâand 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?”