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 âThe 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, âa cheap, little, two-bit schemer. ' All 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 herâor 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 politicianâif 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 Luanneâbut 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 possibilities 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.”
“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 paradeâor 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 myselfâexcept 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.