“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?”
“For some mysterious reason, there aren't all that many men in a beauty pageant. We've got the two male judges: Steve and Mayor Avery. Steve's aide appeared for the first time yesterday afternoon. McWethy is always skulking around the theater.”
“I think we can eliminate Mayor Avery; he's followed his schedule religiously, which means he hasn't been bothering us, and his major concern seems to be keeping his eyeballs in their sockets when confronted by a svelte thing in a leotard. He had to struggle last night not to howl like Chou-Chou. It has to be one of those three, and Warren's the most likely candidate to go to Cyndi's dressing room for a chat about the good old steamy days.”
Luanne chewed pensively on the celery. “But he didn't appear at the theater until late yesterday afternoon. The girls were gone. We agreed a few minutes ago that he doesn't have a motive. No one has a motive.”
“Someone must have a motive to murder Miss Thurberfest. Otherwise, we'll have to fall back on the maniac-off-the-street business, and you know how I hate that in mystery novels.”
“We're not in a mystery novel. Maybe it's a sloppy
muddle without a stringer of red herrings, a cast of characters with highly suspicious motives, and a divinely dramatic denouement in the last chapter. We don't have a parlor in which to stage the denouement; we have a stage populated by girls who twirl batons and interpret feelings. For that matter, we don't have a corpse, one of the more essential elements.”
“And we can't have a murder without a corpse.”
“You're blotching, Claire. I'd prefer to think you're not disappointed that Miss Thurberfest wasn't fatally asphyxiated.”
I gave her a cool look as I stood up. “Don't be absurd. I certainly don't want someone to murder Cyndi so that I can exercise my little gray cellsâwhich have no cellulite deposits on them. I am deeply relieved that the girl has recovered, especially since I now seem to be her best friend and advisor. It's not a murder mystery; ergo, we don't have an official police investigation for me to interfere in. I'm going to the theater to see if I can have a word with Dixie before the rehearsal. I can catch Mac afterward, and then run by the hotel for a word with Warren and Steve.”
“Aren't you a little bit worried about that policeman of yours?”
“He's not the least bit worried about me. Are you coming to the theater for the rehearsal so that you can waggle your finger at me?”
“If you can bear more blotches, I think I'd better hobble inside and elevate this damn ankle until tonight. I'll make the vital calls from here. All you need to do is arrange the talent schedule and let the girls run through tonight's opening number. Then you may play Miss Marple to your heart's contentâas long as Peter doesn't catch you in midclue.”
“I have no idea where he is at the moment,” I said. “He and his friends from the FBI are probably fingerprinting rooftops or scraping tire tread off Thurber Street. No one suggested I tag along.”
“Is someone's hypotenuse bent just a degree or two?”
“Perhaps.”
I drove to the theater and curled up with the notebook in the office. Luanne had made several pages of terribly cryptic scribbles that I assumed had something to do with the production number. A choreographer I was not. A cryptologist I was not. A qualified assistant pageant director I was not, nor was I a brilliant logician who could put her finger on the villain in the plot. If there was a plot.
I dismissed the heresy and called Luanne. I let the telephone ring twenty times before replacing the receiver, telling myself that she had unplugged it as before. It was an irritating habit, I decided, but nothing more. I made a mental note to mention as much to her, then picked up the notebook and walked down the corridor to the auditorium.
The seven finalists were on the stage. Julianna had breezed through the preliminary round with interpretive ease. Heidi and Chou-Chou had survived, no doubt partly because the judges and audiences anticipated further canine catastrophes. Bambi McQueen, a dedicated twirler, was whispering with Lisa R. , who'd realized an impossible dream, and Lisa K. , who had stopped the show with her recitation of an original poem, “America: My Country 'Tis for Me.” The sixth finalist, a hefty girl named Bobbi Jo, was also a twirler, although she spiced up her act by blindfolding herself and torching the tips of her baton. The seventh finalist was the clarinet-playing, eavesdropping, loquacious Dixie.
“How's Cyndi?” Julianna asked as I joined them.
“She's doing fine. She looks a little pale, but she doesn't seem to have suffered any permanent effects from the accident. You might want to stop by the hospital for a short visit, or call her. At the moment, however, we have a serious dilemma. Mrs. Bradshaw can't come in today to help with the opening number, and I can't figure out what her scribbles mean. Does anyone have any brilliant ideas?”
Heidi belied my opinion of her by suggesting a variation of the number they'd worked on for the preliminary round. We discussed the schedule for the talent presentations and the various elements of the spectacle, then I left them to argue over who would dazzle the judges from Cyndi's mark on the center of the stage.
As I went up the corridor, I considered the wisdom ( or lack thereof) of calling Peter to relate my significant insight into the “leaks” to the press. He might be grateful. Then again, he might sigh mournfully and reiterate his sermon on amateurs and professionals. He might stoop to personal remarks. Steeling myself, I took the civic-minded approach and called him. Once I'd dutifully related my hot theory, I leaned back in the chair behind the desk and waited for a blast of hot air from the receiver.
It was more of a mild breeze. “You just can't keep your nose out of it, can you?” he said, chuckling.
Chuckling? I wrinkled my meddlesome nose and said, “Sorry to disturb you, Lieutenant. Perhaps the pageant has destroyed my mind. I assumed you might be interested in knowing how Cyndi manipulated the press.”
“Thus proving ⦠?”
“I don't happen to know what is thus proven. Something very vital, I'm sure.” I tugged on the drawers while
I tried to find something very vital in the theory that Cyndi Jay was determined to get all the publicity she could before her voluntary abdication.
“I've got an interesting tidbit for you,” he said, still sounding amused. “The State Police found the convertible in front of a tavern in Starley City. They found its driver inside the Dew Drop Inn, and according to the report, Arnie was thrilled to have someone with whom to share a beer.”
“Then Arnie simply wandered up the street, saw the car, and felt an obligation to repossess it?”
“He said those were his instructions, although he wasn't at all sure who issued them, and the officer who took the statement said the alleged car thief was not noticeably articulate after an eighteen-hour marathon at the Dew Drop Inn. Arnie then claimed it was his duty because of a certain politician's driving skills. I thought you drove the car in the parade.”
I explained Arnie's confusion, then said, “What about the caliber of the bullet? Can you determine from the angle where the sniper might have stood?”
“The car is at the lab, and I expect a report fairly soon. The FBI agents are hovering over the lab boys, who are not delighted by the supervision. Arnie is asleep in a cell, although we'll probably just boot him out when he sobers up. His boss has declined to press charges. Hold on for a minute, Claire.”
He put me on hold and I fumed to a saccharin version of a sixties rock tune for nearly five minutes. I was about to hang up and redial when he came back on the line.
“The report from ballistics just came in,” he said, “accompanied by two irate Feds. The bullet was a blank.”
“A blank?” I echoed ( yes, blankly) . “What does that mean?”
“Well, it means no one made a serious attempt on Senator Stevenson's life, or Cyndi Jay's, if she's your candidate. The bullet would have stung like hell, but it wouldn't have killed either of them. The Feds are now growling about false pretenses, obstruction of governmental operations, and the consumption of their time and the taxpayers' money. We're going to the Senator's hotel for a chat.”
I hung up the receiver and leaned back in the chair. The bullet was a blank, not intended to hurt anyone. The only danger we'd been in was from the reporters and television crews afterward. More publicity, leaked to the press by Miss Thurberfest and reaped by Steve. Could everything that had happened in the last three days have been mischievous pranks? No, I thought morosely, the attempted asphyxiation hardly fell into that category.
But if I put it aside, I could envision the others as publicity stunts. Steve liked the free publicity, but he had rather lucked into it. Cyndi, on the other hand, would have profited greatly from it. She had lucked out of it, but not from any lack of effort on her part. Steve had upstaged her due to his position.
The nail was on her mark. Cyndi couldn't have anticipated that Luanne would come onstage and essay a middleaged kick on that very spot. Had Cyndi been the victim, perhaps she would have stumbled but caught herself. The weight had missed her. So had the bullet, which wasn't life-threatening anyway. And the message on the mirrorâhad the unsuccessful murderer wiped it off, or had Cyndi? When she went to her dressing room, she was aware the police would join her. Could she have felt it prudent to clean off the lipstick before the police could take photographs and send a sample to the lab?
I almost tipped over backward as I remembered a
small incident when Eunice and I first saw the message. Cyndi had wiped her cheeks with a tissue, and the tissue had left red streaks on her cheeks. Sanguine red streaks, as if the tissue had been used to clean off her fingers or erase a sloppy letter from the mirror.
My hand trembled as I envinced my civic duty and called the number of the Farberville police station. I subsequently learned that Peter and the Feds had left the building. I called Luanne and determined her telephone was still unplugged. I could think of only one other person with whom I wished to speak, but decided the conversation would be best conducted in person. Over sanitized sheets in the hospital room.
I went down to the auditorium to check on my charges. My daughter the budding dramatist was standing on the judges' table, while her less flamboyant friend cowered in a seat in the front row. The seven finalists were scattered around the stage, their expressions rebellious.
“We need to see some vitality,” Caron said imperiously. “You're not going to win over the audience if you flop like a bunch of rag dolls. Now this time, let's have vitality.” She cued Inez with a penetrating glance, and Inez obediently pushed the button of a cassette player. “One, two, threeâkick! Move it, girls, move it!”
The girls, who were all three or four years older than their dictatorial director, moved it. The results were not appalling. We wouldn't open on Broadway any time soon, but we wouldn't have to fish anyone out of the orchestra pit, either. Contemplating how badly my standards had slipped in the last few days, I went onto the stage and congratulated the finalists on the dexterity of the production.
“Can we leave now?” one of the Lisas sniveled. “This place gives me the creeps.”
“You look a little creepy,” Bambi murmured.
“Do I detect a hint of jealousy in your voice? Or is it more obvious in the quivering of your thighs?”
“That's enough,” Caron said from the table. “I don't think we need to run through it again, and all of you need to go home and rest for the performance tonight. Let's have everyone back at six sharp, refreshed and brimming with vitality.”
Julianna gave Caron a lethal look, but managed to rally a sweet smile as she turned to me. “Can we use the dressing rooms in the basement, Mrs. Malloy? The greenroom's awfully crowded.”
“It smells like dog piss,” a Lisa added.
Heidi bristled like a pit terrier. “If it does, it's not Chou-Chou's fault. I won't name names, but someone has a week's worth of dirty underwear in her bag. It reeks worse than the boys' locker room.”
“You ought to know. After all, you've certainly visited it upon occasion, haven't you? That's what the guys say.”
I told myself that they were simply gripped with pre-finals terrors. I gave Caron a look as lethal as Julianna's, then said, “Yes, you may use the two side dressing rooms tonight, although Cyndi's is sealed. The number looks great, as do all of you. Would you please come to the theater at six so you'll have time to arrange your swimsuits, evening gowns, and talent costumes?”
“And try to be refreshed,” Caron muttered sullenly. She climbed off the table and flopped down next to Inez, since no canvas director's chairs were available.