Eunice was not convinced. Looming ever further over me, she said, “We have seen this sort of thing before, even at the most primitive local level. I had Cyndi try a new talent routine at the Junior-Senior Miss Rodeo of the Hills pageant, and one of the contestants stole her hair dryer right out of her bag. It was disgraceful, but no one called the police.”
Cyndi wiggled past us and sank down in the chair. “And the girl felt so awful afterward that she apologized and everything. It was so sweet that we just had to hug each other and cry. We became really, really good friends.” She picked up another tissue, then let it drop.
“I really think I'd better speak to my friend,” I said. “If it's just one of the girls who's overly jealous, we have nothing to worry about beyond a few more tasteless practical jokes. But we can't be sure the nail and the weight were coincidencesâand those were dangerous stunts. Luanne's on crutches and you might have been badly hurt.”
“Oh, they were coincidences,” Cyndi said, although without her former firmness.
“And this?” I gestured at the mirror. “This was done with deliberate malice. Someone wants very much to frighten you. We can't allow this person to work herself up into a frenzy and try to hurt you again.” I told Eunice to stay with Cyndi until I returned, then went out into
the hallway. The girls were packed in their doorways, silently gaping at the yellow star.
“We heard Cyndi crying,” Julianna said solemnly. “Is she okay?”
“Someone wrote a nasty message on her mirror. Did any of you notice anything unusual when you came in this morning? Was there someone down here who shouldn't have been?”
One of the girls, a baton twirler, tittered. “That awful man was down here doing something to the fuse box. He went back up right when I arrived, and he didn't even say good morning or anything. He's spooky.”
The Pekinese's owner raised her hand and wiggled her fingers. When I looked at her, she said, “And Mrs. Allingham came in our room and told us to use more padding in our brassieres if we didn't want to look like a bunch of sixth-grade girls.”
No one else had anything to contribute. I told them that the dress rehearsal would start in fifteen minutes, and continued upstairs as they returned to their squealing and squeaking. I wandered around the stage, then looked in the greenroom where I found Mac on his hands and knees, a hammer in one hand and a pile of carpet tacks near the other.
“Are you finally ready for the rehearsal?” he said without looking up.
“No, we'll start in fifteen minutes,” I said to his rump. “Were you down in the basement earlier this morning?”
“I was down in my basement earlier this morning. Fuse blew, probably from all the damn hair dryers going at the same time. You got a problem with me going down in my basement? I can assure you those dewy-eyed virgins are safe from me, although I'd be glad to
make a small wager about the existence of any vestiges of virginity down there.”
“We aren't running a competition to select someone to toss in a volcano. Did you find the weight that crashed onto the stage yesterday?”
“I didn't bother to look for it.”
I considered a variety of responses, one involving my foot and a convenient area of his anatomy. I finally stopped twitching my toe ( and perhaps developing telltale blotches) and said, “Listen, Mac, someone has been pulling some potentially dangerous stunts in your theater. I realize you have insurance, but I doubt you want negative publicity.”
“As long as they spell my name correctly, I don't care. Hell, I haven't been on the nightly news in years.” He did, however, put down the hammer and stand up. “Then you're convinced the nail and the weight were done on purpose to hurt last year's whatever-she-is?”
“There was a threat written on Cyndi's mirror. I have no idea if it's some girl's idea of a practical joke or a malicious attempt to frighten her. If it was the latter, it was very successful. That rope on the sandbag is the only thing we might be able to examine; a nail's a nail and the message was written in block letters to disguise the handwriting. The police can put the end of the rope under a microscope and tell if it was cut ⦠or gnawed.”
“But it's disappeared,” he murmured, tugging on his goatee as he looked down at me. “Darn shame, ain't it? We may never know if someone's been trying to murder our beloved Miss Thurberfest. If the news people ever get wind of this, they'll fall all over each other to get the scoop. âDeath Stalks the Queen, ' or maybe âBeauty and the Maniacal, Murderous Beast. ' It might just make the national news. Be still, my heart.”
“Then you'd better go home and change into a suit and tie,” I said angrily. I went up the corridor to the office, berating myself for not kicking him halfway across the room when I had the golden opportunity. I stalked across the lobby and into the office, snorting all the way like a moose in a marathon.
Luanne was not in evidence, but the door to the washroom was closed and water was running. Brilliantly deducing her whereabouts, I decided it might be prudent to discuss things with her before I called Peter. I loudly announced my presence and my intentions, and was rewarded with the sound of a toilet flushing.
Someone tapped on the office door. A breathtakingly handsome man in a jacket and turtleneck sweater came into the room. His blond hair, deep blue eyes, and engaging smile were more than enough to seize the dingy room and transform it into an elegant executive office. The dead plastic plant gave a small shudder of life. The shag carpet snapped to attention. I reminded myself to breathe.
“Hi,” he said, showing me pristine white teeth made mortal by the tiniest of gaps between the front two. “Are you Luanne Bradshaw?” When I numbly shook my head, he gazed at the washroom door and gave me a comradely wink. “I'm Steve Stevenson, the emcee for the pageant. I'm sorry I was late, but my aide keeps me on such a tight schedule you'd think he took lessons from a slave driver. I never know which way I'm going next. You're ⦠?”
“Claire Malloy. Luanne fell the other day and is on crutches, so I guess I'm her aide.” It wasn't clever; it wasn't witty. It was coherent, though, for which I deserved a point or two.
“Well, I hope my tardiness hasn't fouled up the
schedule for you, Mrs. Malloyâor may I call you Claire?” I managed a numb nod this time. “Great, then, Claire, and please call me Steve. Would you mind if I made one quick call before the rehearsal?”
The quick-witted woman on the couch managed yet a third numb gesture. While he picked up the receiver and dialed, I considered the possibility that some villain had slipped novocaine in my coffee. Luanne came out of the washroom and stopped in midhobble to stare at our visitor.
He gave her a smile, then said into the receiver, “Pattycake, I just this second arrived at the theater, so we haven't started the rehearsal. I'll send Warren over to pick you up as soon as he drops off a file at Whitley's office. Did you find a sitter?” He paused for a moment. “There's no reason to get upset, honey. I told you that you needn't come to the luncheon or the parade. There are two delightful women right here to make me behave with the beauty queens. Just stay at the hotel this afternoon and let the girls swim or something.” He paused once more. “Don't be absurd, Pattycake. We've already discussed that on numerous occasions. You do have a sitter for tonight and tomorrow night, don't you?”
After a few low mutters, he replaced the receiver and went across the room to offer his hand to Luanne. “You must be Luanne Bradshaw, the pageant director. I'm Steve Stevenson, your obedient and devoted servant for the next two days. Your wish shall be my command.”
Luanne finally managed to stop blinking long enough to agree that she was who he'd suspected, and with visible reluctance put her hand back on the crossbar of her crutch. “It's terribly nice of you to help again this year,” she said as she made her way to the chair behind the
desk. “I realize you're busy with the legislature and your upcoming election.”
Once she was seated, he sat down next to me. “I'm busy, but I always make time for my district and those events that make it so special and dear to me. It gives me an excuse to get away from stuffy politicians and meet the people. I had a fantastic time at the pageant last year, and really enjoyed getting to know all those bright, pretty, talented girls. I've already done exceptionally well this time, haven't I?”
We were discussing his luck in meeting the two of us when it occurred to me that fifteen minutes had come and gone about fifteen minutes ago. I stood up and mentioned the schedule. After a promise to come back for a chat with Luanne, Steve opened the door for me and we headed down the corridor to the auditorium. He was regaling me with the highlights of the previous year's pageant when Eunice Allingham came through the arched doorway and almost stumbled into me.
“We are waiting, Mrs. Malloy,” she began, then stopped as she saw my companion. “You! How dare you!”
Steve adroitly stepped behind me. “Eunice, how nice to see you again this year. Still keeping your finger in the pageant pie, I see.”
“How dare you!” she repeated, advancing until she was breathing on my ear. “After all you've done, you have the gall to come back? I'd have thought you'd have had the decency to stay away this year.”
“We both know I had nothing to do with what happened because of last year's pageant. Don't you think you're exaggerating?” he said in my other ear.
“Hardly, Mr. Stevenson. Hardly.”
It was interesting, but it was doing detrimental things
to my long-term hearing and causing condensation on my ear lobes. I sidestepped from between the two of them. “Then you've met?”
While I waited for a response from either of them, Cyndi Jay came out into the corridor. “Eunice, we're running late and Iâ” Her mouth dropped open as she caught sight of Steve. “Oh, my God,” she moaned. Her eyes rolled upward and she crumpled onto the carpet at my feet.
All in all, it was most interesting. Yes, indeed.
E
unice squatted down and began to rub Cyndi's wrist and slap her face with more enthusiasm than some of us might have considered necessaryâor even prudent. Steve hastily announced he wanted to meet this year's lovely contestants, and hustled through the doorway before I could agree that it seemed the politic thing to do. After all, if politicians weren't politic, who was?
Cyndi's eyes fluttered open. Eunice slapped her once more, just to be on the safe side, I supposed, then helped the girl to her feet. “Well,” she said in a low, angry voice, “I told you this would happen. I'd like to think you learned your lesson, but this swooning act was hardly a good omen, was it?”
Cyndi glanced at me out of the corner of her eye, then hung her head as if she were a naughty puppy who'd dirtied the carpet for not the first time. “You're right, Eunice. I promised you I'd never see him again, and I haven't. It's just that all those nasty threats and attempts to hurt me have made me nervous. Seeing Senator Stevenson startled me, that's all.” She touched her temples with delicately sculptured pink fingernails. “I've just been a wreck these last two days, but I swear I'll settle down.”
“I should hope so,” Eunice muttered. “God knows I've put enough time and money into you. But you're
the one who'll carry us to the top, all the way to the Big One in Atlantic City. I have great expectations, Cyndi, great expectations. I'm going to be right beside you every step of the way, and be watching proudly when they sing, âThere She Is, Miss America.'” Eunice sang the words in a trembling voice, apparently close to tears.
“I know,” Cyndi said, nodding earnestly and a little misty herself. “And you've been really, really wonderful, Eunice. I mean, you've been like a mom to me.”
It was all so touching that I went into the auditorium. Steve was on the stage, surrounded by the girls and, based on the volume of their squeals, doing an admirable job amusing them. Mac stood to one side, watching impassively. I spotted two ghostly, pubescent forms flitting in the last row of the seats, but I ignored them and went to my post in the middle of the front row.
I clapped my hands and, when I had their reluctant attention, said, “We must get started immediately. The schedule's tight and we're already more than half an hour late. You girls do want to have time to repair your hair before your first meeting with the judges, don't you?”
They deserted their idol and scuttled offstage. Steve dimpled down at me. “You've got quite a flair for this sort of thing, Claire. Can I lure you to the capital to terrify my staff?”
There were ghostly giggles in the distance behind me. “No thank you,” I said, refusing to turn my head. “Are you ready to begin? Mac, are you ready to do the lights? Who's going to operate the curtain? What about the audio equipment?”
Mac came down to the edge of the stage. “Those are excellent questions, if I do say so myself. I'm going up
to the light booth. Who is going to operate the curtain and the audio equipment?”
“Whoever you've hired,” I suggested faintly.
“Hey, I just own the building. I agreed to run the lights, mostly because the equipment's too expensive to trust to some moronic high school boy with zits on his palms. I didn't agree to open a temporary employment agency.”
I flipped through the notebook but did not find a list of backstage crew. “I guess Luanne was planning to get around to it yesterday. Is there any way you can do the lights and alsoâ”
“Nope.” He put his hands in his pockets and began to whistle a now-familiar tune. And very melodically for such an uncooperative grouch.
Steve shot me another dimple. “When my aide gets back, he can help. It may not be until late in the afternoon, though. I'm sure my wife would enjoy helping, but she couldn't find a sitter for the day. Sorry.”
I bowed to the inevitable. “There are two girls skulking in the back of the auditorium,” I said to Mac. “Rout them from their hiding place and show them what to do. You do not need to be gentle with them, nor do you need to show them any patience or understanding. For some inexplicable reason, they are not getting their just desserts.”
I saw a twinkle in Mac's eye as he nodded and went toward the back of the auditorium. I flapped my notebook at Steve. “Let's get the damn show on the road,” I said eloquently.
Eons later Steve and I went back to the office. I was not a pretty picture: my face was pink, my hair ruffled, my eyes dazed, my hands quivering. The notebook was misshapen and tattered from the torture it had received
in my lap. Steve settled me on the couch and solicitously offered to bring me a cup of water.
Luanne's pencil clattered on the desktop. “Shall I ask how it went?” she said.
“There are a few problems,” Steve said, wincing, “but I'm sure we'll pull it together by tonight. The girls were jittery and the new crew members need practice on some of the technical aspects. A couple of hitches in the talent numbers. A little disorganization during the swimsuit and evening-gown presentations.” His fingers tightened on my shoulder for a moment. “It'll be fine tonight. It really will.”
Luanne stared at me as if I'd been diagnosed with some fatal tropical disease that would implode me within a matter of seconds. “Dare I ask how the opening number went?”
“Don't ask,” I said. “Unless you can book the Guernsey Sisters by eight o'clock tonight.”
Eunice came through the door and positioned herself in front of the desk, offering some of us a view of her indignant derriere. “I've been told you have some experience in the operation of a pageant. It is obvious it is currently in the hands of an amateur. Cyndi's more endangered by those hopelessly clumsy girls than she is from some kindergarten child with a tube of lipstick. If she ends up with a scab on her knee, I simply won't be able to have her at the Miss Starley City pageant next week. I realize that it's a minor pageant, but she needs all the experience she can get for the Big One.”
Luanne seemed bewildered, so I graciously hummed a few bars of the pageant theme song. Eunice spun around and noticed Steve, who was trying very hard to pass for a throw pillow. “And, you,” she added with a frigid smile, “you were directly responsible for the disaster
at the Miss Stump County pageant, along with the poor gal's collapse this morning. I wouldn't be the least bit surprised if you wrote on her mirror.”
“I was not directly responsible,” Steve said petulantly.
“Well, directly or indirectly, youâ”
“Everybody hush,” Luanne interrupted, using her pencil for a gavel. “I will admit I'm temporarily disabled, but I am not someone's dotty old great-aunt in the attic. Someone tell me what's going on!”
Eunice and Steve both looked at me, but I held up my hands and shook my head. “Not me, guys. I only know bits and pieces of what's going on, and they make little or no sense. I suggest we begin with an historical perspective. Eunice can explain Steve's direct responsibility. He can then offer rebuttal for indirect responsibility. I'll do the lipstick.”
Luanne blinked at me. “Lipstick?”
“Out of perspective,” I said, waggling a finger at her.
Eunice took centerstage. “That man was a judge at last year's pageant. Although he is supposed to be a pillar of society and set a good example for the youth of our state, he allowed his aide to become both emotionally and physically involved with poor little Cyndi, who was quite naive in these matters. The boy sent her gifts, called night and day, took her to parties where alcohol and drugs were in use, and even lured her out of the state on some flimsy pretext. She was so exhausted and bewildered by his attentions that she didn't make the finals of the Miss Stump County and in fact missed two perfectly good pageants in the southeastern part of the state.”
Steve tried a dimple, but Eunice froze it off quicker than a dermatologist dealing with a wart. Shrugging, he said, “They're modern kids. Warren was absolutely smitten
with the girl, and I'm his bossânot his father. Come on, Eunice, what he does on his own time is his own business.”
“What about the trip to Hollywood?” Eunice demanded. “She and that boy flew on your charter, and you paid for their hotel room. She came back to Farberville with all sorts of wild ideas about a movie career. Luckily, I was able to reason with her; otherwise, she'd have thrown a black negligee in a bag and tried to hitchhike back out to that immoral place.”
“Cyndi was invited to go as a guest of the state film commission. They always take some of the talent to prove we're not all inarticulate, lice-ridden hillbillies.” Steve squared his shoulders. “And I ordered separate rooms for them, Eunice. In fact, my room was between theirs, although I can't swear there wasn't a bit of tiptoeing after midnight. They're normal, healthy kids.”
“Cyndi is in no way a normal, healthy kid,” Eunice said, squaring her shoulders too. “She is an attractive, vivacious, self-disciplined, determined girl who has a chance to win the Big Oneâif she works on it. She'll have scholarships, a new wardrobe and accessories, a new car, a kitchen full of appliances, an opportunity to travel all over the country and appear on prime-time television. If I handle her carefully, she should have several hundred thousand in the bank when she gives up her crown. I will not have her chances ruined by your hormone-heavy aide. Last time you refused to do anything more than smirk, but this time you'd better keep him away from her unless the both of you intend to destroy her career over my dead body!”
I wanted to stand up and sing a refrain or two of you-know-what. Instead, I stood up and mentioned that it was almost time for the luncheon. Eunice snorted a farewell
and stalked out the door, leaving a wake of righteousness behind her. Steve started to follow, but I caught his arm.
“Just out of curiosity,” I said, “do you have the same aide who ⦠who was madly in love with Cyndi Jay?”
“Yeah,” he said dimplessly.
Once he left, I told Luanne about the message on Cyndi's mirror. She was properly appalled, but neither of us could think of a reason why any of those in the theater would make a threat or attempt to bean Miss Thurberfest with a bag.
Luanne stood up and, with a glum smile, said, “There's nothing we can do, so we'll have to hope Eunice sticks to Cyndi through the finals tomorrow night. At that point Cyndi will become a mortal once more. We'd better head for the luncheon.”
“I said earlier that I ought to discuss this with Peter. I'll walk to Sally's with you, then go on to the Book Depot and call him. Maybe he can get away for lunch.”
“Do you honestly believe I cannot see right through this civic-minded sham of yours? You aren't frantic to talk to Peter about some silly little words on a mirror. You saw the menu.”
I laughed gaily. “I may have glanced at the menu in my official capacity, but I don't even remember what's on it. Besides, Sally is reputed to be a veritable culinary wizard with tofu and vegetables. I happen to be concerned about the events of the last two days, and am willing to make a minor sacrifice in order to ensure Cyndi's longevity and eventual triumph at the Big One.”
“Bullshit.”
“Goodness gracious, Luanne, I hope you don't use that sort of language in front of the gals. They're much too wholesome to be exposed to profanity. They would
be shocked and dismayed. Their ears might fall off right into the tofu lasagna.”
“You're stalling, perhaps with the wild notion that I'll forget this vile display of treachery and let you escape the luncheon. Ho, ho, and get your purse.” She took a step, then grimaced and closed her eyes for a second. “My ankle's getting worse. It feels as if it's the size of a late-summer zucchini. I don't know how I'm going to make it through the rest of the afternoon, much less the first round tonight.”
I studied her, not sure whether she was in pain or pulling my leg via her ankle. Her face had an unhealthy transparent quality and her skin seemed tightly stretched across her ( unruly) cheekbones. Dark smudges below her eyes might have come from mascara, but I doubted it. “You look like hell. When you were at the hospital, did you talk to the doctor about your general health?”
“Mac took me to the emergency room. Some twenty-year-old boy pretending to be a grown-up doctor said three or four words to me, fondled my ankle, and then waved me off to the X-ray room. A sweet little student nurse assured me that we had a severe sprain instead of a nasty old break, and proceeded to wrap our ankle in fifty feet of elastic tape, for which I expect to be billed by the inch. But thanks for the compliment.”
“You really don't look good,” I persisted. “Don't you think you ought to talk to a grandfatherly general practitioner about it? I'll hunt one up and drive you to his office right now.”
“For a lecture on sleep and a prescription for vitamins? No, I simply need to elevate my ankle and forget about the half-million telephone calls I didn't get to this morning. The florist has come out of his coma and swears he knows exactly what to do. I arranged for
someone to fetch the two other judges and deliver them to Sally's cafe. I've got ushers and concession workers. The press is arranged. However, that's the tip of a very large iceberg, and I haven't talked to the football coach about the escorts, the electrician about the television cables, the trophy store, the parade coordinator, theâ”