“Stop this before I go leap off the stage. Get your list of calls that need to be made and I'll drive you home. I'll even fix you a nice sandwich and a cup of tea, then settle you in bed with the telephone. You can stay there until the last moment before kickoff time tonight.”
“One of us has to be at the luncheon to introduce the dignitaries and the contestants, see that everyone sits in his or her assigned place, make sure no one chokes on tofu, and keep Sally out of the way.”
“Then we'd better hurry,” I said. Or snapped.
I told her to wait at the theater while I fetched my car. The lobby was quiet and I heard no squeals from the auditorium, which I cleverly deduced meant that either Eunice or Steve ( but not both) had herded the girls on to the luncheon. Caron and Inez had crept away, no doubt to discuss with much adolescent outrage the manner in which Mac had instructed them. It had been the only bright spot in a very gloomy two hours.
A news van was parked in front of Sally's cafe, and a crowd milled nearby. Praying Cyndi Jay had not found a threat written in alfalfa sprouts, I broke into a trot. Once I reached the bystanders, I wiggled my way through. A woman in a suit held a microphone under Steve Stevenson's dimples. A man with a camera balanced on his shoulder moved in to capture every nuance.
“Then despite the results of the latest poll, you expect to have no problem in the primary, Senator?” the reporter
demanded, clearly willing to risk everything in the name of the public's right to know.
“The primary will be a critical test of my candidacy. My opponent is a good man, but I think my record speaks for itself,” Steve said into the camera. He did not, however, allow his record to get in a word edgewise. “As a senator, I've fought for a strong, no-frills educational system. I've helped our area industries receive tax breaks so that they can employ more workers and boost the economy. I've introduced bills to assist the elderly and disabled. As attorney general, I can assure you that I shall demand an immediate investigation into the trucking industry in this area, and continue toâ”
I decided he was doing fine without my assistance and went into the cafe. Eunice was chatting with a frail man, whom I recognized from countless photos of ribbon-cutting ceremonies as Orkin Avery. The third judge, a birdlike woman, was reading the menu with a desperate expression. Most of the girls were watching the press conference on the sidewalk, but Cyndi Jay stood to one side. She looked exceedingly grim.
As I walked over to join her, I heard an expletive slip from between her regal lips. Surprised, I said, “Is everything okay?”
She smiled, although it required a visible effort. “Hi, Mrs. Malloy. Everything's just really, really great, and the luncheon's going to be fun. I was thinking about that message on the mirror. That kind of nastiness makes me itchy, but I'm not afraid or anything. I just hate to think one of the girls would be so jealous that she would stoop so low to win. Girls in pageants are always the friendliest things, eager to lend each other safety pins or giggle about their boyfriends. I'm sad that my last pageant isn't as super as I'd hoped.”
“Your last pageant?” I echoed. “What about Miss Starley City and the Big One?”
“What I meant was the last two days of being Miss Thurberfest. Of course, I'll have the fun of riding in the parade with Senator Stevenson, and the incredibly big thrill of crowning the new Miss Thurberfest. It's kind of sad, but it's such a special moment and I always cry. It's a pageant tradition, I guess.”
Sally Fromberger came out of the kitchen. “I'm glad you're finally here, Claire. The luncheon was supposed to start at exactly one, but this interview is throwing us off schedule. According to Luanne's report, everyone should be seated by now so that she can make the introductory remarks and introduce the panel of judges. She isn't even here.”
“I have to drive her home so she can rest,” I said. “Otherwise, she won't be able to attend the preliminary round tonight and that'll play total havoc on the schedule. We'll never recover.” I produced a worried frown, then clasped my hands and beamed at the woman. “I know how we can avert disaster, Sallyâyou fill in for me.”
“But in the report it says ⦔
“You can fill in for me, because I'm merely filling in for Luanne, who's most likely unconscious by now. Look at the time! You'd better seat everybody at once and get started with your introductory remarks. I'll rescue Steve from the reporter and send him right in.”
I left before she could protest and once again wiggled through the bystanders. Steve was still expounding on his record, but when he saw me he broke off and pulled me to his side. “This is our gorgeous pageant director, Claire Malloy. All the girls are terrified that Claire will end up as the new Miss Thurberfest, aren't they, Claire?”
I stared at the flat black eye of the camera, and then at the amused reporter. “I'm not the official director,” I said, willing myself not to stammer despite a very real urge to do so. “Luanne Bradshaw is in charge; I'm simply helping her due to a minor accident during rehearsal.”
The reporter shoved the microphone at me. “What can you tell us about the second annual Thurberfest, Ms. Malloy? Can we look forward to lots of excitement, music, food, and family entertainment right here in the heart of our community?”
“I suppose so.”
After a moment of silence, the reporter stepped in front of the camera and began to tell her viewers about the good fortune in finding Senator Stevenson during his busy campaign season, and how much excitement we were going to find right here in the heart of our community. I whispered to Steve that he was needed inside, and then escaped the crowd and went on to the bookstore.
The clerk assured me that all was well and that she'd handled the sole sale without a problem. I warned her to expect more business once crowds started swarming the sidewalks to the grand Thurberfest parade and ensuing Gala Sidewalk Sale, then went to my car.
Luanne was waiting in front of the theater. After she was in the passenger's seat, with the crutches stowed in the back, she pointed out rather snootily that the luncheon was half over. I assured her that it was in its infancy because of the press conference, and that Sally Fromberger would put everyone back on a tidy time track.
“What press conference?” she asked. “There's not anything scheduled until tonight, and it's not until the emcee has read the names of the seven finalists. I
thought we might rope in a few more relatives and friends if each girl said a few words.”
“Our emcee is running for attorney general and so enjoys meeting the people and participating in local events right here in the heart of our community. He wanted to share his feelings with the press.”
“Oh,” Luanne said wisely. “Then he called the press conference?”
“I don't know, but he was certainly basking in it.” Failing to mention other baskers, I stopped in front of Luanne's house and held her arm while she hobbled from the curb to her bedroom. After I'd done everything I promised, and even found a package of cookies in case of a craving, I took out the notebook and studied the immediate future.
“Cyndi and Steve are in the same convertible,” I murmured. “I hope she doesn't topple over again. She might be trampled by a junior-high-school marching band or a Shriner. I'm not sure which would be worse.”
“You're stalling again,” Luanne said from the bed.
“I am not stalling; I am merely pausing to formulate my thoughts so that I won't flounder around all afternoon.”
“Then flounder over to theater and make sure the convertible is there. The girls are supposed to go home and take naps, so Steve and Cyndi ought to be the only ones there. The driver is scheduled to pick them up at two-thirty and take them to the stadium parking lot, where the parade will line up.”
I raised my eyebrows. “I know all that. It's on page fifty-five of your committee report, which is not especially well written.”
“And yours is?”
“It will be.” I told her I'd come by after the parade
to check on her, then drove back to the theater and parked in the narrow alley in the rear. The heavy metal door was locked, so I went along the sidewalk to the front and found that door also locked. Mac presumably had gone away for lunch, which struck me as a reasonable and desirable idea. As I stood there, trying to decide if I could find a sandwich rich in carbohydrates without passing Sally's cafe, a convertible screeched to a stop in front of me.
The driver, a seedy sort with black hair and red-rimmed eyes, gave me a bleary salute. “Ready to roll, Senator? Where's the queenie and her courtie?”
“The Senator, the queenie, and her courtie are still at lunch.”
He took a bottle in a paper bag from under the seat and took a drink from it. “Good, 'cause I picked up the car early. I din't want to be late.”
“And you had time to stop by the liquor store on your way?”
He whistled, impressed by my perspicacity. “Right on the button, Senator. After I had a couple beers, I thought hey, Arnie, it's Thurberfest, a nice sunny day, why not make a little party of it? Wanna snort?”
“Not right this moment, thank you.” As I tried to figure out what to do about the inebriated chauffeur, I saw Cyndi and Steve leave Sally's cafe and walk toward the theater. Their heads were bent as they talked intently. At one point, Cyndi stopped and waved an envelope under his nose. He shook his head, then caught sight of me and waved.
“Wowsy,” Arnie muttered. “The Senator's a good-looking dame. I'd probably vote for her for President. Hell, she can sleep in my white house any time she wants to.”
“I'm sorry if we're late,” Cyndi called as they crossed the street. “First, Senator Stevenson availed himself of the opportunity to preen in front of the television cameras, thus throwing us off schedule by a good fifteen minutes.”
Steve frowned at his watch. “Gee, Cyndi, I didn't think the interview lasted that long. It was just a photo op.”
“One of these days we really must teach you how to tell time, mustn't we? Then the woman who introduced the judges was a little bit long-winded. It's already two-thirty, so I don't even have time to go inside and freshen up my makeup. I'll simply have to wing it as is.” She stopped beside the convertible and stared at its occupant. When Arnie fluttered his fingers in greeting, she shrank back. “Ooh, he almost mussed me. What's wrong with him?”
Steve grasped the situation without missing a step. “That man is in no condition to drive, Claire. He's likely to run over the pedestrians on the sidewalk and kill some child. We don't want that kind of publicity.”
Cyndi tapped on her watch in case I hadn't worked up to a proper sweat ( which I had, several minutes earlier) . “We really, really have to line up for the parade, Mrs. Malloy. I've been in oodles of them, and it's always chaos for the first thirty minutes or so, until the bands are positioned and the cars in order. It's such an amateurish group that no one has the slightest idea what to do. The junior-high bands are completely out of control, if you know what I mean. If there's a riding club, the horses are all spooked and some kid falls off his pony. It can be just awful.”
“I had a pony once,” Arnie said. “Cutest little pony
in the whole world.” He gave us a beatific smile, then fell across the seat and began to snore.
Steve shrugged and gave me a helpless look. Cyndi tapped her watch. Arnie snuggled down in the upholstery and snored more loudly. Somewhere on the campus a bell tolled the half-hour. I mentally cursed Sally Fromberger, Luanne Bradshaw, the idiot who'd thought up the Miss Thurberfest pageant, the idiot who'd thought up anything to do with the Thurberfest, and the pedestrians who were beginning to wander along the sidewalk to find the perfect spot from which to watch the parade. I cursed the weatherman for not producing a violent thunderstorm or a tornado. I saved my most colorful curse for dear Arnie, who made a snuffly noise as he sought a more comfortable position in which to conduct his stupor.
I went around to the driver's side and shoved Arnie hard enough to bang his head on the door handle. I then settled myself behind the wheel and smiled at my passengers.
“Shall we go?” I said.
T
he stadium parking lot, known locally as the Passion Pit, was a circus. Junior-high students armed with musical instruments did their best to stampede wild-eyed horses and buckskinned riders. A small child fell off his pony and began to scream. A drill team of miniskirted girls swarmed the convertible to gape at Miss Thurberfest and bat their eyelashes at her companion. Pickup trucks filled with dirty-faced Cub Scouts circled the lot, the drivers apparently unwilling to risk allowing the boys to scramble away. All sorts of people shouted sternly through megaphones. The bands played on. A horse finally bolted, to an acned tuba player's delight. A Cub Scout leaped over the side of the truck and into the coroner's convertible. Cyndi chattered with fans and signed autographs on scraps of paper. Steve shook hands and thanked everyone for their community spirit, which proved that communism would never get a toehold in grass-roots America. Arnie snored steadily.
To my amazement, order triumphed over cacophony. At three o'clock sharp, a police car with flashing lights pulled out of the lot, followed by a marching band abusing Sousa, Shriners on motorized tricycles, a truckload of cheerleaders, and a fleet of antique cars. At some point I was waved into the line of convertibles, each with posters taped on the side doors and dignitaries perched
on the tops of the backseats. We ran the gamut from sanitation supervisor to lieutenant governor; my passengers were slightly above average.
I fumbled through my purse for sunglasses. Arnie roused himself long enough to tell me to keep my hands to myself, then flopped back down. I remembered I'd left my sunglasses at Luanne's; therefore I had no hope of disguising myself as we drove past a goodly percentage of Farberville's twenty thousand citizens. That, coupled with my appearance on the local news, was apt to catapult me right into celebrity status. Maybe next year I'd be invited to ride on the back of a convertible, waving and tossing penny candy to children. I could crown the new Ms. Compromised Feminist Sensibilities, the pageant that proved beauty was both ageless and feckless. Whoopee.
We crept around the corner and started down Thurber Street ( and my public humiliation) . The crowds grew thicker as we reached the theater, and positively thronged the sidewalks in front of Sally's cafe. By the time we reached the Book Depot there was hardly an unpopulated inch of concrete. There were strollers, children, balloons, dogs, and sunglass-clad adults in abundance. Several Farber College faculty members gave me hesitant smiles, no doubt surprised to see me in such a ridiculous role. I heartily concurred with whatever they were murmuring to each other.
Their pompoms aflutter, the drill team paused to perform a routine under the stoplight. I braked, then slouched down and put my hand over my forehead. My attempt to will myself to my apartment failed, however, as did any idle prayer that no one would notice the insignificant driver of such above-average dignitaries.
“Mother!” Caron shrieked from the sidewalk. She and
Inez dashed into the street and clutched the side of the car. “I didn't know you got to drive in the parade! This is Very Impressive. Can Inez and I ride with you?”
“Sure,” I said expansively, “as long as you don't mind sitting on my friend Arnie. He won't mind; I'm sure of that. Of course I can't promise he won't throw up somewhere along the parade route. I regret to say he's been drinking, which is why I'm driving.”
“He's drunk. That's awful,” Caron said, thoroughly scandalized. Inez nodded, marginally mortified.
I glanced in the rearview mirror at my passengers, who were both twinkling and smiling so intently their facial muscles were imperiled. Cyndi's waves were vivacious; Steve's were dignified yet steady. At the corner, the drill team ended with a cheer, then fell into formation and started forward to the next crowd of innocent bystanders.
“As much as I have enjoyed our chat, I must run along now,” I said to the girls. “I really don't think it would be prudent to sit on Arnie, so you trot back to the sidewalk and cheer for the coroner and the Cub Scouts.”
I put the car in gear, but before we'd gone more than a few feet, I heard a peculiar pinging noise from the backseat. As I turned around, mystified, Steve grabbed Cyndi and the two fell across the backseat in a tangle of arms and legs.
“What's wrong?” I demanded.
Steve stared at me through Cyndi's bent arm. “A shot! Someone fired a shot at us! Get us out of here, Claire. For God's sake, drive!”
I saw the black hole in the upholstery above his ear. I jerked the steering wheel to the left and put the pedal to the metal, so to speak. We roared up the sidestreet, bounced over a pothole, bounced even higher over a
long-abandoned railroad track embedded in the street, veered around a woman pushing a stroller, and careened around another corner. The tires screamed; the acrid stench of burning rubber caught up with us and made my eyes burn. Cyndi squealed, and Steve loosed a string of colorful expletives. Nearly blinded by tears, I nevertheless missed a jogger as I pulled over to the curb and stopped.
Once I could control my hand long enough to switch off the engine, I leaned back and let my head rest on the top of the seat. I took several deep breaths, then said, “Everybody all right back there?”
“Get off my hair,” Cyndi growled.
“I'm doing my best. Your leg is wrapped around mine, and I can't get up. Your elbow is in my throat.”
“You're hurting me.”
“This isn't my idea of a good time.”
Arnie sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Wowsy, that was some ride, Senator. Wowsy.” He found his bottle under the seat, took a long drink, then mutely offered it to me.
I closed my eyes. After a few more muttered accusations, the two in the backseat disentangled themselves and sat up. Steve put his hand on my shoulder. “You were great, Claire. Thanks for saving my life. You let me know if there's anything I can ever do for you, anything at all.”
“Your life?” Cyndi said incredulously. “That shot was intended for me. It's proof that some madman has been trying to kill me all week.”
Steve produced a shaky laugh. “Don't be absurd, Cyndi. No one would try to kill you. You're a great girl and a real pretty one, too, but I'm a state senator. I've made a lot of enemies in the six years I've been serving my constituency. One of my campaign promises involves
an investigation of union organizers in the trucking industry. Those old boys play rough.”
“There have been threats against me all week. Just ask Mrs. Malloyâshe'll tell you how the madman tried to kill me right on the stage.”
“The teamsters' union has known ties to organized crime.”
“This ten-pound weight missed me by one little bitty inch.”
“Organized crime means thugs, professional hit men.”
“And somebody wrote on the mirror!”
Arnie looked at me. “Sounds like they both want to get killed, don't it?” He took another drink, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and opened the car door. “I'm not in the mood to fight over the dubious honor of being shot at, so I think I'll just walk, myself. Ciao, Senator. Have a good day.” He got out of the car and ambled down the street, stopping every few steps to replenish his strength with a swig, and disappeared around the corner.
Cyndi reiterated all the attempts on her life, while Steve continued to explain the union links to organized crime and New Jersey hit men. I gazed at the sky and wondered if our abrupt exit from the parade had been noticed, or if anyone heard the sound of gunfire and bothered to call the police. I wondered which dealer had loaned the car for the parade. I wondered if the pothole and/or railroad tracks had done dreadful things to the front axle. I did not, on the other hand, wonder who'd fired at whom in the convertible, because it wasn't worth the effort. I had no theories. Not one.
“I'm afraid the bottom line is you're overestimating your importance,” Steve said, cutting off Cyndi's third or fourth recitation of the death threat. “Are you able to
drive, Claire? We must report this to the authorities as soon as possible. They can contact the FBI. It's a federal offense to attempt to influence an election through terroristic threats or physical coercion.”
“I can drive. I suppose we ought to go directly to the police station so they can examine the bullet hole.”
Cyndi leaned across the seat and twisted the rearview mirror. “I can't go anywhere until I've had a chance to fix my hair. I look really, really disheveled because someone rolled all over me.”
“I saved your life,” Steve protested.
She shoved the mirror back and glowered over her shoulder at him. “So now you saved my life. A minute ago I was never in any danger; you were the one half the hit men in the entire state of New Jersey were aiming at. I was just a silly little girl with grandiose ideas.”
“Your ideas are pretty damn grandiose,” he said coldly.
“That doesn't change things, does it?” She scrambled over the top of the seat and arranged herself next to me. “Could we please stop by the theater for one teeny tiny second, Mrs. Malloy? I just know the reporters and television crews will descend on us when they hear the story, and I'll absolutely die if they see me like this. Please?”
“Every minute counts if the police are to find the sniper,” Steve said from the backseat. I noticed in the rearview mirror that he was combing his hair, but I doubted Cyndi wanted to hear about it.
I considered the possibility of catching up with Arnie. We could share his bottle, watch the rest of the parade, and hit the Gala Sidewalk Sale. My passengers could flip a comb to decide which of them was the intended
victim and who'd saved whose life. I concluded I was still in shock, and reached for the key.
“We will stop at the theater for five minutes and no longer,” I said in my steeliest maternal voice. “Whoever fired the shot is gone by now, so there's no reason to race hysterically to report this to the police. Cyndi can fix her hair in the office while I call Luanne. Steve can watch for hit men. We will then proceed to the police station. Is everybody ready?”
Everybody was ready, so I drove through the back streets to the theater in order to avoid the Thurberfest crowds. The parade was at the far end of the street by now, its flank protected by a police car. There was no indication anyone was the least bit alarmed about our graceless escape from the procession.
We went inside. Steve asked us to hurry and began to pace in the outer lobby, no doubt preferring to be a moving target. Cyndi and I went on to the office. She continued into the washroom while I dialed Luanne's number. After ten rings, I replaced the receiver, uneasily telling myself she was asleep with the bedside telephone unplugged.
It occurred to me that Peter might appreciate some advance notice. It also occurred to me that he might not understand our side trip by the theater so that Miss Thurberfest could repair her hair for the media. Although he could be charmingly spontaneous in certain situations, he was rather a stickler for proper procedure in police matters. What to do, what to do. Had the room been larger, I would have wrung my hands and paced. As it was, I was apt to bump my nose every fifth step.
“Do you think you ought to call the police?” Cyndi said through the washroom door.
If she was mature enough to see the dilemma, I was
more than mature enough to grasp it by its horns. I called the police station. I will admit to a flicker of relief when the desk sergeant told me Peter was out of the office, and that he would be pleased to take a message.
He made a few amused noises as I explained that someone had fired a shot at us during the parade. No, none of us were hurt. Yes, there was a bullet hole in the backseat of the convertible. No, I was quite sure it hadn't been there before. No, we hadn't seen anyone with a rifle. No, we hadn't heard the shot but there really and truly was a hole in the upholstery. When I mentioned the political title of one of the passengers, the chuckles stopped.
“Stay there and wait,” he said. “It could be dangerous for any of you to go outside, much less drive across town. I'll have a squad car there as soon as they can get through the parade traffic, and an investigative team in ten minutes or so. Lock the doors and stay away from the windows. Don't take any risks.”
I hung up and yelled at Cyndi to wait in the office. Steve declined to join her but did agree to pace in the inner lobby. But there was no way to lock the door to the theater without a key, so I dutifully went to find Mac. He came up from the basement as I entered the auditorium.
“You're not supposed to be here before six,” he said.
“We had a small problem during the parade. The police are on their way to investigate, and they might want to examine the weight that almost killed Cyndi. Have you found it?”
“I have been trying to repair the audio system for tonight. It seems someone fiddled with all the knobs and all the switches. It sounds great downstairs, but no one up here will hear a thing if I don't undo the damage. If
you want me to stop working on it and search the back of the stage, I will. Then none of us will have to suffer through the caterwauling or listen to idiotic jokes and squeals.”