Doggone Dead (13 page)

“Are you okay?” Stan said, leaning over me as I sat at the judge’s table.

“I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

“Your face is terribly red,” he said. “Why don’t you take off that jacket? It’s hotter than blazes out here.”

It was pretty hot under the jacket, too. “No, Stan. I’m fine.” After viewing my lumpy self with the vest on under a cotton blouse, I decided to take Tory’s advice and dress up a little for the pageant. Now I had a choice – look lumpy or sweat like a farmhand in August.

Zach ran up with a large paper cup full of sweet tea. I downed it while he stood there and sent him off for another. I felt my internal temperature recede slightly. I was able to stay a little cooler, but the part I hadn’t planned on was the sudden urge to dash to the port-a-potty. I was situated at the front of a long runway, right in the middle of the crowd. Luckily, near the side of the stage area was a row of three port-a-potties. I would be so glad when this day would be over and I could relax in a cool tub.

I could hear the overhead speaker blaring as the announcer invited the crowd: “Y’all come and set a spell for the very first Miss Watermelon contest.” Now I realized I had less time than I thought and hurried inside a port-a-potty that stood in a line of the portable outhouses. With the vest hugging me tightly and the closed-in, foul-smelling air of the outdoor toilet, I felt my lunch threatening to come up. I used the bathroom and hurriedly pulled my clothes together and grabbed for the handle of the door. It would not open. I pushed at it with my shoulder, but it still wouldn’t budge.

The door of the port-a-potty was jammed. I started slamming my fist against the door and yelling from my blue molded-plastic coffin. Outside I could hear the announcer still calling for the audience to sit down. How long would it be before they noticed one of the judges wasn’t there?

I continued to pound on the door, hoping maybe somebody else had to use the bathroom and was waiting outside for the port-a-potty to be available. I put my hands on either side and tried rocking the entire structure. I only made it move slightly as I pushed each side. It started to waver, and I heard the slosh of the disinfectant below the seat. Someone had to be noticing the outhouse rocking out there. The sweat ran down the back of my neck into my snug bulletproof nightmare of a corset. I had to get out before I collapsed from heatstroke. I put all of my energy into one last terrifically hard push. This was it – all or nothing.

I rammed my shoulder up against the door, expecting the thud of the plastic hitting the ground, but instead I felt a whoosh of cool fresh air and a bright light in my eyes.

“Betsy? Damn, get some water, somebody!” I looked up into the blue eyes of my favorite weatherman. Leo Fitzpatrick was here, and he was holding on to little old me.

*****

It was a few minutes later before I was finally able to talk. “The door jammed. I thought I was going to die a disgusting stinky death in there.” I gulped down a cup of cool water.

“What do you have on?” Leo asked, feeling my sides, oblivious to the crowd of beauty pageant participants around us.

I squirmed from his touch. “It’s a bulletproof vest.”

A man broke through the crowd. “Betsy? Did someone shoot at you again?” It was Adam, the one guy I least wanted to have to talk to while being held by Leo.

“No, the door jammed on the port-a-potty.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” said Leo. “When you burst through, a stick went flying in the air. Someone locked you into that thing.” Leo stiffened and sat me upright, taking his hands out from under my arms. “Now that your new boyfriend is here, I’ll just be on my way. I left Tyler with Zach, and they’re probably lost by now.”

“Leo!” I said as he rose and started off. “Leo, wait. You came all this way.”

He turned. “Yes, I did. Deep down inside I had to make sure that you and...” he searched for Adam’s name, but couldn’t quite seem to get it, “...this guy were an item. My suspicions have been confirmed.”

“Leo!” I had to make him understand.

A woman came running up behind Adam Cole and grabbed hold of his waist. “I found you! I didn’t think I’d ever get finished at the department.” He turned to Elena Morris and kissed her. I couldn’t believe it. Elena and Adam? That fast? I sat on the pavement, stunned.

Adam looked down at me and extended his free hand to help me up. He turned to Leo, “You were saying what about me and Betsy?”

Leo’s jaw slackened. His pace had been going in the other direction, but now he turned and grabbed me up from the pavement by my other arm. “Come with me,” he said.

“Leo, I can’t go with you, I have to go judge a beauty pageant in about five minutes.”

“Five minutes is all I’ll need.”

Stan stepped in front us, stopping Leo's momentum. “It’s just going to have to wait, loverboy.” Stan’s nose curled up. “Betsy, do you have any perfume in your bag? You smell awful.”

“Sorry,” I said. I turned to Leo. “Please, there about twenty little girls and twenty soon-to-be angry family members over there waiting for me. I need to go.”

He relented. “Go,” was his one-word answer. Somehow I worried that my going meant more than go judge a beauty pageant. Was he releasing me out of whatever it was we had? I had to admit he had been more than patient with me, but the thought of him out of my life left a sadness deep inside of me.

I walked over to the judging table and pulled out my purse to spray on some perfume. After a quick search, I surmised that all I had was hand sanitizer. I spread the clear goo over my hands, face and neck and tried to make it a little shower in a bottle. At least the alcohol in the gel made it cool on my skin. A lady sitting nearby smiled and scooted a few inches away. Let the judging begin.

Stan ran up. “Okay, Betsy, here are your ballots to score each little Miss Watermelon contestant.”

Rocky came up behind him with his camera around his neck.  “We’re using a full-color picture on the front, so a nice red, white and blue dress would be great. Oh, and no goofy kids.”

“All kids are goofy, don’t you know that?” I said, pulling the ballot sheets in front of me. Rocky sat on the edge of my table and leaned over.

“What’s that smell? It’s kind of a mixture of sewer water and Lysol.” I elbowed him off the table as Stan rose to the platform to start the proceedings.

“I’m here! Am I late?” Tory came running in and pulled out her chair. A diamond tiara about blinded me as the sun bounced off its rhinestones. She also had on a midnight blue evening gown and a sash that read “Miss Hill Country 1995.” She noted my shock and continued, “I am a former pageant winner. It’s good for the girls to see that winning a pageant is a lifelong commitment.”

I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

Behind us we had the official crew of NUTV – one camera man and one sound man. These guys had a lot of experience, but mostly from shooting high school football and the farm and ranch report. I turned around to wave at them, and the microphone guy was biting into a footlong hot dog. He nodded his head in acknowledgement. I turned back as strains of orchestra music started through the speakers.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we are proud to present our beautiful girls in the very first Pecan Bayou Miss Watermelon Pageant. Let’s give them all a hand!” Stan said, dressed in yellow slacks and a blue-and-white striped shirt. If I had to guess, it was probably Ralph Lauren he had on today.

The smallest girls came out first, one by one turning in their red, white and blue dresses. One little girl came toward me with hair sprayed into a style that was so much larger than her head I worried about the weight on her neck. She sashayed toward me, ruffling a petticoat under a white satin skirt. She had on more bling than one of Donald Trump’s wives. Out in the audience I heard a woman yell, “Sparkle, baby!” and the little girl smiled even wider.

As the sun caught her bedazzled rhinestones, it reminded me of something. Each time the ghost of Charlie Loper shot, I saw something sparkling in the light. Either Charlie Loper was a showgirl in the afterlife or the killer had on something that would catch the light. I had to concentrate on the next contestant and the next and the next. I would worry about the killer later, after the pageant.

There was only one problem – they were all cute. Not a dog in the bunch. Lots of hairspray, lots of lipgloss and hundreds of dollars worth of silk and taffeta. Maybe a more experienced judge would know what to count off on. I noticed Tory busily scratching out commentaries on each and every girl. Her judging sheets would be worthy of framing by the time she was finished with them. I looked at the criteria on the judging sheets – personality, poise, appropriate outfit – they all had that. As the last one walked through, I knew I was in big trouble. I had to do something to pick just one. There was a tiara under a glass case on the side of the stage, and I knew that I couldn’t give it to all of them.

My dad stood to the side of the crowd, quietly speaking into his shoulder walkie. I felt like the president surrounded by Secret Service agents. What was their code name for me? The Hopeless Hinter? Could there really be someone out here who wanted to do me harm?

I was surprised to see Coop Bonnet, leaning up against the Bonnet Farm watermelon booth, observing the pageant. Too hot for the leather jacket, today he had on a red muscle shirt and mirrored sunglasses. His head turned slightly in my direction. I quickly averted my gaze. Was he lining up his next shot? I wonder if he had jammed any sticks in port-a-potty doors lately. I started writing on one of my scoring sheets, trying to look busy. Tory looked over and smiled. Maybe I was finally doing it right.

Stan got up to announce the sportswear competition, and like clockwork the littlest ones came out first. They were in red, white and blue shorts and summer dresses and looked a little more comfortable carrying their giant heads of hair down the runway. All of the girls paraded through again. I wrote down descriptions of the girls and things I liked on the ballots and once again, knew I was stumped. This was like trying to pick a favorite child. Over in the first few rows I could see parents craning their necks to watch both their children and the reactions on the judges’ faces at the same time. As the last contestant entered the backstage area, Stan announced a ten-minute break while the judges tallied up their score sheets.

Tory pulled a little rhinestone-studded calculator out of her purse and started furiously punching in numbers with her red lacquered nails. I continued on with my trusty pencil and started adding up my own numbers. As I finished I had to come to a decision. If I turned in my sheets as-is, then the person who would decide the first Miss Watermelon would be Tory. This didn’t seem like a bad idea, but I just needed something else. All of these girls and their parents were professionals at the presentation side of things, but really what was this pageant named for? Watermelons.

“The judges look like they might be ready to turn in their score sheets, ladies and gentlemen,” Stan said, showing off his freshly whitened smile. I timidly raised my hand.

“Uh, Stan. I was wondering if I could ask a question of the contestants?”

Stan continued smiling, but his eyes spoke a different language. I had just gone off the script.

“That was Betsy Livingston, ladies and gentlemen, our helpful hints columnist from the newspaper.” He emphasized “helpful hints” as in, “What the hell does she know?”

“She would like to ask a question of our beautiful young ladies.” With that, the parents turned to each other and started violently whispering. Questions were not listed on the requirements, and there was going to be trouble. Lord knows that if they had known, they would have drilled their kids like the night before the SAT.

“What are you doing?” Tory whispered.

“I just need … something more.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.” I stood up. “Because this is a pageant for Miss Watermelon, I was just wondering if any of the girls could tell me the nutritional value of a watermelon.”

A hush fell over the crowd. The girls on the stage dropped their smiles one by one, some of them licking their dried-out teeth. I heard Stan clear his throat. What had I just done?

One little girl pushed through the crowd. I recognized her as the now-grieving owner of Noodles the dead poodle, Nora Nicholson.

“Although high in sugar, watermelon is very low in saturated fat, cholesterol and sodium. It is also a good source of potassium, vitamin A and vitamin C.” She stepped back and then forward again and said, “Thank you,” and stepped back again.

Her mother yelled out, “Excellent work, Nora!”

“Indeed!” said Stan, his smile back in place. “What a beautiful, talented and smart group of girls we have here today. Does that suffice, Mrs. Livingston?”

“I think that will do just fine,” I answered, sitting back down. I quickly scribbled a few things down and noticed Tory adding something to her score sheets. We simultaneously handed them over to Stan. “I will tally the judges’ scores while our lovely young ladies take one more spin down the runway,” he said.

The orchestra music came back over the loudspeakers, and I heaved a sigh of relief. No matter how much Rocky and Stan might beg me, I would never ever judge a beauty pageant again.