“Of course it’s photos,” one of the girls said in a world-weary voice. “Isn’t it always in pageants? I mean, look what happened to that Miss California a couple years back. A few lingerie photos turn up—not even racy ones—and, poof! She’s out on her ass.”
“You’re fired!” Brooke did a credible imitation of Donald Trump.
A couple girls giggled, then stopped abruptly as if afraid laughter was inappropriate this soon after a death.
“Or it could be drugs,” another girl offered. “My roommate from the Miss Teen Angel USA pageant totally got kicked out for popping some E before the dress rehearsal. She was a real candy raver.”
I couldn’t remember the speaker’s name, but she’d done a dramatic reading of Poe’s “Lenore” as her talent. Her casual use of drug slang gave me the heebie-jeebies. What the heck was a “candy raver”? I hoped Rachel wasn’t listening.
“Do you suppose she did it?” another voice asked.
The voices had dropped to little more than whispers and I couldn’t tell who was speaking.
“Who? Did what?”
“You know. Whoever was going to get disqualified. Do you think she killed Miss Faye?”
Elise jerked her head up, pulling a section of her hair out of the curling iron. She winced but stayed silent.
I didn’t hear an answer, but it was a darned good question. Did Agent Dillon know that Audrey had announced she was preparing to disqualify one of the contestants? And could a cheesy rhinestone tiara and a Miss Magnolia Blossom sash really be a motive for murder? Last week I’d have laughed at the idea. Now, having seen how serious some of the girls were about the pageant, how intent on winning, not just to add a crown to their collection at home, but to further their dreams and career ambitions, I couldn’t dismiss the idea.
“That’s just stupid,” Elise said as if I’d spoken out loud. She kept her voice low. “No one would murder someone to win a silly pageant. It’s ridiculous.” Her voice was tight with emotion and she craned her head around to look at me. “Don’t you think?”
“I think it’s hard to know what drives people to murder,” I said. I’d never given the subject much thought until Mom was accused of murder and I spent a couple of weeks investigating, tracking down the real murderer. A decades’ old thirst for revenge and plain old-fashioned greed had prompted Constance’s killing. But pride and the avoidance of humiliation or shame could also spark murder, I thought. As could anger or hatred. It wasn’t a topic I wanted to spend time talking about, so I keyed on another part of Elise’s comment. “Do you think the pageant’s silly?”
She shrugged one shoulder slightly. “Not as silly as some things.”
I wished I could see her face, but we didn’t have a mirror in this corner of the changing room. “So how come you entered the pageant, then?”
“Mom.”
The single word hung between us and the image of Mrs. Metzger floated into my mind. I could see where it would be easier to give in than stand up to her hectoring.
“I’m tired of watching every bite I eat and working out two hours a day and going to fittings and practicing that damn flute!” Elise said suddenly. The words rushed from her like shoppers pouring through the doors of a Walmart on Black Friday. “I’m sick of making nice with the judges and being sweet to the other girls even though some of them are total bitches, and never having pizza or chocolate and being in bed by nine so I don’t look ‘washed out’ and—” She broke off, her chest heaving.
“Why don’t you just quit?”
“My mom would kill me.”
Hearing the words aloud, she gasped and slewed in the chair. She looked up at me, brown eyes pleading with me. “I didn’t mean that. Mom wouldn’t kill anyone. Sure, she’s into the whole pageant thing, but not to where—I mean, she wouldn’t—”
“Of course she wouldn’t,” I said reassuringly, spritzing her curls with hairspray. But I’d seen Mrs. Metzger backstage last night and I knew she had a temper. As Elise thanked me and hurried off to change into her swimsuit, I made a mental note to track down her mother and see what I could learn.
As I started to pack my combs and products away, someone knocked on a locker. “May I come in?” a husky voice asked.
I turned, surprised, to see the statuesque, dark-haired judge standing at the end of the bench, a questioning look on her smooth face. An ivory silk suit hugged her curves and a plum-colored blouse accented her coloring. Renata something, I remembered.
“I was hoping you might have a moment to fix my hair,” she said, trying to run her fingers through the dark mane. It looked like she’d been standing behind a 747 at takeoff. “My car’s AC quit on me this morning and I had to drive up from Jacksonville with the window down. I know you’re really here for the contestants, but I was hoping . . . I heard there might be news cameras around . . .”
“Sure,” I said, and she settled into the chair I’d purloined from an office across the hall.
“I really appreciate this,” she said. “I’m Renata Schott.”
“Right.” I drew a comb through her thick hair. “You were a Miss American Blossom yourself.”
“Runner-up,” she corrected with a self-deprecating smile. Her lips were so pillowy under a slick of burgundy gloss that I wondered if she’d had collagen injections. “Audrey won. All the girls that year knew we didn’t have a chance. She had ‘winner’ written all over her—everything she touched turned to gold. Up until last night, I guess.”
Her voice was appropriately mournful, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that she wasn’t exactly grief stricken. “I guess you knew her pretty well?”
She winced as I pulled the comb through a stubborn snarl. “You could say that. We had a lot in common.”
“Like what?” I worked styling product through her hair.
“Oh, we both came from small towns—her from down here, me from Minnesota. We both majored in communications. Of course, we both did the pageant thing for a few years. And we were both unlucky in love.”
“How so? I thought she was married.”
“Oh, Kevin’s her second husband. Her first marriage only lasted a year. Mine imploded after nine months.”
“Mine was over after a year,” I offered, “although we dragged it out for another three before the divorce.”
She turned to give me a commiserating smile. “Men. You can’t live with ’em and you can’t shoot ’em.”
The sounds of toilets flushing and locker doors banging, plus the whirring of an industrial fan someone had dragged in to cool the changing room, took over as we lapsed into silence. I desperately wanted to ask Renata if she knew of anyone who hated Audrey or might have a motive to kill her (other than Stella or Darryl), but I couldn’t think how to do it. I wished Mom were here; people naturally divulged everything to her. I think it had something to do with her calm, nonjudgmental air, or maybe the fact that she looked so darn motherly and wise. Maybe I should get glasses like hers. I decided to take the plunge.
“Who do you think did it?”
“One of her boyfriends, maybe,” Renata offered immediately. “Or Kevin. Or it could be someone she trampled on her way to the top. Like Jodi. Jodi used to be in charge of this pageant until Audrey came along. Now she’s playing second fiddle. Well, she was until Audrey died.”
“I thought you said you were friends,” I said, too astonished by the flood of vitriol to be tactful. I misted her now smooth hair with hairspray.
“I said we knew each other well,” she corrected, rising from the chair in one elegant motion. “Audrey didn’t ‘do’ friends. You were either the competition or someone who could help her. There was no in between. Thanks.” She pressed a tip into my hand and glided from the room. I looked at the bill—a dollar.
Jodi Keen appeared just then to give the girls some lastminute instructions and I left the locker room, sneaking a look at Jodi as I passed her. I saw her with new eyes in the light of Renata’s revelations. And the news that Audrey might have been involved with several men cheered me. It expanded the suspect pool beyond Stella and Darryl. I wondered if Renata would open up to the police. A moment’s thought told me that of course she would; the woman was dying to trash Audrey Faye to whoever would listen. I wanted to share my discoveries with Stella, but she wasn’t around. I wandered out of the yacht club to find a place to watch the swimsuit competition. The crowd had swelled and it seemed like half of St. Elizabeth had turned out to watch the contestants parade in their swimsuits. Wishing I’d had the forethought to bring a folding chair, I was looking for a place to watch from when I heard a voice.
“Grace! Over here!” I looked around and spied my best friend, Vonda Jamison, waving from the deck of her sailboat,
Wind Thief
.
I waved in return and slipped through the crowd to the dock. The scents of diesel fuel and brine floated up from the water as I stepped onto the deck, setting the small craft rocking. Vonda rose to hug me, blowing her platinum bangs out of her eyes with a huff of air. “I need a cut,” she greeted me.
“Maybe this evening, if you bribe me with a glass of wine,” I said, returning her hug. She wore a bikini top with a pair of Bermuda shorts and her bare skin was sticky with sunblock. “This is a good idea.” I gestured to the boat. “We’ll have a great view from here.” The contestants were scheduled to sashay from the yacht club down the boardwalk to the gazebo where the judges would score them. They’d pass right by the dock. Glancing around, I noticed that other boat owners had the same idea; most of the nearby decks sported folding chairs and several people.
“Where are Ricky and RJ? No interest in beauty pageants?” Ricky was Vonda’s former husband and her partner in the B&B they’d bought together ten years ago. They’d been on-again, off-again since high school and were currently pretty on—if Vonda’s glow was anything to go by. RJ was their eight-year-old son.
“Visiting Ricky’s folks in Fort Myers,” Vonda said. “Ricky wanted to make sure they got some time with RJ before school starts up in a couple of weeks. So it’s just us chicks. Soda?”
I accepted the diet A&W she held out and settled into a canvas chair. Reaching for the sunblock sitting on the deck, I slathered some on my forearms, bared by the airy sweater. If I sat cross-legged, pulling my legs up under my blue cotton skirt, I wouldn’t have to goop them.
“So . . .” Vonda said, looking at me expectantly.
“So what?” I asked.
“The body. I heard you found Audrey Faye’s mutilated body.”
I shot her an exasperated look. “You’ve lived here long enough not to believe everything you hear through the small-town grapevine. She wasn’t mutilated.”
“But you found her?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.” She put a hand on my arm. “It must have been ugly.”
“Not much fun.” I filled her in.
“So Special Agent Dillon’s back, huh?” She gave me a sly look.
I tell her about finding a body and she zeroes in on the handsome detective? That’s a best friend for you. “He’s back. So what? He’s only interested in me as a witness. Besides, I’m seeing Marty.”
“It’s not like you two are exclusive,” Vonda said, flapping her hand. “You aren’t even sleeping together.”
I felt my face flush and looked around to see if the people on the other boats had heard her. “Sssh. If I wanted the entire town to know about my love life, I’d take out an ad in the
Gazette
,” I said.
“What love life?” Vonda asked, unrepentant. “A few dates with a guy who lives four hours away hardly constitute a love life.”
A cheer went up from the crowd so I didn’t have to come up with a response. The contestants had appeared at the yacht club entrance and were waving to the crowd. The emcee stood at the gazebo, mic in hand, but half his words got blown away by the gentle breeze. “. . . a hand . . . swim . . . Magnolia . . . contestants.” Vonda and I joined in the applause.
The girls, led by Brooke Baker in a red bikini top and boy shorts, started down the boardwalk. Clearly, the pageant had left the choice of swimwear up to the contestants. I thought, and not for the first time, that you could learn more about a woman by watching her for thirty seconds in a bathing suit than you could in a half-hour conversation. I live in a beach community and see a lot of people in swimsuits. Women just move differently in bathing suits than they do in shorts or jeans. Some saunter, some hold their tummies in, some walk on tiptoe so their breasts don’t bounce, some flaunt their best features with a gold chain at the waist or a backless one-piece or halter top. Almost all of them over the age of ten are self-conscious, tugging down bikini bottoms, readjusting straps, glancing around as they smooth sunblock onto their arms. The contestants were no exception.
Brooke strutted in her red suit, waving to the crowd, comfortable with her muscular, athletic body. Elise, right behind her, crept along in a skirted suit that a Victorian miss would find modest. Even her smile was strained, a flash of teeth quickly hidden. Contestants wearing suits in all the bright colors of a Skittles pack glided, tromped, and swayed down the boardwalk. Applause greeted each girl as she did a series of turns in the gazebo and then marched back to the yacht club. Rachel bounced along second to last, wearing a purple one-piece with cutouts at the sides and a ruffle on the asymmetrical neckline. She was barefoot—most of the contestants wore sandals of varying heights—and gave off the happy vibe of a teen planning to spend the day at the beach with friends. All she needed was a boogie board or a Frisbee. I cheered loudly as Rachel passed the boat. Vonda put two fingers in her mouth and blasted a shrill whistle. Rachel grinned.
Tabitha was last again—I wondered how she’d finagled it this time—in a shimmery white micro bikini that displayed every tanned, curvaceous inch. The sun struck gold sparks off her hair and she moved gracefully, even in four-inch heels. As she mounted the steps to the gazebo, the applause built to a crescendo and her smile edged toward smug. But then, as she twirled for the judges, the thin strap of her bikini top snapped and her breast popped out.