Polished Off (12 page)

“TAKE IT ALL OFF,” A MAN YELLED. OTHER VOICES—all male—turned it into a chant. Several guys who looked like they were from the navy base removed their tee shirts and twirled them in the air.

Gasps, giggles, and cheers bubbled up from the crowd as Tabitha snatched at the tiny triangle of material and yanked on it, crossing her arms over her chest.

The judge from channel nine’s mouth hung open and I was afraid he’d start drooling. I had to give Tabitha credit for poise when she descended the stairs and sauntered back toward the yacht club, still smiling for the crowd.

“Quite the Janet Jackson moment,” Vonda observed.

“Embarrassing,” I agreed.

“She didn’t seem too embarrassed,” Vonda said, watching as Tabitha turned for a final wave at the crowd. “She didn’t even blush.”

“You just couldn’t see it under all that makeup she had on.”

“Look.” Vonda nudged me.

I turned to see what she was pointing out and spotted the omnipresent Sam Barnes filming Tabitha’s shapely rear view as she slipped into the yacht club.

“Whaddaya want to bet he sells that footage to one of the Jacksonville stations? And they’ll air it with her boob tastefully fuzzed out?” Vonda said cynically.

Seeing Barnes had jarred loose a thought. “I’ve got to run.” Vonda looked surprised as I jumped from the sailboat onto the dock. “I’ll see you this evening. Don’t forget the wine.”

Leaving her sputtering behind me, I trotted toward Sam Barnes. The crowd had started to disperse and I threaded my way through the ambling mass of people. “Mr. Barnes!” I called.

He swung around, camera still held to his eye. Brown hair sprouted from around his head and curled to his collar. A photographer’s vest with bulging pockets hung from broad shoulders. A worn plaid shirt was half tucked into designer jeans. He had a short beard a couple shades darker than his hair that hid his chin and jaw, maybe to cover old acne scars like the ones that showed faintly just above where the beard began on his cheeks. Leather sandals exposed grimy feet with long toenails. He wasn’t wearing beads or a peace sign or smoking a joint, but something about him reminded me of photos I’d seen of Woodstock.

“Do you have a moment?”

He continued to focus on the camera, panning it up my body and zooming in on my face. “You’re the hair lady.”

“Right. Grace Terhune.” I held out my hand and he shook it.

He smiled, crinkling the skin around his eyes and I put him in his late thirties. “What can I do for you, hair lady? Hey, that rhymes with ‘fair lady.’ Hair lady, fair lady.”

“You’re filming the pageant for a documentary, right?”

He gave me a knowing look from the one eye I could see. The other was glued to the camera’s eyepiece. “You want me to interview you. You’re looking for your fifteen minutes of fame. Well, sure, you can say your piece. I can’t promise it will end up in the finished film, though. Most of my footage ends up on the cutting room floor. Now, there’s a saying that doesn’t have much relevance in the digital age. Kind of like—”

I took a step back. “I don’t want to be in the movie.”

He frowned. “Why not?”

“It’s just not me.”

He walked around me like a buyer studying a heifer at a cattle auction. “You’ve got the kind of facial structure that the camera loves. Great cheekbones and love those green eyes. You could stand to lose a few pounds, though; the camera adds about ten.”

I was half amused and half irritated by his assessment of my photogenic qualities. I turned so he was forced to face me. Tourists drifting by looked curiously at the camera, and one boy made silly faces. “Mr. Barnes—”

“Sam.”

“Sam, I don’t want to be in your documentary. I just wanted to know if you were filming backstage last night.”

He lowered the camera to his side and met my gaze dead-on for the first time. “You want to know if I filmed Audrey’s murder.”

“I suppose you would have mentioned it if you’d caught the actual event on camera,” I said, taken aback by the hostility in his voice. “But I thought you might have some film of who all was backstage. Maybe you even got some footage of Audrey with someone.”

“And if I did?”

“Well, then, I’m sure the police would like to see it. The investigator is Special Agent Dillon. He—”

“I can speak for myself, thank you, Miss Terhune.”

Dillon’s voice came from behind me and I whipped around. He wore a blue blazer over charcoal slacks and a look that said he didn’t appreciate my help. Showing his badge to Sam Barnes, he introduced himself. The two men sized each other up. The slight sneer on Barnes’s face told me he either didn’t like Dillon or he didn’t like cops in general. He raised the camera again and looked through the viewfinder, shifting to the left in search of a better angle. It struck me that the camera made a pretty good shield.

“Miss Terhune beat me to the punch,” Dillon said. “Ms. Keen told me about you filming the pageant. I’d like to see your film from last night. In fact, I’d appreciate it if I could see everything you’ve got that concerns the pageant or Mrs. Faye.”

“Not without a court order,” Barnes said, not looking up from the camera. He zoomed in on the annoyance stiffening Dillon’s face.

“You have something to hide?” Dillon asked.

“Not at all,” Barnes said with a little, irksome smile. “But I don’t want to see pieces of my documentary on You-Tube or the nightly news. It would undermine the impact of the finished piece. You understand.” His voice plainly said he didn’t care if Dillon understood or not.

“I understand you’re not cooperating with a murder investigation,” Dillon said tightly.

“Well, last I checked that’s not a crime. Not yet. And no possibility of terrorists involved here, so you can’t water board me and hide behind the Patriot Act.” Barnes’s fleshy lips had thinned to a line almost hidden by his beard.

Whoa. Sam Barnes had some serious issues with the police. I stared at him wide-eyed. I could see Dillon wanted to come back with a harsh answer, but he bit his tongue, maybe because of the camera.

“I thought Audrey was your friend, that you went to college together,” I put in, earning irritated glances from both men. “Don’t you want to help catch her murderer?”

“Where’d you hear that?” Barnes asked. He lowered the camera again.

I couldn’t remember. “But you did, right?”

“So we were at Berkeley at the same time. Big deal. Us and thirty thousand others. It’s not like they’re all getting invitations to my next birthday party.”

“But you had a relationship with the deceased?” Dillon said.

“We weren’t making the beast with two backs, if that’s what you’re asking,” Barnes said, smiling at his own lewdness or maybe at the pleasure of making the interview difficult. “I wanted to do an exposé on beauty pageants. She wanted some free publicity. Tit for tat. She scratched my back . . . you get the picture.”

“I’m not sure I do,” Dillon said, unsmiling.

People milled around us, but it felt like we were on a small island, the tension crackling between Dillon and Barnes establishing a force field that kept us from getting bumped or interrupted.

“I had no reason to kill her, man,” Barnes said forcefully. “This film”—he shook the camera gently—“is my ticket to the big leagues. It’s going to be important. Think Michael Moore. Audrey was giving me total access to the pageant and I was grateful. You wouldn’t believe the restrictions I got in Atlantic City.”

“You said ‘exposé’ just now, not ‘documentary,’” I said, fed up with his air of pseudo-sixties rebellion married to his hunger for recognition. “Isn’t that another word for hatchet job? Did Audrey know you were going to trash the pageant?”

Barnes’s eyes narrowed and he stared at me for a long moment without saying anything. Finally, he looked down into the camera’s viewfinder again and said in a stagy voice, “Voice-over: the cop and the stylist struggle to make sense of last night’s murder, but flounder helplessly, reduced to harassing the photographer, the neutral observer determined to capture the truth in its many aspects on film.” He began to walk backward, keeping the camera pointed at Dillon and me. “Fade to black.” Without another word, he turned and walked away. The crowd swallowed him quickly.

I looked at Dillon but he shook his head. “I’ll check him out before I talk to him again. And get a court order. I think the ‘setting’ for our next ‘scene’ might be an interview room.” His gaze lingered on the spot where Barnes had disappeared.

“You didn’t hit it off,” I observed.

“Pretentious, self-serving opportunist hiding behind a camera and his contention that he’s looking for the truth. All his type wants is a quick buck and a bucketful of accolades. He’s not looking for the truth—he’s already decided what ‘truth’ he wants to market and he’s cherry-picking images and quotations that support his version.”

A muscle worked in his jaw and the eyes he turned to me were a dark navy. His anger seemed out of proportion to Barnes’s annoying evasiveness and I wondered what might lie behind it.

“Have you seen Mrs. Michaelson lately?” he asked, his tone still brusque.

“In the yacht club before the swimsuit competition. Why?”

“Has she heard from her husband yet?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask her?” Dillon was dead wrong if he thought I’d inform on my friends.

“Audrey Faye’s cell phone records show three calls to Darryl Michaelson’s number round about the time she was killed. He’s a person of interest in this investigation and I need to talk to him ASAP.”

The news of the phone calls hit me like a bolster in the stomach. Did Stella know? I didn’t think so. Which meant Darryl was lying to her. And if he was lying about that . . .

“If there were three calls, maybe it means she didn’t get hold of him,” I suggested weakly.

His look told me he didn’t agree. “You’d be doing your friend a favor by persuading her to tell me where her husband is. He’s got ’til the end of the day, then I’m issuing a BOLO, a be-on-the-lookout. Every cop in Georgia will be looking for him.” A freshening breeze ruffled his gray-flecked brown hair. It was a bit longer than I remembered, not military-short like it was in the spring.

“I don’t think she knows.”

He met my gaze straight on. “If she finds out, make sure she doesn’t try to meet him alone. Just have her call me.”

I shivered at the seriousness in his voice. Did he really think Darryl was a danger to Stella? I couldn’t see convincing her of that. He might have cheated on her, but I didn’t think she’d believe he could harm her. “I’ll do what I can,” I finally said.

BACK IN THE YACHT CLUB LOCKER ROOM, TABITHA was seething. Wrapped in a white robe, she held the bikini top aloft. “The strap on my swimsuit was cut. Someone’s trying to stop me from winning.”

Only a couple of contestants were present, the others apparently having changed and left while I talked to Barnes and Agent Dillon. They ignored Tabitha’s outburst. Jodi, dressed in an oatmeal-colored blouse and trousers set off with chunky silver jewelry, tried to calm her. “Now, Tabitha, I’m sure it just frayed. Accidents happen.”

“It was cut,” Tabitha insisted, her mouth set in a mulish line. “Look.”

When no one took her up on her offer, I stepped forward. I examined the strap and the seam where it had joined the triangle of fabric. I was no expert, but the evenly severed threads looked like they’d been cut most of the way across. Only the last couple of threads looked like they’d pulled loose, still dangling from the strap. “Where did you keep the suit?”

Tabitha looked at me speculatively, as if deciding whether I was on her side or not. “All our outfits were in the Green Room at the theater.”

“Were they labeled? I mean, would someone know this was your suit?”

After a moment, Tabitha shook her head. “Not necessarily. We all kept track of our own stuff, hung our talent costume and our evening gown and our bathing suit clumped together on the rack. So any of the other contestants could have figured this was mine, even without my name on it, because they all knew my dance costume, but I don’t think someone who wasn’t associated with the pageant would know.”