Polished Off (13 page)

“I’m sure it was an accident,” Jodi said again, as if by repeating it authoritatively she could make it so.

Tabitha rounded on her in a swirl of righteous indignation and blond hair. “Yeah, like Kiley falling off the stage was an accident and the sprinkler ruining some of the girls’ gowns was an accident. I suppose next you’ll say that what happened to Ms. Faye was an accident.” She snatched the bikini top from my hand and stomped out the door. The other two contestants scurried after her, not making eye contact with me or Jodi.

“Oh, dear,” Jodi sighed.

“I think the suit was tampered with,” I said. “Maybe you should tell the police.”

She looked at me like I’d lost my mind. “Are you kidding? About a swimsuit that some contestant may or may not have fiddled with to embarrass Tabitha?”

“Maybe it’s more than that. You’ve had a series of mishaps. Maybe someone’s trying to stop the pageant.”

“You think someone killed Audrey to sabotage the pageant? But that’s insane!”

I was having second thoughts about having voiced my opinion. “I guess so.”

She hesitated, pushing a lock of brown hair off her face. I longed to take my scissors to the lank hair and give it more body with some judicious layers. “There was a note . . .”

“A note. When? What did it say?”

Jodi flipped through the stack of papers on her clipboard and tugged at a folded paper tucked underneath the pile. “I found it this morning. In the Green Room when I went to pick up the swimsuits. It was on the counter.”

I took it by one corner, not sure whether the police could get fingerprints from it or not. “STOP THE PAGEANT BEFORE SOMEONE ELSE DIES,” I read. Black type on plain bond paper. A shiver traveled up my spine, like a beetle skittering under my shirt. I lifted my gaze to Jodi’s sheepish face. “This is a death threat. Why in the world didn’t you show it to the police?”

She snatched it back from me, clearly regretting showing it to me. “It’s a prank. Some kid who thinks he’s clever. It doesn’t actually threaten anyone. We can’t stop the pageant.”

“It’s a beauty pageant, not a G8 summit or something,” I said. “Of course you can call a halt.”

She shook her head. “No. I ran this pageant for the last four years without a hiccup. It was only when Audrey took over that things started going wrong. Everything will go smoothly now that—” She didn’t need to finish the sentence.

“You’ve got to tell the police about the note, Jodi. If you won’t, I will.”

“It’s none of your business!”

“Whoever wrote this note killed Audrey. It’s evidence.”

“They might make us stop the pageant.”

The shock in her voice would have been more appropriate for a statement like, “They might amputate our legs.”

“If that happens, I won’t be asked to take over the state pageant when Fran retires next year. I won’t ever get another job in the Miss American Blossom corporation.” Before I could guess what she was going to do, she tore the note in half and then in half again.

I thought for a moment she was going to stuff the pieces of paper in her mouth, like some demented secret agent, but she spun on her heel and raced to the toilet stalls. I was half a step behind her when I heard the flush. I bent to pick up a scrap of paper. Palming it, I said nothing when Jodi reappeared, a triumphant look on her face. “Well,” she said with an attempt at insouciance belied by a tic just below her left eye, “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I didn’t say anything; I just stared at her until she flushed and turned away, letting the door bang shut behind her as she left. When I was sure she was gone, I uncurled my fingers from around the scrap. It contained a single word: DIES. I bit my lip, pretty sure Agent Dillon was not going to be happy when I presented it to him.

 

 

I PRACTICALLY TRIPPED OVER ELISE METZGER AND a young man in the hall, arms around each other’s waists, when I left the locker room. They sprang apart like high schoolers afraid of detention for PDA when they saw me. Hurrying past them, I called the GBI office but had to leave a message for Agent Dillon to get in touch with me. Taking a deep breath, relieved not to have to tangle with Dillon immediately, I set out in search of Stella. She was nowhere in the yacht club building or immediately outside. I lifted my hair off the back of my neck, hoping for a cool breath of air on my damp skin as I scanned the dock and the park. No Stella. The protestors, though, were packing their signs, folding chairs, and loading coolers in the back of a tan Ford Voyager. Maybe they were returning to campus since the pageant action here was over for the day. I didn’t see Kwasi Yarrow. About to walk past them on my way to my car, I noticed a familiar figure.

Althea crouched in the back of the van, accepting the placards as the protestors handed them in to her. Wearing a red tunic over loose black trousers, she was talking to Daphne, whose sandy hair straggled out of a loose braid. When she noticed me, Althea started and then waggled her eyebrows. I had no idea what she was trying to say, but when I took a step toward the van, she shook her head once and held up a finger in a “one minute” sign. I nodded and drifted to the nearby hot dog stand where I bought a lemonade and a foot-long dog. A spoonful of relish, a squirt of mustard—

“We can’t talk here,” Althea’s voice said softly behind me.

I jumped and splattered mustard down my shirt. “What are you—” I started to turn but her voice stopped me.

“Sssh. Don’t turn around. Give me a moment and then follow me.”

I rolled my eyes, wondering if everyone in St. Elizabeth had been infected by a dangerous spy virus—first Jodi, now Althea. “Whatever,” I muttered under my breath as Althea walked past the marina and down toward the river. Dabbing at the mustard stain with cheap napkins that shredded against the fabric, I bit into my hot dog and gulped some lemonade before trailing Althea.

I caught up with her at a kiosk that rented bicycles. The Satilla River flowed past a few feet beyond the rental hut, its brownish water dappled by leaf shadows. Bikes in various sizes and colors were chained to tree trunks. A hand-printed sign on the kiosk window said, “Gone to lunch. Back at 1:15.” Althea leaned against the far side of the hut, mostly hidden from the boardwalk.

“Why the Mata Hari routine?” I asked. I chucked my white hot dog tray into a trash can. Wasps buzzed in and out of a Coke bottle sticking out over the lip, getting woozy on the slurp of sugary liquid pooled in the bottom.

Althea made a show of looking in all directions, her dark eyes sparkling. “I can’t be seen hobnobbing with you, baby-girl. You’re with the enemy.” Apparently satisfied that we were unobserved, she settled onto a bench that faced the river.

It was peaceful here, not crowded and frenetic like the beachfront. Birdcalls and insect whirrings sounded over the gentle murmurings of the water. A pair of mallards dabbled by the bank. It was still brutally hot, even with the cool breath of the water, but giant old trees trailing Spanish moss cast a welcome shade.

“The enemy?”

“The beauty pageant. You help exploit those young girls, keep them enslaved to ideals of beauty and utility perpetuated by white males.” I couldn’t tell from her tone if she was buying into the protestors’ platform or making fun of it.

“I don’t enslave anyone,” I objected. “I style hair.” Before she could expound on the slave theme, I added, “And you’re an aesthetician whose paycheck comes from facials and skin care products, so don’t be pointing any fingers.”

She shrugged. “I know. And I enjoy it. And I like to think my clients feel better for my treatments. But I’ve got to admit that there’s something to what Kwasi says. What woman in her right mind parades around in public, wearing nothing but a skimpy bikini and high heels, looking like a . . . well, you know what she looks like. Not respectable.” She primmed her mouth. “No woman would do that of her own accord. They’re only doing it because that’s what the dominant culture tells her makes her valuable. Kwasi says that for women to become self-actualized, they have to see themselves as more than decorations.”

Despite the pretentious academic-speak, that didn’t sound totally loony. Then I thought of Brooke using the pageant to earn money for vet school. She didn’t strike me as someone at the mercy of the “dominant culture.” I didn’t feel like debating, though, so I said, “I didn’t see Kwasi.”

She shifted on the bench. “He was there earlier, but he had to go back to the college for a meeting. He says meetings are the worst part of being an academic.”

I could believe that. I told her about talking to Sam Barnes and about the note Jodi found. “Have you talked to anyone in the protestor group who might feel strongly enough to sabotage the pageant?”

Althea jutted her lower jaw forward. “They’re college kids, Grace Ann. Only nineteen or twenty. They’re protestors, not criminals. Kwasi teaches the ideals of civil protest in the tradition of Reverend King or Gandhi, not rioting or vandalism or anything.”

News footage of abortion-clinic bombings and labanimal rescues played in my head. Waving posters and chanting slogans wasn’t enough for some protestors. I bent over to work a pebble out of my shoe. Straightening, I threw it toward the river and it disappeared with a little
plip
. “I’m worried about Stella,” I said. “Agent Dillon thinks Darryl might be implicated in Audrey’s murder somehow and I’m afraid she might do something stupid.”

“He’s a cheating skunk,” Althea said. “Stella would do best to let him swing in the wind and reap the consequences of his actions.”

Althea wasn’t much of one for second chances.

“That said, he’s been a good daddy to Jessica, and Stella always did have a soft heart. You better find that girl and ride herd on her so she doesn’t do something
really
stupid like help him run off to Mexico.” Althea pushed to her feet and rotated her shoulders. “I’ll tell you what—protesting will get you in shape. Holding that placard up all morning sure did a number on my shoulder muscles. I’ll leave first.” Looking remarkably furtive—thank heavens there was no one in sight—she snuck back to the path and headed toward the marina.

I RETURNED TO VIOLETTA’S, THINKING MAYBE STELLA had gone back to the salon. Mom was doing highlights for an old customer and Beauty sat in the window, twitching her tail as she watched two squirrels chase each other around a tree, but Stella wasn’t there.

“Seen Stella?” I asked Mom, slipping behind the counter to check the appointment book. A fairly light day. I didn’t need to feel too guilty about leaving Mom in the lurch.

“Not since first thing this morning,” she said. She shot me a look over her glasses. “Why?”

I hesitated, aware that her client was avidly soaking up every word. “No reason,” I said.

Mom arched one brow, clearly aware there was more to it, but she let it go.

“If you see her, tell her that I—”

The door swinging open to let in a wave of humidity stopped me. A man stood on the threshold, peering around uncertainly. In his early fifties, I guessed, he had thinning dishwater-colored hair slicked straight back, a la President Nixon, and a hint of jowls. A dime-sized mole marred his left temple. The crisp professionalism of a brown suit, white shirt, and shined loafers didn’t mesh with his tentative expression and the almost timid way he stepped into the salon. Of course, many men felt self-conscious walking into a beauty parlor.

“I’m looking for Grace Terhune,” he said. His voice was deeper than I’d thought it would be.

“That’s me,” I said, stepping forward with my hand out. His firm handshake made me reassess his seeming timidity. “How can I help you?”

“I’m Kevin Faye,” he said.

I suppressed my surprise. He was clearly fifteen or twenty years older than Audrey had been and a very ordinarylooking man.

“Oh.” Mom’s client gasped. Her eyes rounded. “You poor man! I heard—”

His gaze flicked over her and he cut her off. “Is there somewhere we can talk? Privately?” He stared into my face, his brown eyes searching mine, and I realized he was only two or three inches taller than I was.

“Uh, sure,” I said. “Let’s go out on the veranda.” I could have taken him back to Mom’s air-conditioned kitchen, but I didn’t feel comfortable leading him into her sanctum. Whatever he wanted, I figured he could tell me on the veranda.

He held the door for me as we exited and closed it firmly behind us. With a gesture, I invited him to take one of the Adirondack chairs that sat on either side of a plant stand we used as a table. Ignoring me, he walked to the rail and looked down into the yard as if studying the magnolia roots that broke through the grass in several places or contemplating how to get rid of the fire ant mound that had appeared after the last rain. His hands gripped the rail so his knuckles showed white. Without turning around, he said, “I understand you found her. Audrey. My wife.”

“How did you—”