by Lila Dare
“Seems you enjoyed it.”
“High school?”
He nodded. The girls on stage formed two lines and began marching to a Sousa-like number.
“It was okay. I wasn’t the most popular girl, but I had friends. I made decent grades and was the photo editor for the yearbook my senior year. And, of course, there was Hank.”
“True love.” His smile was twisted and I got the feeling he was thinking about something in his own past and not my high school romance that outlived its sell-by date.
“For a while. What about you? Did you like high school?”
“Hated it,” he said. He didn’t seem inclined to expand his answer.
“Because … ?”
“My best friend committed suicide when we were juniors,” he said. He faced the stage, not looking at me, his profile inscrutable.
I put a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry,” I said, feeling incredibly awkward at having forced such a confidence.
“It was a long time ago.”
No doubt. But that didn’t mean the pain and the aftereffects were gone. The music stopped before I could say anything else—probably just as well—and Jodi dismissed the girls, reminding them of rehearsal the next morning. Barnes sidled through a row of chairs and disappeared through a side entrance.
“The police say we can use the Oglethorpe again,” Jodi said. “Nine o’clock. We have to be out of there by eleven so the Phantom group can rehearse, so don’t be late.”
“Just a minute, please,” Agent Dillon said, starting forward. He took the stairs beside the stage two at a time and joined a startled Jodi and the contestants on stage. He introduced himself and asked anyone who had noticed anything out of place or unusual yesterday, no matter how minor it had seemed at the time, to talk to him. He paused, making sure he had their attention, and then said, “I also have to tell you that we’re doing background checks on each of you.”
Gasps and widened eyes greeted his announcement. “That’s unconstitutional,” someone muttered.
“Given that Ms. Faye was contemplating expelling one of you from this competition for some infraction, I have to check it out, in case it has any bearing on her death.”
“My girls would never—” Jodi began.
“It was me!” The girl’s voice cracked and I couldn’t tell who it was.
Chapter Sixteen
THE CONTESTANTS PULLED AWAY FROM THE GIRL who had spoken as if afraid they’d catch swine flu from her. They formed a deep semicircle around her, as perfect as if it had been choreographed. Left alone in the center of the stage, Hayley of flaming-baton fame stood with her head bowed. Flax-colored hair curtained her face. From the way her shoulders shook, I thought she was crying.
Murmurs of “murder” and “Miss Faye” swirled up from the girls surrounding her. Their mood reeked of mingled fear, excitement, and relief.
“She killed Miss Faye,” someone muttered.
My money was on Tabitha.
“And cut my swimsuit strap,” the same someone said louder.
Yep, Tabitha.
A new voice said, “She ruined my evening gown with that sprinkler ‘accident.’ And it was only on loan from Filomena’s Fashion Cove.”
“She sabotaged Kiley’s mats.”
The accusations kept coming as the gaggle of young women morphed disturbingly quickly into a mob. If Hayley had been a witch tied to a stake, one of them would have tossed a match.
“I didn’t!” Hayley jerked her head up, eyes wide with astonishment. “Of course I didn’t kill Miss Faye. Or any of the rest of it.”
Agent Dillon started to say something, but Rachel broke out of the pack and threw her arms around Hayley. “It’s okay,” she said. She glared at the other girls. “I’m sure you didn’t do anything very bad.”
Dillon stepped forward then. “I need to speak with Miss … ?”
“Hayley Greenfield,” she said, talking to the floor. “I didn’t kill her. But when she said she’d found out about the photos—”
“Told you it was photos,” a girl said in a satisfied tone.
“Let’s talk in private, Miss Greenfield,” Dillon said as the girls pelted her with questions.
“It’s none of your beeswax,” Rachel told the other contestants. “Leave her alone.”
“But she—”
“That’s enough,” Agent Dillon said. His voice was no louder than usual, but the contempt and anger in it silenced the contestants. His gaze traveled around the semicircle but most of the girls refused to meet his eyes. “Right, then.” He gave Rachel a small smile and then guided Hayley toward the stairs at stage right.
The other girls broke into clumps of two and three and straggled toward the stairs at stage left, muttering.
“Remember, tomorrow at nine,” Jodi called, shooting a look at Agent Dillon as if daring him to contradict her.
“Rachel,” I called, waving a hand.
Catching sight of me, she skipped the stairs and jumped down from the middle of the stage, landing with knees bent. As she straightened, her mouth formed an O and she pointed. I whirled around to see Sam Barnes stumbling toward me, one hand clutching the back of his head. Blood dripped from between his fingers and stained his collar.
“Attacked … camera,” he croaked. He crumpled to his knees four feet in front of me and I sprang forward to catch his shoulders before he could plant his face in the carpet.
AGENT DILLON WAS ALREADY CALLING FOR AN ambulance and backup by the time I lowered Barnes as gently as I could to the floor. He groaned. Rachel darted away and returned in a minute with a purple bathing suit soaked in cold water.
“Where’d you get this?” I asked, pressing it gently against the bloody knot on the back of Barnes’s head.
“My gym bag. It was still there from this morning’s competition. I sweated in it, though. You don’t, like, think that will give him an infection or anything, do you?” She looked down at me anxiously where I squatted beside the injured man.
“The crud in this carpet poses more of a threat than your suit.” From my low vantage point I could see years’ worth of chewing gum bumps sprouting from the undersides of the seats. Ick. Barnes’s eyes fluttered open. “What—” he asked. He seemed to have trouble focusing for a minute, then recognition sparked in his eyes. “The hair lady.”
“What happened, Barnes?” Agent Dillon’s voice came from above me. Uniformed officers had arrived and corralled the contestants and Jodi. Rachel joined them at a nod from Dillon.
“My head.” Barnes reached around and fingered the lump. “Ow.”
“I think it’s stopped bleeding,” I said, pulling the swimsuit away.
“Doesn’t look too serious,” Dillon said, “but it’s best to have the EMTs examine you. They’re on their way. Can you tell me what happened?”
“I damn well can.” Barnes’s voice grew stronger and a healthier color flushed his face. With my help, he pushed to a sitting position, resting his back against the side of a chair. “I was attacked in the men’s room.”
“Attacked? By whom?” Dillon had his notebook out, but he hadn’t written anything yet.
“How the hell should I know? Someone who wanted my camera. He stole it.” His eyebrows slammed together.
“You saw him?”
“No, the coward snuck up on me. I was at the urinal. I heard the door open—didn’t think anything of it—and the next thing I know … wham! He clocked me with something. He must have snatched my camera while I was out. I came around and found my way back here. That’s all I know. What kinda creep takes advantage of a man with his johnson in his hand? That’s low.”
Penciling a couple of notes, Dillon looked back at Barnes, not reacting to his vulgarity. “If you didn’t see the attacker, you don’t know for sure it was a man, right?”
“I was in the men’s room!”
He said it like the room had a force field that kept anyone with two X chromosomes out.
“It didn’t surprise you to hear th
e door open when you and I are the only men in the building?” He gestured toward the contestants being interviewed by the uniformed officers near the stage.
“I didn’t think about it,” Barnes said. “I wasn’t thinking about anything except an editing problem I’m having with the film. Next thing I know, I’m on the floor with my head split open. Hey, you got an aspirin?”
“The EMTs will be here in a minute. You have any enemies who might have done this?”
“Everyone’s got enemies, right?” Barnes shrugged.
I gave him a thoughtful glance. What a sad statement. I didn’t have any enemies as far as I knew, nor did Mom. At least, not since Constance died. And even Constance wasn’t an enemy. Not the kind who plotted to do you harm. She was more a pain in the butt, a thorn in the side, a cross to bear …
“But I’ve figured out who did it!” Barnes said, surprising me and, to judge from the expression on his face, Agent Dillon.
Dillon raised his brows, inviting Barnes to continue.
Barnes paused dramatically. “It had to be the killer. The one who offed Audrey. He was afraid I had something incriminating on my camera, so he stole it.” He looked from me to Dillon, eager to have us praise his reasoning.
“That’s a possibility,” Agent Dillon said. “Did you?”
“If it’s true, that means Darryl didn’t kill Audrey,” I said.
“Who’s this Darryl?” Barnes asked. “If he took my camera, I want him arrested. The camera is worth thousands, but the intellectual property on it—my film—is worth hundreds of thousands. Maybe more.”
“I’m sure you have insurance,” Dillon said unsympathetically. “If you’d turned the camera over to me when I asked, you wouldn’t have a broken head and you’d still have your blockbuster.”
I detected the sneer in the last word and bit back a grin.
“Oh, I’ve still got that,” Barnes said slyly. “I’ve been in this business too long not to have a backup. I downloaded it last night, as soon as I got back to the hotel.”
“Great,” Dillon said. “I’ll send a patrol officer over to get a copy.”
“You got that court order?” Hostility simmered in Barnes’s eyes, replacing the pain. “It’s worth even more now. Think of the publicity this will generate.”
Dillon snapped his notebook closed. He looked like he wanted to thwap it up against Barnes’s thick skull. “If you turned it over to us, the killer would have no reason to try to steal it, if, in fact, that’s what happened. You’d be safe.”
“I’ll take my chances,” Barnes said as the EMTs trotted toward us.
AGENT DILLON MOVED OFF IN DISGUST AND I followed him, still clutching Rachel’s damp bathing suit. He took long, angry strides and I’m not even sure he realized I was with him until he reached the door of the men’s room two corridors away from the auditorium. Pulling plastic gloves from his pocket, he slipped them on before pulling the door open. “You stay here,” he told me.
Obediently, I stood at the door, propping it open with my back, while he moved into the white and blue tiled space. A bank of urinals marched across the right side of the bathroom and three stalls with graffiti scratched into the doors lined the left side. Sinks with soap dispensers sat under a small window set high on the wall. The fresh scent of pine cleanser spoke of a conscientious janitor and the two-month absence of teenage boys. Three or four small drops of blood glistened red on the tile beneath one of the sinks.
Standing just inside the door, Dillon surveyed the scene without moving. I tried to see what he did, but my brain didn’t work the same way. Nothing seemed out of place to me except the string mop propped in a corner. There was no sign of a struggle that I could see: no cracked mirrors, no blunt instrument left conveniently on the floor, no broken tiles. Only the small drops of blood.
“If Barnes was at the urinal when he got clobbered, why is the blood by the sink?” I asked.
Dillon didn’t answer; he just moved into the room and pulled a slim digital camera out of his pocket. He took several photos of the blood and more of the room from different angles. He peered into each of the urinals and then bent to examine the underside of the sinks.
“Maybe someone was hiding in one of the stalls,” I suggested as he tapped each door open and looked inside.
“What would be the point? No one could know for sure that Barnes would have to take a whiz, so why hide in here?”
“Maybe the robber wasn’t after Barnes specifically. Maybe Barnes was just a target of opportunity—wrong place, wrong time.”
“Possible,” Dillon said in a voice that told me he wasn’t convinced. “But if it was a simple robbery, why didn’t the thief take Barnes’s wallet and watch?”
He had me there.
While I tried to construct another scenario, Dillon moved to the silver trash can under the paper towel dispenser. He reached in—yuck—and pulled out a crumpled paper towel. He studied it for a moment and then said, “Blood.”
“Barnes probably cleaned himself up a bit before he came back to the auditorium. That would explain why the blood drops are by the sink, too,” I said.
“He didn’t mention it.”
“Confused? Rattled by the attack? Didn’t think it mattered?”
“I’m sure that’s what he’ll say.” Without explaining his own thinking about the incident, Agent Dillon flipped open his cell phone and asked for a crime scene tech to bring some luminol.
“What’s that for?” I asked when he hung up.
“Showing blood. Even minute traces left after someone thinks he’s cleaned up.” Tucking the paper towel into a Baggie he pulled from an inner pocket, Agent Dillon swept past me into the hall. “Coming?”
I scooted after him, letting the bathroom door bang shut behind me. We hadn’t gone three steps when a clamor from the front entrance quickened Dillon’s pace. Sam Barnes, a bandage around his head, stood under the sabertooth mural, one hand uplifted to silence a small crowd of reporters, some with microphones, some with notebooks, who were shooting questions at him.
“What the hell does he think he’s doing?” Dillon muttered. We stood shoulder to shoulder just inside the hall, out of Barnes’s line of sight.
“No one can steal the truth, or quash it, or keep it from coming out,” he proclaimed as the group quieted. “Today, someone thought he could bury the truth about my wife’s death by attacking me and stealing my camera. Well, he was wrong. The camera might be gone, but not the truth. I will not be cowed by attempts on my life!” He lifted his chin and struck a noble pose.
Whoa. His wife? Was he still talking about Audrey? I looked at Dillon and he shook his head, anger tightening the muscles in his jaw.
“You and Audrey Faye were married?” A young woman with ginger curls corkscrewing around her face wrote furiously in her notebook.
“We divorced many years ago,” Barnes said, “but our spiritual connection was still intact. She was the love of my life. And I will see her death avenged.”
“What are you talking about?” a reporter in too-short chinos and a short-sleeved shirt asked. “Do you have film of the murder?”
“Not of the actual murder,” Barnes admitted. “But when my documentary Ugly: The Other Side of Beauty Pageants is released, a lot of people will see truths they’d rather stayed hidden.”
Talk about ambiguous. Barnes had clearly gone to the politician’s school of How to Answer Questions without Answering Them. “How did the Jacksonville station get here so soon?” I asked, nodding at a cameraman with the familiar News9 logo on his camera.
“Good question,” Dillon said. “A very good question.” He simmered beside me, his mouth thinned into a line. I didn’t envy Sam Barnes his next interview with Agent Dillon.
One of the reporters spotted him and called out, “Special Agent Dillon, can you update us on the investigation into Audrey Faye’s death. Is today’s attack related?”
“The GBI is following a variety of leads,” Dillon said. “Other than that,
I have no comment on an ongoing investigation. Mr. Barnes, when you’ve finished here, I have a few more questions for you.”
Barnes looked from the pack of reporters to Dillon, clearly annoyed with Dillon for ripping him away from the limelight but unwilling to look obstructive in front of the media. “Absolutely, Agent Dillon,” he finally said. “Anything I can do to help catch Audrey’s killer.”
“Great!” Dillon said with a smile as false as Barnes’s. “Then I’m sure you’ll be happy to loan the GBI your film so we can analyze it and put your wife’s murderer behind bars.”
Checkmate. Barnes couldn’t refuse without looking like a self-promoting, lying fraud. I underestimated him, though. Turning back to the media, he said, “That’s it for today, folks. I’ve got to help the police with their investigation. I hope you all will come to the premier of Ugly.”
Barnes walked toward us, a triumphant smile on his face. Before he could say anything, Agent Dillon said, “I think this conversation will go better at headquarters. If you’ll excuse us, Miss Terhune?” Avoiding the journalists milling in the lobby, he escorted Barnes to a side door.
“Freedom of the press … unlawful search and seizure … lawyer …” Barnes was sputtering as the door wheezed closed.
Chapter Seventeen
I FOUND RACHEL WAITING FOR ME IN THE AUDITORIUM. Everyone else had gone. She stuffed the bathing suit I handed her into a blue gym bag after examining it for blood.
“No biggie,” she said when I apologized for ruining it. “It’s not like I was ever going to wear it again. It had, like, a ruffle. My friend Willow said it would work for the pageant, though, so I bought it. She wants to be a stylist. You know, one of those people who put together outfits for stars so they don’t look like they’re color blind and two months behind the latest trend.”
Emerging into the parking lot, I blinked as the sun assaulted my eyes.
“Ice cream,” Rachel said, beelining for the Good Humor truck still parked across the street.
When we each had a treat—a cup of chocolate ice cream for me and a Heath ice cream bar for Rachel—we wandered into a small park and sat on the swings. No kids were out in this heat so we had the place to ourselves. I told Rachel about Darryl’s arrest and asked if she could think of anyone associated with the pageant who might have wanted to harm Audrey Faye.