Polished Off

by Lila Dare

  Just as I felt myself fading, Agent Dillon, who’d been watching me closely, called a halt, dismissing the other agents who were sitting in on the interview. “We can finish this tomorrow,” he said. “I’m taking you home.” He bullied me into taking more pills with a swallow of warm root beer before escorting me to his car.

  I was tired and achy enough not to argue. Sinking back into the seat of his Crown Victoria, I suddenly remembered something. “It was Darryl’s baby, wasn’t it?”

  Dillon shot me a look as he pulled into traffic. “No.”

  I jerked upright. “No? Then it was Kevin’s after all? How ironic.”

  He shook his head. “We’re guessing it was Barnes’s. We found some correspondence in his e-mail that suggests the two of them were involved. We’re running the tests now. If it’s not his …” He shrugged. “It’s not like we can DNA test the entire male population of Camden County.”

  Thank God. I leaned back again, immensely grateful that Stella would be spared that particular sorrow. Audrey Faye had led a complicated life, juggling her husband, her ex-husband, and a boyfriend. Something still puzzled me. “But how did Faye leave the death threat and rip up the bikini when he was with you after Audrey’s murder?”

  “Daphne left the note. She wasn’t referring to Audrey’s death—she didn’t even know Audrey was dead. She was talking about Leda’s death.”

  Another thought floated randomly into my narcotic-dimmed brain. “What about Barnes’s film? Did that ever turn up?”

  Dillon turned onto Mom’s street. “He’d uploaded it to an online storage site. There was absolutely nothing remotely related to the murder on it. He got himself killed for nothing.” Disgust and regret sounded in his voice. He hadn’t liked the man, but he was saddened by a pointless death; I liked that about him.

  We pulled up at the curb and Dillon came around to help me out. I stumbled when I stepped out, more woozy than I’d realized, and he caught me with an arm around my waist. The salon door burst open and Mom and Althea tumbled out, followed by Marty. Glancing around, I spotted his yellow MINI across the street. Marty reached us first, his long legs carrying him past the women.

  “Agent Dillon,” he said neutrally. He and Dillon had met during the DuBois case and their different goals—the ageold tension between reporters and cops—had resulted in some antagonism.

  “Shears.”

  The men nodded at each other.

  Mom broke the silence by bustling up and hugging me and Agent Dillon together. “Oh, thank goodness! Marty was telling us what happened—”

  “Police scanner plus a couple phone calls,” Marty said, looking pleased as Dillon’s jaw tightened.

  “—and we’ve been frantic for the last hour.”

  “I’m sorry,” I mumbled.

  Althea turned a sharp eye on me. “Don’t be keeping Grace standing around out here when anyone can see she’s about to fall flat on her face,” she scolded the others. She slipped an arm around my waist and Mom got on my other side, nudging Dillon aside gently.

  Dillon fell back a step and gave me a half smile. “Looks like you’re in good hands,” he said.

  “You boys run along and find something useful to do,” Althea told Dillon and Marty over her shoulder. “We’re putting Grace Ann to bed.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  I DOZED MOST OF THE REMAINDER OF THE AFTERNOON. With only an hour to go before the pageant finale started, I rested in the hammock just below the veranda, half drowsing as the sun warmed my face. My newly gauze-mittened hands rested on my stomach and I let the scents of magnolia and pine drift over me. I didn’t even look up when a car door slammed and someone climbed the steps to the veranda. A hair client, I assumed, although I’d thought Mom was done for the day.

  Apparently, she was because her voice filtered to me a few minutes later, along with the clink of ice cubes in tea glasses. “Why don’t you sit a spell?” Mom asked someone.

  I considered opening my eyes to see who it was, but that would be too much effort.

  “I don’t want to be a bother … It’s just that … Oh, Vi, I don’t know what to do.”

  It was Stella. A bee hummed past my face and I snorted air at it. The painkillers the doc had given me were numbing more than my hands; I felt like my brain was working at half its normal speed.

  “Should I try to work things out with Darryl or make our split permanent?” Stella asked. A chair scraped against the veranda.

  “Do you love him?” Mom asked.

  “I do,” Stella said, sounding sad about it. “I always have. Do you think I’m terminally stupid?”

  “To love your husband?” Mom sounded surprised. “Of course not.”

  “But he cheated on me. He slept with another woman!”

  “That will take some forgiving,” Mom admitted, “if you decide you want to stay with him.”

  “I don’t know if I’ve got that kind of forgiveness in me,” Stella said.

  “I wouldn’t worry about that. No one’s got that kind of forgiveness all on their own—it comes from God. But I think we have to at least want to want to forgive before He blesses us with it.”

  “Jess would be devastated if we got divorced.”

  Mom didn’t respond to that and I breathed in deeply. Someone was barbecuing not too far away.

  Stella spoke again. “You know, Vi, Darryl betrayed me. He did. But there’s all kinds of betrayals that happen every day in a long-term relationship of any kind. I betrayed him, too.”

  At least, I thought that’s what she said, but her voice had dropped to a whisper and I wasn’t sure.

  “How?” Mom asked calmly.

  Clearly, she wasn’t expecting a confession of orgies or domestic violence or anything too heinous.

  “After Audrey was murdered, I thought … I wondered … just for a moment, if maybe Darryl …”

  “If he’d done it?”

  “Mm-hm.”

  Mom was quiet again and it struck me how much she said when she didn’t say anything. How had I known her for thirty years and not noticed that before? I yawned and wondered vaguely if I should let them know I was here. Too late, I decided. I was drifting off again when Mom finally spoke.

  “Every marriage goes through its rough patches, Stella, whether it’s an affair, or neglect, or just getting bored with each other. And like you said, there’s the everyday betrayals like telling a story on your spouse that would embarrass him, or refusing intimacy as a way of getting back at him, or sharing things with a friend—even a girlfriend—that you ought to be sharing with your mate. When Gene and I had been married a little over six years, I let myself get interested in another man.”

  That jolted me awake. My eyelids popped open and I stared up at a cornflower sky shredded with clouds that looked like lint from a giant’s dryer filter.

  “It doesn’t matter who it was—he’s long gone from St. Elizabeth’s—and nothing ever happened between us beyond a conversation or two that was more intimate than it should have been. But I thought about him. I’d iron or mop or weed the garden and let myself think about what it would be like to be with him. It turned me away from Gene for a few months.”

  Sorrow colored my mother’s voice and I couldn’t decide if I wanted to comfort her or shout at her. How come she’d never told me this?

  “And then one day I woke up and looked at the wrongness of what I was doing. And I worked hard at putting that other man out of my mind and focused on loving my Gene the way I’d promised at the altar, forsaking all others. You know,” Mom said, her voice brisker, “you don’t have to make up your mind right this minute. Give it time. See how it feels.”

  “Darryl wants me to go to counseling with him,” Stella said, some quality in her voice acknowledging Mom’s story without actually commenting on it. An airplane droned past overhead and obscured part of her next sentence. “… I will.”

  “I think that’s a good idea,” Mom said. “Sometimes—almost all the time—it takes more gu
ts and grit to work on a marriage than to walk away. Will we see you at the pageant tonight?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” Stella said. “Rachel’s wearing an old dress of mine and I can’t wait to see her in it. I think she’s got a real shot at winning the crown. Can’t you just see it? Our Rachel as Miss Magnolia Blossom?”

  I lay in the hammock long after Stella left and Mom cleared away the tea glasses, thinking about relationships and the pure, deep color of the sky as it expanded into space.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  THE PROTESTORS, MINUS DAPHNE, LINED THE SIDEWALK outside the high school when Mom and I showed up for the beauty pageant. The sun, low on the horizon, warmed the red brick of the old building and softened the graffiti sprayed on the sidewalk and bike racks. If I squinted my eyes so I couldn’t read the words, the fat letters and bright colors almost looked like modern art. In honor of the occasion, I wore a red sundress with a deep flounce and high-heeled sandals. I’d removed my gauze wrappings again, but left the bandages on my palms. Mom had French braided my hair and tucked the ends under, leaving my neck bare. She had on a floral patio dress with cap sleeves. It fit loosely and fluttered playfully around her ankles. Scanning the ranks of the protestors, I spotted Althea standing beside Kwasi. I nudged Mom, who looked over at her old friend and sighed.

  Althea caught sight of us and her jaw tipped up. She looked like she was going to come over, but Kwasi took her hand and leaned in to say something. I decided on the spot that I wasn’t going to tell Althea what Marty had learned about Kwasi “Chuck” Yarrow and his plagiarism. Even if it was true—and I reminded myself that I didn’t have proof—it wasn’t like he was a Bluebeard or a Madoff or a Ted Bundy. He clearly cared about Althea and if she wanted to know his secrets, she’d ask. Or hire a PI.

  Just past the cozy twosome, I spotted a large poster of Leda Wissing. Candles glowed in front of it and a stuffed rabbit leaned against it. I hoped Daphne knew about the makeshift memorial and that it brought her some comfort. The rest of the protestors seemed subdued, hefting their placards halfheartedly and spouting slogans with all the energy of the last-place finisher in a marathon collapsing across the line.

  Mom and I had no trouble snaring good seats; even with all the publicity about the murders and the arrests, the auditorium was less than half full. I guessed the townspeople figured all the drama was over. Marty sat between Renata Schott and the other judge at a narrow table shoehorned in front of the first row of seats, just below the stage. The judges were going to have to tip their heads back uncomfortably to even see the contestants. I’d had to watch the premiere of the second Spider-Man movie that way—from the front row—and left the theater with a hideous headache. Marty looked around, saw me, and waved. Renata stole his attention with her hand on his arm and snuggled up a lot closer than necessary to whisper something in his ear. I glared at her back.

  Stella, accompanied by Darryl and Jessica, a reed-thin girl with her parents’ red hair and braces, slipped into the seats beside us just as Jodi Keen came onstage and asked for a moment of silence for Audrey Faye and Sam Barnes. People obediently bowed their heads and stopped chatting and texting for the requested minute. The show kicked off with the contestants performing the dance number I’d watched them practice. It seemed a little lopsided with only five girls instead of the twelve or so it was designed for. Still, they kicked and shimmied enthusiastically and the applause was generous.

  While the contestants scurried offstage to change into their evening gowns, Jodi introduced the judges and showed a ten-minute video montage of the contestants at the nursing home (no footage of vomiting judges made it into the video) and snuggling kittens at the humane society, gamboling on the beach, inspecting displays at the marine museum, and enjoying ice cream on the boardwalk. Then, the first contestant appeared in her evening gown, and crossed the stage with a smile glued to her lips. Morgan came next, in a gold lamé number that was a far cry from her battle dress uniforms. She got raucous applause and whistles from a group of young men in the back whose short hair suggested they might be her army buddies.

  As Brooke started across the stage in a sophisticated maroon dress that crisscrossed over her chest, someone stepped over people’s feet and scrunched past knees to claim the seat next to Mom. It was Althea. I grinned at her, surprising myself by how relieved I was to see her.

  “Rachel’s my friend,” she said gruffly. She faced forward, smoothed her brown caftan over her lap, and focused on the stage. Mom winked at me.

  Jodi announced Tabitha and the young woman glided onto the stage. She looked like Helen of Troy in a Grecianstyle white dress that draped across one shoulder and dipped low—really low—across her bosom. The skirt looked relatively modest until she moved and a slit revealed her leg up to her hip. Her golden hair shimmered under the lights, a shampoo-ad swathe of blond falling to mid-back. The audience drew in its collective breath and then clapped wildly. With a seductive smile, she waltzed offstage as the judges made notes.

  “And our final contestant for tonight’s evening gown competition—Rachel Whitley,” Jodi announced.

  Rachel appeared. Stunned silence.

  Beside me, Stella gasped.

  “Oh, my,” breathed Mom.

  Marty turned his head to find me, both brows raised comically, a look of unholy amusement on his face.

  “That is too cool,” Jessica said, leaning forward. “Can I have an outfit like that?”

  “No,” her father and mother said together.

  With a huge grin on her face, Rachel swayed to midstage. A sleeveless black leotard with a scoop neck hugged her torso while a skirt—a tutu, really—of black netting drifted over a pair of black tights that disappeared into Converse high tops. Black, of course. Her nails gleamed black and kohl rimmed her beautiful eyes. Fingerless black lace gloves covered her arms to the elbow. For a moment, the grape-colored tips of her heavily gelled hair made me wince for the perfection of the cut I’d given her, but then I grinned. This was vintage Rachel.

  Sporadic applause sounded around the auditorium until Althea stood and began clapping strongly, giving Rachel a standing ovation. Rachel looked over and smiled gratefully as the rest of us surged to our feet and smacked our hands together. It hurt like hell, but I clapped louder than I ever have.

  Rachel waved as she trotted offstage and Jodi said they would tabulate the judges’ scores and crown Miss Magnolia Blossom in ten minutes. Feedback squealed from the microphone and people covered their ears.

  “She didn’t wear my pink dress,” Stella said mournfully.

  “Oh, get over it, Stel,” Althea said. “She’s not a pink kind of girl. She’s just trying to be true to who she is.”

  And I knew from the look in her eyes that she was wondering how much of her true self she had sacrificed to be who Kwasi thought she should be. I thought that we might see her clad in J.C. Penney separates the next time she came into the salon.

  “I’ll bet Jessica can wear that dress one day,” Mom consoled Stella, leaning across me to smile at the girl. “Maybe to a prom. It would look gorgeous with your coloring.”

  Jess smiled back, bouncing in her seat as Jodi came back, an envelope raised high in one hand. For once, she didn’t have the clipboard. “If the contestants will please join me on stage,” she said and waited while the five girls filed out and stood, holding hands, in the center of the stage. Their expressions ranged from nervous to complacent.

  “These five young women are our finalists and I and the whole Miss American Blossom staff congratulate them on their accomplishments.” She beamed and led another polite round of applause, setting the mic to screeching again.

  “Now, without further ado …”

  Thank goodness. I was tired of ado.

  She named the fourth-and third-runners-up, the girl whose name I couldn’t remember and Morgan. Rachel was the second runner-up. As she accepted a bouquet of yellow roses and left the stage, only Brooke and Tabitha were left in the spotlight’s glare
. I noticed they weren’t holding hands anymore.

  “Drumroll, please,” Jodi tittered, and a recorded drumroll reverberated through the room.

  I inched forward on my chair, finding myself chanting mentally, Let it be Brooke, let it be Brooke.

  Jodi went through the rigmarole about the first runner-up taking over if the winner couldn’t fulfill her responsibilities, yada-yada, and then said, “The first runner-up is Brooke Baker.”

  Brooke kept her head high as she left the stage with an armload of flowers, but I glimpsed the searing disappointment on her face. I knew she’d find the money for vet school another way, though. She was the kind of woman who made her own luck, who found a way of turning an apparent loss into a win.

  I was still looking at where Brooke had disappeared behind the curtain when Jodi crowed, “And our new Miss Magnolia Blossom is … Tabitha Dunn!” Tabitha did her best to look stunned as Jodi secured the rhinestone tiara on her head. She slapped her hands to her face and even squeezed out a tear or two, but the smugness shone through.

  Oh, well. Sometimes losers win big. It wouldn’t surprise me if Tabitha ended up with the Miss America Blossom crown. I hoped it worked out better for her than it had for Audrey Faye. I kissed Mom’s cheek; hugged Althea, Stella, and Jess; nodded at Darryl, and went to congratulate Rachel. I bumped into Marv on the way, carrying microphone cables draped over his tattooed arms.