Doggone Dead

by Teresa Trent

  I walked over to the judging table and pulled out my purse to spray on some perfume. After a quick search, I surmised that all I had was hand sanitizer. I spread the clear goo over my hands, face and neck and tried to make it a little shower in a bottle. At least the alcohol in the gel made it cool on my skin. A lady sitting nearby smiled and scooted a few inches away. Let the judging begin.

  Stan ran up. “Okay, Betsy, here are your ballots to score each little Miss Watermelon contestant.”

  Rocky came up behind him with his camera around his neck. “We’re using a full-color picture on the front, so a nice red, white and blue dress would be great. Oh, and no goofy kids.”

  “All kids are goofy, don’t you know that?” I said, pulling the ballot sheets in front of me. Rocky sat on the edge of my table and leaned over.

  “What’s that smell? It’s kind of a mixture of sewer water and Lysol.” I elbowed him off the table as Stan rose to the platform to start the proceedings.

  “I’m here! Am I late?” Tory came running in and pulled out her chair. A diamond tiara about blinded me as the sun bounced off its rhinestones. She also had on a midnight blue evening gown and a sash that read “Miss Hill Country 1995.” She noted my shock and continued, “I am a former pageant winner. It’s good for the girls to see that winning a pageant is a lifelong commitment.”

  I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

  Behind us we had the official crew of NUTV – one camera man and one sound man. These guys had a lot of experience, but mostly from shooting high school football and the farm and ranch report. I turned around to wave at them, and the microphone guy was biting into a footlong hot dog. He nodded his head in acknowledgement. I turned back as strains of orchestra music started through the speakers.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we are proud to present our beautiful girls in the very first Pecan Bayou Miss Watermelon Pageant. Let’s give them all a hand!” Stan said, dressed in yellow slacks and a blue-and-white striped shirt. If I had to guess, it was probably Ralph Lauren he had on today.

  The smallest girls came out first, one by one turning in their red, white and blue dresses. One little girl came toward me with hair sprayed into a style that was so much larger than her head I worried about the weight on her neck. She sashayed toward me, ruffling a petticoat under a white satin skirt. She had on more bling than one of Donald Trump’s wives. Out in the audience I heard a woman yell, “Sparkle, baby!” and the little girl smiled even wider.

  As the sun caught her bedazzled rhinestones, it reminded me of something. Each time the ghost of Charlie Loper shot, I saw something sparkling in the light. Either Charlie Loper was a showgirl in the afterlife or the killer had on something that would catch the light. I had to concentrate on the next contestant and the next and the next. I would worry about the killer later, after the pageant.

  There was only one problem – they were all cute. Not a dog in the bunch. Lots of hairspray, lots of lipgloss and hundreds of dollars worth of silk and taffeta. Maybe a more experienced judge would know what to count off on. I noticed Tory busily scratching out commentaries on each and every girl. Her judging sheets would be worthy of framing by the time she was finished with them. I looked at the criteria on the judging sheets – personality, poise, appropriate outfit – they all had that. As the last one walked through, I knew I was in big trouble. I had to do something to pick just one. There was a tiara under a glass case on the side of the stage, and I knew that I couldn’t give it to all of them.

  My dad stood to the side of the crowd, quietly speaking into his shoulder walkie. I felt like the president surrounded by Secret Service agents. What was their code name for me? The Hopeless Hinter? Could there really be someone out here who wanted to do me harm?

  I was surprised to see Coop Bonnet, leaning up against the Bonnet Farm watermelon booth, observing the pageant. Too hot for the leather jacket, today he had on a red muscle shirt and mirrored sunglasses. His head turned slightly in my direction. I quickly averted my gaze. Was he lining up his next shot? I wonder if he had jammed any sticks in port-a-potty doors lately. I started writing on one of my scoring sheets, trying to look busy. Tory looked over and smiled. Maybe I was finally doing it right.

  Stan got up to announce the sportswear competition, and like clockwork the littlest ones came out first. They were in red, white and blue shorts and summer dresses and looked a little more comfortable carrying their giant heads of hair down the runway. All of the girls paraded through again. I wrote down descriptions of the girls and things I liked on the ballots and once again, knew I was stumped. This was like trying to pick a favorite child. Over in the first few rows I could see parents craning their necks to watch both their children and the reactions on the judges’ faces at the same time. As the last contestant entered the backstage area, Stan announced a ten-minute break while the judges tallied up their score sheets.

  Tory pulled a little rhinestone-studded calculator out of her purse and started furiously punching in numbers with her red lacquered nails. I continued on with my trusty pencil and started adding up my own numbers. As I finished I had to come to a decision. If I turned in my sheets as-is, then the person who would decide the first Miss Watermelon would be Tory. This didn’t seem like a bad idea, but I just needed something else. All of these girls and their parents were professionals at the presentation side of things, but really what was this pageant named for? Watermelons.

  “The judges look like they might be ready to turn in their score sheets, ladies and gentlemen,” Stan said, showing off his freshly whitened smile. I timidly raised my hand.

  “Uh, Stan. I was wondering if I could ask a question of the contestants?”

  Stan continued smiling, but his eyes spoke a different language. I had just gone off the script.

  “That was Betsy Livingston, ladies and gentlemen, our helpful hints columnist from the newspaper.” He emphasized “helpful hints” as in, “What the hell does she know?”

  “She would like to ask a question of our beautiful young ladies.” With that, the parents turned to each other and started violently whispering. Questions were not listed on the requirements, and there was going to be trouble. Lord knows that if they had known, they would have drilled their kids like the night before the SAT.

  “What are you doing?” Tory whispered.

  “I just need … something more.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Yes, I do.” I stood up. “Because this is a pageant for Miss Watermelon, I was just wondering if any of the girls could tell me the nutritional value of a watermelon.”

  A hush fell over the crowd. The girls on the stage dropped their smiles one by one, some of them licking their dried-out teeth. I heard Stan clear his throat. What had I just done?

  One little girl pushed through the crowd. I recognized her as the now-grieving owner of Noodles the dead poodle, Nora Nicholson.

  “Although high in sugar, watermelon is very low in saturated fat, cholesterol and sodium. It is also a good source of potassium, vitamin A and vitamin C.” She stepped back and then forward again and said, “Thank you,” and stepped back again.

  Her mother yelled out, “Excellent work, Nora!”

  “Indeed!” said Stan, his smile back in place. “What a beautiful, talented and smart group of girls we have here today. Does that suffice, Mrs. Livingston?”

  “I think that will do just fine,” I answered, sitting back down. I quickly scribbled a few things down and noticed Tory adding something to her score sheets. We simultaneously handed them over to Stan. “I will tally the judges’ scores while our lovely young ladies take one more spin down the runway,” he said.

  The orchestra music came back over the loudspeakers, and I heaved a sigh of relief. No matter how much Rocky and Stan might beg me, I would never ever judge a beauty pageant again.

  “Good question, darlin’,” my dad said from behind me, putting his hand on my shoulder.

  “You are full of surprises, Be
tsy,” said Tory, sitting up straight in her chair.

  “And you’re good at judging beauty, Tory. I just felt totally inadequate at the job. I hope I didn’t mess things up.”

  “On the contrary. I’ve been judging beauty pageants in this area for the last twenty years, and I can tell you I have never heard anyone shut the parents up before. That little girl showed true grace under pressure, a quality every beauty queen must have. Good job.”

  I was amazed I had done something right. I looked over at Leo sitting with Tyler and Zach. They all gave me a thumbs-up.

  “Where’s Aunt Maggie and Danny?” I asked, looking around.

  “Danny isn’t doing too good after the parade yesterday. He had trouble sleeping and kept telling Maggie he saw Charlie Loper. They’re spending the day at home, watching High School Hijinks on the television and staying cool. They’re going to try and make it to the fireworks tonight.”

  Had I become so desensitized to being shot at that I didn’t even think about the effect it would have on Danny? When things really scared him, he could just shut down. He didn’t understand everything that was going on, so rather than try he would take himself out of the picture. After my uncle died, he didn’t want to go to the funeral. We left him with a friend and his parents, and they played video games while we buried his father.

  “I’m so sorry to hear that. We’ll stop by on the way home and bring him a hot dog and some cotton candy,” I said. “Oh, and I need to talk with you about something. Something I figured out from the pictures.”

  “From what pictures?” he asked, but then Stan returned to the stage holding a white card. “Okay, Pecanites. We have a winner of the Miss Watermelon crown.” Stan looked over at the gathering of nervous little girls. “And the winner is...Nora...” From behind us, the sound of a soulful cowboy song was coming out of the loudspeakers, overtaking Stan’s announcement. It was eerie-sounding – and then a voice spoke though the undertones of a guitar strum.

  “Howdy, buckaroos and buckarettes. This is your old pal Charlie Loper. I don’t think some of you’ve been livin’ the cowboy way.” Sparks started shooting out of the port-a-potty I had been trapped in. With a giant explosion, its blue plastic door blasted off its hinges and flew right toward us. I crawled under the judges’ table with Tory Parker.

  As soon as the door landed, the structure stood on its side, altered by the explosion. Luckily there didn’t seem to be any inhabitants at the time of the blast.

  Dad rushed out from under the table just as the crowd started pulling themselves out from under their folding metal chairs. Leo came running toward me with Zach and Tyler running along behind.

  “Betsy!” he yelled. “Where are you?” I crawled out from the under the tablecloth, red garland strewn in my hair.

  “Hiding under here in the flying outhouse safe zone,” I said.

  Leo reached down and helped me up. “Thank God. What is it with you and port-a-potties today?”

  “Yeah, well, this time I don’t think it was just me. It was the ghost of Charlie Loper, taking vengeance on the entire town.”

  “No, Betsy. Either you’re really unlucky, or someone is after you. Look at the facts, you’ve been shot at twice, and now …”

  “The would-be victim of a port-a-potty explosion,” I said dryly. I was coming to the creeping conclusion that I had been face-to-face with the killer some time in the last weeks and let something slip.

  Libby Loper ran up onto the stage, today dressed in a white top and jean skirt with white boots. She tipped back her Stetson and picked up the microphone.

  “Is this thing on?” she said, making half the crowd cover their ears. “Sorry, but I just needed to say something to whoever this is playing like they are my dear departed father. It’s all lies. My father was a good man and would never, ever harm a single soul. When they catch this person, I will be suing them for slander. They are ruining his reputation and breaking my heart.” Libby put the microphone back and slowly walked off the stage. I reached out for her as she passed by.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  She just nodded her head in disgust and walked back into the crowd.

  “Wow, that was so cool,” Zach said, pointing to the bent plastic port-a-potty door now lying next to the runway.

  My dad walked up with police from Andersonville on each side of him. “Leo, could you get my daughter out of here?”

  “Dad! I am standing right here, and I can get myself home, thank you.”

  “Leo?” my dad, repeated issuing a command this time. Leo took a protective hold under my arm, and I barely grabbed my purse as we exited the fairgrounds.

  “Wait! I wanted to get Danny some cotton candy,” I said, pulling free.

  “Oh, all right, just because it’s for Danny,” said Leo. I went to the window of the cotton candy trailer and ordered a blue one for my cousin. After Zach and Tyler noticed what I was doing, I ordered a couple more.

  I hadn’t gotten a chance to talk to my dad about what I had figured out from the pictures. I had to make some time to either talk to him or to go back out and see if I could find what I thought I was seeing.

  “Ready?” said Leo.

  “Yes,” I answered. “If we could just run this by Aunt Maggie’s on the way home before it melts, it would really help Danny. He got pretty shook up from the shooting yesterday.”

  Zach spoke over his blue cotton candy, his face now starting to resemble Papa Smurf. “Did you know a poodle was shot dead, right in the middle of Main Street? You should have seen it.”

  We all piled into Leo’s SUV. He turned the key and then turned to me and cocked his head. “Betsy? How do you get into all these messes? It’s absolutely risky to care for a person who is constantly getting shot at or locked in a port-a-potty. Is your life ever boring?”

  “My life is just like anyone else’s, it’s just it’s been a little hectic this week.”

  “Little more than hectic.”

  “Well, you didn’t have to come down here. You could have just stayed in Dallas,” I snapped.

  That set the tone in the car, and not in a good way. I felt a pounding headache coming on, probably from sitting in the heat wearing an extra twenty pounds and nearly dying in the port-a-potty. I stripped off the jacket and started unbuttoning my blouse to pull off the bulletproof vest.

  Leo looked over and then spoke to the boys. “Close your eyes, boys.”

  I looked over to see both boys with their eyes covered.

  “Take that thing off. No wonder you’re so hot.”

  I pulled off the Velcro fasteners and felt the rush of air conditioning hit my exposed skin. I sighed and then looked over to see Leo, barely watching the road. He swerved slightly.

  “Uh, sorry.”

  I smiled and buttoned up my blouse again. When we got to Aunt Maggie’s, Leo volunteered to run in the cotton candy and we then we headed for home.

  “Do you feel okay? You’re starting to look pale,” he said.

  “I’m fine, just need an ibuprofen,” I yawned.

  “And maybe a nap,” Leo said, the trace of a smile playing on his lips.

  “Mom, you can’t have a headache. We have to go to the fireworks tonight!” In all the excitement, I had forgotten that the Fourth of July was one of those days that can last into eternity.

  “Tell you what,” Leo said as we walked into the house, “you take a nap and the boys and I will figure out something to eat. How does that sound?”

  “Sounds great,” I said, yawning.

  After taking an ibuprofen with a cold glass of water I shut my eyes and tried to get all the scenes from the last week from playing in mind. Hunter Grayson's body kept flashing in along with the vibrant blue of the inside of the port-a-potty. Charlie Loper kept appearing on the balcony and then disappearing. Butch kept running away, ready to navigate to streets of Pecan Bayou. My cell phone rang in my purse by the bed. I rummaged around for it, and Rocky Whitson’s number shone across the electric screen.
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br />   “Yo, Betsy. I'm heading back to the office. Got some fine shots of the blown-up outhouse. I hate to be asking this of you, but with all that happened today, I didn’t get a picture of you and Miss Watermelon. Could you possibly come down to the Gazette for a quick photo op? I’ve already lined up Miss Watermelon and her mother.”

  “Rocky, really? You haven't exactly done me too many favors lately.”

  “Betsy, I also may hae something more on your dad's investigation.” Rocky said.

  “I'm on my way.” I said as I hung up the phone. I yawned as the smell of cooking hamburger drifted to me from the kitchen. I slipped on my shoes and ran a brush through my hair and stepped out to find the boys demolishing enormous cheese burgers. Butch waited patiently by the table for any scraps that might fall his way.

  “You're up! Have a nice nap?”

  “Much better.”

  Leo pulled a plate out of the cupboard to make me a burger.

  “Looks wonderful. Could you wrap it up for me? Rocky needs me at the paper for a picture. If you could take the boys to the fireworks, I’ll meet you there.”

  “Are you sure that’s such a good idea? Just tell him no.”

  “I tried that but he says he has information on my dad.” Leo handed me sandwich in a paper towel. I took a bite and headed out to my car.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Ten minutes later as I smiled for the camera with Pecan Bayou’s newest Miss Watermelon, I had to wonder what Rocky had up his sleeve. He had lured me down here on the premise of something new in my father’s investigation, but waiting out the picture session felt like an eternity.

  “Well, ladies. That ought to do it,” he said finally.

  Mellie Nicholson took little Nora by the shoulders and reached out and shook my hand. “I just want to thank you for your in-depth questioning. Without it, we never would have had a chance. This week has been so dramatic for us, what with Noodle’s being gunned down in the street and now this. I can remember a poem from my English class years ago. I think it was Cheney who said, ‘The soul would have no rainbow had the eyes no tears.’ We have certainly experienced the rainbow today.”