I could see the judges already seated on one bus and Marco standing in the line, sucking down the last of his coffee from a paper cup. I quickly joined him.
"Good God, doll, what happened to you?" he asked when he spied me.
"Good morning to you, too, Marco." I paused. "Is it that bad?"
"Honey those bags under your eyes are definitely over the airline weight limit."
"I had a long night."
I filled Marco in on what I'd seen last night and Desi's late-night escapades on the beach.
By the time I was done Marco's face was stuck in a perpetual shut-the-front-door expression of disbelief, and we were at the front of the line, stepping onto the bus.
"Who do you think she was meeting?" he whispered, his eye shooting around the bus's occupants as if the answer lay there.
Which, honestly, it very well could.
"I don't know," I whispered back, doing the same as my eyes settled on Desi's brunette head. She was seated halfway down the bus next to Miss Delaware. "But as soon as I have a chance to get Desi alone, I intend to find out."
"Excuse me," Laforge said as he approached us, tablet in hand. "Are you planning to accompany us on this official pageant personnel excursion?" He gave Marco a pointed look, starting at the top of his spiked pink hair and slowly moving down his frame to take in today's outfit. He had on a pair of hot pink booty shorts in a cropped length normally only seen on MTV. Above that he was wearing one of the Hawaiian printed shirts he'd picked up on our shopping excursion earlier, a pink and baby blue printed top that was tight enough to have been painted on him. (If I had to guess, I'd say it had been made for 10-year-old girls.) The entire outfit ended in a pair of vintage 1980s hot pink jellies, which encased his pink painted toenails.
"Are you saying I shouldn't?" Marco asked putting his hands on his hips. His eyes narrowed at Laforge.
"I'm just saying that you are not on my list." And the tone in his voice didn't sound the least bit upset about it.
"Ah, Marco is actually my assistant," I said quickly jumping in before Marco could respond.
While I couldn't actually see Laforge's eyes behind his oversized sunglasses, I could almost feel them narrowing in his posture. "I'm sorry, but the pageant does not have it in its budget to pay for an assistant for you, Maddie."
I shook my head. "No need to pay for him. He's a volunteer assistant."
Laforge looked from Marco to me and back again. Luckily he had a bus full of giggling, easily distracted beauty queens and an airtight shooting schedule to keep, and finally he nodded. "Fine," he huffed then turned on his heel and walked off the bus doing a final check of his tablet.
I grabbed Marco by the arm and pulled him into two empty seats near the back of the bus.
"I bet it was Laforge on the beach last night," Marco grumbled.
I turned on him. "Why would you say that?"
Marco shrugged. "Well doesn't he look a little worse for the wear this morning? I mean, did you see that hideous outfit? Talk about loud."
Considering Marco's clothes were practically screaming, I wasn't sure I should comment on that.
*
The Iolani Palace was once the home to the United States' only royalty, King Kalakaua. Now a national historic landmark, it played host to tourists from around the world who visited the restored first and second floors, each decorated in colorful themes, took in the collections of historical Hawaiian artifacts, and strolled the lush landscaping of the grounds. Probably the most not-to-be-missed part of the palace, at least according to the travel website Marco pulled up on his phone as we rode into downtown Honolulu, was the famous statue of King Kamehameha I, erected just in front of the palace. As our buses pulled up, I could see a camera crew had set up on the grounds near the outdoor Coronation Pavilion, a large domed structure sporting ornate Roman columns and official crests.
We quickly filed out of the buses amidst Laforge barking orders, and the queens wasted no time in pulling out their powder compacts, lipstick, and hairspray, putting their last-minute touches on before going on camera. Dana and the other judges were ushered over to a trio of seats under a large tree in the shade to watch the proceedings. Boom microphones, bright lights, large white reflectors, and a slew of cameras descended on the Coronation Pavilion.
Under Laforge's direction, each of the remaining fifty contestants had her moment in front of the camera, giving a short intro of herself and her state. Then all fifty girls stood in a semicircle around the Pavilion doing a choreographed dance number. Which would have gone easily, had Miss Arkansas not been in the mix.
After an hour and a half, Marco finally wandered toward the palace to look for the gift shop, and I took a spot on a bench in the shade, fanning myself with a printout of the day's schedule to combat the muggy heat. I had my eye on Desi, watching her do her dance steps, but unfortunately there was no way to get her alone in this crowd, let alone with cameras on her. I was sure I would have a chance soon.
"Hot one, isn't it?"
I looked up to see Dempsey's large frame beside me. If I was hot, he was melting. I could see his artfully applied makeup running down his face in the beads of tan colored sweat.
"Sweltering," I agreed. "I can't imagine how their hair doesn't frizz in this humidity," I said, pointing toward the queens.
Dempsey chuckled, taking a seat beside me. "I'll tell you a little secret."
I leaned in close.
"Vinegar." He grinned
"Vinegar? Like, they drink it?"
He shook his head, his jowls wobbling with him. "After shampooing, if you comb in vinegar, then rinse with cold water, it will make your hair appear thicker, sleeker, and frizz resistant."
"Good to know," I said locking that away for future reference. I paused. "I'm surprised you're still staying on with the pageant," I told him.
Dempsey raised both eyebrows at me.
"I mean, considering you don't have a contestant in it anymore." I was doing my best to be delicate, but on little sleep, lots of caffeine, and 90% humidity, I was in no mood to play cat and mouse.
"Actually I do," he informed me.
My turn to be surprised. "Really?"
Dempsey nodded at Maxine. "Miss Arkansas over there."
He must have seen the shocked look on my face as he smiled and added, "The poor kid needed some help. I've got no delusions of winning, but I figured I could step in temporarily for her at least."
"It's nice of you to try to help her," I said.
He nodded. "Well, I'm here and able, and she arrived without a coach. Can you imagine?" He clucked his tongue. "And that egomaniac Laforge keeps putting poor Maxine right up in the front, knowing she doesn't have the world's best rhythm. It's like he was setting her up to fail. Like he's trying to sabotage her or something."
Sabotage was an interesting word. One I'd heard a few times lately.
"Like someone was sabotaging Jennifer?" I asked.
Dempsey paused, and then he nodded slowly. "You heard about that, did you?"
"Queens do talk."
"Well, it's true. Look, Jennifer didn't misplace things. That missing bathing suit top was no accident."
"So you do think someone stole it on purpose?"
"I know someone did. It was just our good luck we found something that fit in time. I mean, you must now how difficult it is to find a bathing suit that fits properly."
I tried not to take that personally. "Was there any investigation into the theft?"
Dempsey shook his head. "Jennifer didn't want to pursue it. Look, she was no dummy. She knew it was the other contestants who voted on Miss Congeniality, and she wanted that title along with taking the entire competition. So, she said she just wanted to put it behind her and move on."
"Just out of curiosity, what did the stolen top look like?"
"It was a white, bandeau style, with a seashell embellishment on the front. Very beachy, and very appropriate for this competition. Jennifer spent weeks searching for just the
right style. So when she had to throw something on last minute, well, I'm sure she lost some points with the judges there."
"And you think that was someone's intention in the first place?"
"Oh, I know it was."
"You have any guesses who?" I asked.
Dempsey mashed his lips into a thin line, his eyes going out over the contestants crowded into the Pavilion, trying not to dance on top of one another. His eyes narrowed as he honed in on one in particular, right at the front of the line, next to poor stumbling Maxine.
Whitney.
"If I had to guess, I'd put my money on that filly right there."
CHAPTER NINE
Things were starting to look bad for Whitney. And for Miss Arkansas, after another less than dazzling dance number at the Coronation Pavilion. But I couldn't worry about her. Clumsiness hadn't killed Miss Montana. I wished I could be as certain that Miss Delaware hadn't.
As soon as the contestants finished the taping, Laforge herded them onto the bus to head off to the local television station to film a promotional spot, while the rest of us were dismissed to return to the hotel. I was happy for the break. While Dana headed off to change and catch a couple of minutes at the pool, I thought Marco and I could put our time to better use. I wanted to talk to Don, the protester, again. I wanted to be sure I had her story straight and that I'd get the same story twice in a row.
She wasn't hard to find. She was back outside the lobby with her sign du jour, this one reading Break the Fashion Plate, which was an interesting perspective since she'd clearly done that years ago. No bucket of red paint in sight, which was a relief.
She seemed less than enthusiastic to see us again, lowering her sign with a loud sigh. "You're back."
"And as fabulous as ever," Marco said.
I shot him a look that I intended to say not helpful. "I was hoping I could ask you a few more questions," I told her.
She rolled her eyes. "Is it about the same thing as before? Because I already told you everything I saw. You and the police," she added pointedly.
I pretended not to notice the attitude. "You said you saw some of the pageant people around the grounds a few nights ago."
"When that girl was killed." She gave one sharp nod. "That's what I said."
"You saw Jay Jeffries at the bar," I prompted.
"I saw him heading to the bar," she corrected me. "I didn't see him at the bar."
I conceded the point with a shrug. "And you saw Ashton Dempsey and the pageant director, Simon Laforge, at the bar, too?"
"Not too. I just told you—"
"Did you see them going to the bar?" I cut in.
She drew back a little. "I said that I did. So what?"
"You're sure you saw the two of them?" I asked. "Together?"
Her fist went to her hip. "You want it carved in stone? I know what I saw. Are you trying to call me a liar?"
Marco's eyes widened and shifted my way.
"Absolutely not," I said quickly. "I just wanted to be sure I heard you right, that's all."
"You heard me right," she snapped. "Now, unless you two want to pick up signs and join me, why don't you let me get back to something more important?" She glared down at Marco's hot pink jellies. "Nice shoes."
I bit my lip to keep from laughing. Marco might never wear those shoes again now that they'd gotten Miss Crocs' endorsement, even if it was drenched in snarkiness.
He didn't have quite the same reaction.
"Oh, honey," he said on a dramatic sigh, "there's hope for you yet."
Her eyes narrowed into slits. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Well, let's be real," he told her. "Birkenstocks? Positively tragic. I see you in a kitten heel. Maybe an Ann Taylor metallic." He held a finger to his chin, assessing. "And this?" He did an arm sweep that encompassed her moss-green pants and mud brown Runway Slave T-shirt. "Have you ever considered wearing an actual color? I think a nice dusty rose would really flatter your skin tone." His eyes drifted upward to her mousy brown hair, but he wisely kept his opinion to himself.
Don looked at me. "Is he serious?"
"He does have a way with style," I said.
We both looked at Marco's screaming Hawaiian shirt and hot pink booty shorts.
"Usually," I added.
Don was not amused. "Well, save your advice for the talking mannequins," she told him. "I'm not interested."
Marco shrugged. "Suit yourself. Honestly, it's exhausting to talk to some people."
"Thanks for your time," I said to Don.
"Whatever," she mumbled at me.
Marco was right. She was exhausting. But she was also helpful, whether she intended to be or not. She'd given me a lot to think about as we left her to her hostility and threaded our way along the path toward the hotel. Why would Dempsey and Laforge meet for drinks? From what I knew, they weren't exactly besties. I'd barely seen them look at each other. And was it possible Jay Jeffries had joined them for some reason? Or did he have his own agenda, maybe one wearing a bikini and holding a bottle of Hawaiian Paradise sunscreen?
Marco blotted his forehead with the back of his hand. "This humidity is a killer, isn't it? I think I hear a piña colada calling my name. Want to come along?"
I shook my head. "You go on. I'll catch up with you later."
He gave me a little wave over his shoulder as he headed toward the Lost Aloha Shack and Surfer Dirk. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do!" he called out.
There wasn't much chance of that.
*
Ever since I'd found Miss Montana's body, I'd been going out of my way to avoid the pool area. The image of Jennifer lying there was still too close to the surface for comfort. But things were always less foreboding in the daylight, and I couldn't avoid the pool for the rest of the trip, so I decided to change into my swimsuit and join Dana for a few hours of leisure before pageant activities picked up again. My hope was that my friend's company would help blur the sharp edges of the lingering memory. I hurried up to my room to change and grab some sunscreen and a hat.
I found Dana on a chaise lounge on the far end of the pool, but she wasn't alone. Her fellow judge, Ruth Marie, was sitting with her, and Ruth Marie seemed to have a lot to say (as usual), punctuating her sentences with hand gestures. And from the frown marring Dana's features, she didn't seem to like what she was hearing. As I got closer, Ruth Marie abruptly got up and hurried away, leaving Dana staring after her with an expression of concern.
I sat down beside her. "Everything alright?"
She gave a start. "Oh, Maddie. I didn't notice you." She threw another glance at Ruth Marie's back and gave a little head shake. "Can you believe this?" she muttered.
"What was that all about?" I asked.
"I should've known better," Dana said, turning her attention back to me. But she sounded more like she was talking to herself than to me. "I work in Hollywood, for God's sake. You'd think that nothing would surprise me anymore."
The poolside waiter appeared with a smile. I ordered a mimosa, Dana ordered another daiquiri, and we were silent until he moved on. "So, what was that all about?" I asked her, gesturing in the direction of Ruth Marie's retreat.
Dana turned to face me. "Tell me something," she said. "Was I naïve for thinking I was actually being asked to judge a beauty pageant? I mean, I know there's a lot on the line here. The Hawaiian Paradise Corporation wants the right girl, and the winner has to fit their marketing plans. I get that. We're talking about a huge amount of money." She sighed. "But I thought I was judging these girls on their merits, not just passing out undeserved scores."
I was confused. "Did Ruth Marie ask you to pass out undeserved scores?"
Dana shook her head. "No, not exactly. Well, yes, but I don't think it was her idea. I think she was just relaying the request."
"She asked you to cheat?" Maybe we were both naïve, but the idea shocked me.
Dana let out a long sigh. "You could call it that."
I couldn't think of anything e
lse to call it. "How are you supposed to do that without losing your credibility?"
"All three judges are being encouraged to crown a certain beauty queen, at least according to Ruth Marie. I'm expected to do my part." She took a sip of daiquiri, looking glum. "Or so I've been told."
I silently contemplated this. I'd assumed beauty pageants weren't necessarily all about beauty, but I'd had no idea this many strings got pulled to ensure a particular winner. "Encouraged by whom?"
Dana shrugged. "Someone up high at corporate, I guess. After all, this is about their money."
The waiter came back with our drinks, set them on a small glass table between our chairs, collected Dana's empty glass, and left us again.
"So who's the lucky girl?" I asked, fully expecting to hear Miss Deleware's name.
Dana sighed and took another long sip of her fresh daiquiri. "Desi. I'm supposed to pad her interview score by ten points."
I felt my eyebrows rise at this. An extra ten points could very well make Desi the front-runner in the pageant instead of Whitney. Which would put Desi in line for a whole lot of endorsement money. And maybe that gave her a whole lot of reasons to want Miss Montana out of the way. I sipped my mimosa, thinking that Desi's stroll on the beach the night before no longer seemed to involve any possibility of an innocent romance. It might have had everything to do with her buying her way into first place. But who was doing the selling? Was it Laforge? He was certainly in a position to make it happen for her. Or maybe she'd gone directly to the top and was conspiring with someone from the Hawaiian Paradise Corporation. If only I knew who she'd been meeting with, it could answer a lot of questions.
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