by Jane Tesh
Cindy turned to me with an eager expression. “Where would you like to go first, Ms. Maclin?”
“Madeline, please. I’d like to have a look backstage.”
While Evan James had a tense conversation with Percy about yelling at the contestants, Cindy pulled back the stage left curtain and showed me the charred edge.
“If we keep it pulled back like this, the burned places hardly show. There’s no way we could buy a new curtain in time for the pageant. It was really lucky Evan was working here that evening and smelled smoke.”
“When was this?”
“Last evening.”
“Evan was the only one here?”
“As far as I know.”
The curtain was thick heavy velvet. I picked up the burned end. “Did anyone call the fire department?”
“No. He was able to put the fire out. It was just smoldering, he said. Our insurance will cover the damage, so it’s really more of an annoyance than anything.”
“Do you have any idea what could have caused the fire?”
Cindy shook her head. “I thought maybe a light overheated, but the lights are all there.”
She pointed to the rows of lights above us. I looked around for electric cords or outlets that may have overheated, but the floor under the curtains was bare. “Is there anyone who might be unhappy with Evan about something? Someone with a grudge?”
“Oh, no. He’s a very nice man, just a bit single-minded about pageants. If he had his way, we’d have a pageant every month.”
I repressed a shudder. “What about Ted Stacy and the other protesters?”
She looked surprised. “I don’t know. This looks more like a prank, something kids would do.”
“Are there kids in town who’d set fire to curtains?”
“Not that I know of personally, but Celosia’s a small town. There’s not much for teenagers to do. Maybe some of them snuck in here to smoke and drink and got carried away.”
“Isn’t the theater locked at night?”
“Yes, but it’s an old building, and we don’t have an alarm system. If somebody really wanted to get in, they probably could.”
Evan James called for Cindy to assist him for a minute. I continued my inspection of the backstage area. It was cluttered with candy wrappers, wood shavings, odd pieces of wood and plastic, and a few scraps of duct tape. The smells of wood and paint made my stomach roll. Memories surfaced of my pageant days, huddled in the dark with dozens of other little girls, our stiff dresses keeping us apart, my smile glued on, ready to walk out into that blinding white light, terrified that I’d stand with the wrong foot in front, or forget to turn the correct way and give the judges that one last flash of teeth.
Brrrr! Those days were over! I concentrated on the floor of the stage. Like most backstage floors, it could use a good sweeping. Dust bunnies rolled in the sawdust as I walked behind the back curtain past stacks of lumber, ladders, paint cans, and music stands. Chairs were stacked in one corner, and several loops of rope and electric cords hung from brackets set high in the wall.
Cindy returned, “Are you finished here, Madeline?”
“Has anyone checked those electric cords?”
“They aren’t connected to anything. They’re just up there out of the way. Did you need to see anything else back here? The dressing rooms?”
“Yes, thanks.”
The dressing rooms were small with long counters and lighted mirrors. The contestants had crammed every inch with gowns, shoes, makeup, and beauty utensils. The smell of perfume and hair spray made Cindy wave her hand in front of her nose.
“I don’t know how they stand it.”
I took some deep breaths, too, but for another reason. I was going to have to do something about these pageant flashbacks. “Could you show me the rest of the building?”
Cindy led me back out on stage and down some steps to the auditorium. She pointed to a room high up in the back wall. “That’s our light booth.” We went up the aisle to the lobby where she pointed out another room. “Box office there, restrooms on either side. That’s everything on the first floor. Evan’s office is upstairs. The judges are meeting there.”
“I’d like to meet them.”
Cindy led the way up one flight of stairs to an office on the second floor of the auditorium and introduced me to the judges, Benjy Goins, a local DJ, a weary-looking man with scruffy hair and a full beard; Kimberly Dawn Williams, a former Miss Celosia, a heavily lacquered blonde wearing too much eye shadow and too much perfume; and Chuck Hofsteder, a chubby, good-natured man who’d judged several local beauty pageants.
“I remember when you won Miss Parkland,” Hofsteder said. “Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Maclin. Thought for sure you’d go on to Miss North Carolina. What happened?”
“Change of plans.”
“Well, you sure could’ve taken the crown.”
Cindy passed out some sheets of paper. “Updated agenda. Interviews start today. Tomorrow, we’ll finish interviews and have dinner at the country club. The pageant’s at eight Saturday night. I’ll have a list for each of you.”
“Anyone promising so far?” I asked the judges.
“Miss Celosia High,” Hofsteder said. “She’s got quite a lot of stage presence. Miss Peace Haven looks good, too. I’d say it’s quite a nice crop of girls.”
I never got used to the casual way everyone referred to pageant contestants as “girls.” How’s your girl doing? Is your girl up to standard? Our girl’s not feeling well. That sort of thing. This girl got really tired of the pet shop attitude. Come on, old girl. Let’s go for a run.
“Are you staying at the Wayfarer?” Hofsteder asked.
“No, a friend of mine has a house here, so I’m staying with him. You probably know it. Val Eberlin’s place.”
His broad face fell. “Really? You’re staying there? At night?”
“During the day, too,” I said. “How haunted is it?”
“Well, there’ve been a number of rumors about the place.”
“Such as?”
Hofsteder seemed reluctant to elaborate. “Odd noises, strange shapes, that sort of thing.”
Kimberly Dawn Williams leaned toward me. “Did I hear you say you were staying in Val Eberlin’s house? It’s nonsense, all of it. Val was a very nice gentleman, just a little eccentric.”
“Wasn’t there half the time,” Benjy Goins said.
“What about all those lights in the attic?” Hofsteder said. “I had some people on my street ready to swear he was a mad scientist.”
Kimberly Dawn dismissed this notion with a wave of her pink-tipped hand. “Nonsense. When he went off on his trips, he had timers on the lights.”
“Not that any burglar would bother that house,” Goins said.
“Excuse me,” Cindy said. “Could we get back to pageant and leave the useless speculation for later?”
Chuck Hofsteder grinned and said to me, “There’s another rumor going around that Evan James is not the one in charge here.”
A short while later, when Cindy was certain they knew everything they needed to know, the judges were sent off to prepare for their interviews. I went back out through the auditorium to discuss the details of my assignment with Mr. James. He was sitting in the front row. Percy had set up a video camera on a tripod to film the dance. The contestants were making their way through the choreography with varying degrees of success. Miss Tri-County couldn’t dance at all. Miss River Valley Falls kept the beat, doing interesting things with her arms. As for Miss Celosia High, she was perfect. Elegant. Graceful. Coordinated. She caught my eye and gave me a look I had seen many times in many pageants. This young woman was a shark, and she would win if she had to savage everyone in her path.
Percy waved his hands above his head as if signaling a jet plane to land. “Stop, stop, stop! Girls, for heaven’s sake. All of you come around here and look at yourselves. I guarantee you’ll be absolutely shocked.”
They crowded around the camera to wa
tch the playback. Some of them snickered.
Percy drew himself up. “Think it’s funny, do you? I did not choreograph a comedy routine. Look here. Juliet is the only one dancing in time to the music.”
Juliet Lovelace looked smug. The other contestants straightened and moved away from the tiny screen. They didn’t say anything, but their dark glances and rigid posture telegraphed a world of hate for Miss Celosia High.
Percy seemed oblivious to this show of resentment, or maybe he just didn’t care as long as they performed up to his standards. He clapped his hands. “Now let’s try it again.”
When Evan James saw me, he got up. “I must apologize for all the disorganization today.”
“That’s all right. I know how pageants can be. Cindy was very helpful, but I’d like to speak with the contestants.”
He checked his watch. “Oh, dear. They’re really busy today with dance rehearsal and interviews. We’re on such a tight schedule. Could you speak with them tomorrow, say, around 1:30?”
“That would be fine.”
He shook my hand. “I can’t tell you how relieved I am having a real queen on the case, Ms. Maclin.”
A real investigator, I wanted to say, but I smiled and thanked him.
***
I left the VW bug in the theater parking lot and walked down Main Street heading for the bookstore—Georgia’s Bookshop. I hoped that Olivia had steamed back to Parkland, but if she stayed and if she and Jerry were going to argue all night, I’d need something to read.
I stepped inside and went over to the magazine section that stretched the length of the store. There were several customers in the broad aisles. Two women hunted through Georgia’s vast array of crochet and needlework magazines. Teenagers slouched against the back wall of the comics section, checking out the latest “Spiderman,” “Black Orchid,” and “Anthrax Monthly.” Another customer collected his weekly supply of tabloids. A woman and a small boy selected a birthday present from the children’s books.
Georgia Taylor, a slim woman who looks to be in her sixties, checked the display of best sellers in the front window, keeping her eye on a big ugly man in the classics section. He wore a cape over his gray suit, so I figured he must have been in the parade. The man gave me a brief nod and strode up to the counter, the cape swirling behind him. His domed forehead sloped back into a tangle of wild gray curls that wobbled as he gestured. His prominent teeth flashed.
“A word with you, Hayden, if you please!”
The man behind the counter was a very nice-looking young man, about Jerry’s size, with dark brown hair and blue-green eyes. “What is it this time, Prill?”
Prill tossed his curls. “How can you continue to ignore the contributions of the Futuristic Literary and Universal Feelings group? We are the mainstay of this pitiful little town’s cultural development, and we have yet to be featured in any display in this miserable excuse for a bookstore. I have repeatedly told you of our accomplishments, and you repeatedly ignore them! What’s the world coming to when a legitimate literary organization cannot get the slightest bit of help from other institutions devoted to the fine arts?”
“Prill, I’ve explained—”
“And to think of all the work we’ve done in this provincial wasteland! Poetry readings in the park, poetry teas, round robins, socials—” He broke off. “Have you read Destinies, by our vice president, Emily Nesp?”
“Yes, I have and—”
“Then you must admit the work is superior to Tebling’s drivel.” He gestured with a large, well-manicured hand to the poetry section, where poet John Tebling’s best-selling volumes were artfully displayed amidst ribbons and dried flowers.
“It’s a pleasant enough piece, but—”
“Then display it! Promote it! Good heavens, sir, do I have to think of everything?”
“Will you let me finish a sentence?” When the big man gave a slight begrudging nod, Hayden said, “I’ve told you a dozen times we have limited space and many other works to consider. And frankly, I think Miss Nesp’s work is a bit overdone.”
Prill had just enough chin to quiver with indignation. “Overdone!”
“There are a lot of meaningless words strung together.”
“Meaningless! Those phrases are dynamic! ‘The tearing limb of gratitude.’ ‘Blocks of Justice wrapped in faithful timeliness.’ ‘Fragrant withering spasmodic bells.’ Excellent phrases, sir! Magnificent!”
Hayden looked around for support, but Georgia hid behind the rack of postcards. The other customers melted into the background. “Just what exactly is a tearing limb of gratitude?”
“I shouldn’t have to explain anything to you. Good heavens, man, you’re a poet! You’re one of us.”
“Not really.”
Prill leaned on the counter. “Still stuck, are you? Serves you right. You’re a stumbling block for those of us climbing the ladder of success, a high wind assailing our delicate skimmers of fancy.”
He paused as if expecting applause.“Does no one around here appreciate true talent?” He turned back to Hayden. “So, how long has it been?”
“Three months,” he said.
Prill made a face. “Well, I didn’t come here to talk about your troubles. What about FLUF? They deserve recognition.” He called over his shoulder. “Georgia, I know you’re back there. You are no help whatsoever.”
“Don’t look at me,” came a voice from behind the postcards. “I just own the place.”
“Hayden, I expect you to pull strings for me.”
“I can’t pull strings for you or anyone else,” he said. “Sorry.”
“Then what good are you?”
Hayden laughed. “I’ll buy you a drink.”
Prill flipped back his cape. “An offensive attempt at compromise, and one I shall accept. I warn you, though, I intend to continue to plead my case.” He looked around, saw me, and said, “Young lady, are you a poetry lover?”
“I like it well enough,” I said, “if it makes sense.”
“Are you familiar with the work of Emily Nesp?”
“No, I’m sorry. I’ve never heard of her.”
He glared at Hayden. “You see? If you’d had her work out where people could see it, this charming young visitor to our fair town would’ve been able to ascertain for herself the beauty and wonder of Miss Nesp’s verse.”
I could tell Hayden was trying not to laugh. “I read mysteries mostly,” I said.
“Ah, then maybe you can help Hayden solve the Mystery of the Writer’s Block. Wouldn’t that be nice, Hayden? Georgia, I must fly. I’ll meet you across the street, Hayden. Don’t be late.”
He sailed out. Georgia chuckled. “I hope Gregory didn’t scare you off. He’s all wind.”
“He was very entertaining,” I said. “I’m Madeline Maclin.”
“Georgia Taylor. I think I’ve seen you in the store before.”
“Yes, I try to stop in whenever I’m in town.”
“I’m Hayden Amry,” the young man said.
“I actually do solve mysteries.” He had a wonderful smile. “So if you have one….”
“I don’t think you can help with this one. I haven’t had an idea in three months. I’m beginning to think I’ll never write anything again.”
“Now, now,” Georgia said. “None of that. He tends to get depressed,” she said to me. “All that artistic temperament. It’s unhealthy.”
Hayden smiled at her obvious concern. “It wouldn’t be so bad except Shana’s on the best-seller list every week. It compounds the failure.”
“Shana?” I said.
“Shana Fairbourne. That’s my wife, and that’s her display over there.”
I turned to look at the large display of paperback books featuring bright red covers with stylized gold flames around embossed hearts. Shiny gold letters proclaimed in bold letters: Flames, the Provocative New Novel by Shana Fairbourne, Best-Selling Author of Suppressed Desires. I picked up one of the books. Shana Fairbourne’s picture was on
the back. She was a stunning redhead.
A gorgeous wife. Okay. Talk about suppressed desires.
“‘Fairbourne’ was Shana’s agent’s idea,” Hayden said. “He didn’t care for Fields, Shana’s maiden name. Too plain, he said. And Amry was too odd. Thank goodness Shana had an exotic first name, or they’d have to invent one.”
“I’m sorry to say I’ve never read any of her books, either.”
“They’re what the industry calls ‘bodice rippers,’ big sprawling sex stories set against some historical background.”
The kind of book I never read. “And what do you write?”
“When I write, I write short poems that take me months to finish.”
Not something I’d read, either. “Well, I’m sure you’ll get inspiration again.”
“Thanks,” he said. “Are you in town for the pageant?”
“My friend and I came to see about the Eberlin house. His uncle left it to him.”
I was surprised to see Hayden Amry turn pale. “My goodness. He’s not planning to live there, is he?”
“Is there something wrong with it?”
“Now, now,” Georgia said to Hayden. “Don’t start putting ideas into her head. Ms. Maclin, Hayden believes in ghosts, but I don’t. You have a big old house outside of town so naturally everyone invents stories. Val Eberlin was a very nice man. He was in here often. I was very sorry to hear he’d passed away.”
“Can you tell me anything else about him? Jerry only met him when he was a child, and there aren’t many clues at the house.”
“Well, I know he liked cornflakes. Tessie Newall down at Food City says she never saw somebody buy so many boxes. He was always real polite, paid with cash. Let’s see. Occasionally he attended First Baptist Church. He always bought Girl Scout cookies from Averall Mercer’s niece. Just a nice man.”
“Yes, he was,” Hayden said. “I apologize. The house has always looked a little scary to me.”
“It looks scary to me, too,” I said.
Georgia straightened the stack of free bookmarks on the counter. “The nephew’s name is Jerry, you said?”
“Jerry Fairweather.”
“And what does he do?”
As little as possible. “I guess you’d say he’s a sort of consultant.”