A Case of Imagination Page 7

  “Aren’t they rehearsing tonight? I can’t think of anything more relaxing than watching beauty queens.”

  “The choreographer has quit, and the set is on the floor. I don’t think they’ll have much of a rehearsal.”

  The phone rang. I went into the living room to answer it. Gregory Prill’s booming voice said, “Madeline Maclin, have you found any ghosts yet?”

  I felt guilty I’d neglected his case. “Not yet. I apologize.”

  “Well, don’t fret. I realize you’re busy with the pageant. I’m calling to let you know Shana Amry is back in town. She’s been on tour, promoting her latest book. She’d love to meet you, say, around noon tomorrow, at Georgia’s?”

  “That would be fine, thanks.”

  “I think the two of you will get along splendidly. Until later, then. Ta, ta!”

  I’d never actually heard a grown man say, “Ta, ta!” I was still grinning when I came back to the porch.

  ***

  Around eleven, we drove into town and parked several blocks from the theater. We walked around to the stage door entrance. I used my key to unlock the doors. Inside, the auditorium made strange creaks and breathing sounds. I turned on the backstage work lights. Most of the set had been reassembled, although the gondolas were pretty much a loss. “Venice lives again.”

  “Ah, the old country,” Jerry said.

  “Did you ever go to Venice?”

  “We took the Grand Tour when I was little. I don’t remember much.”

  “Find someplace to get comfortable. I’m going to look around.”

  Jerry sat down in the front row while I prowled backstage. Everything looked the same. When I stepped onto the stage, he clapped and whistled. I gave him a pageant wave and a big fake smile.

  “Brings back fond memories, doesn’t it?”

  I sat on the edge of the stage. “Memories of screaming mothers and crying girls.”

  Jerry had seen a tape of me in one of the Little Miss Parkland pageants. “I especially like the big hair.”

  I ran my hand through my short curls. “Yeah, I miss all the teasing and the hairspray. Sleeping in rollers is good, too.”

  “And now you’re Macho Mac, Defender of the Poor.”

  “And where has that gotten me? Sitting in an empty auditorium.”

  “Waiting to snag an unsuspecting, Venice-destroying pageant-hater.”

  I grinned. “Who’s not going to make an appearance if we’re out here yakking. Let’s find a better hiding place.” I looked around. “How about the light booth? We can see everything from up there.”

  We climbed the narrow metal stairs to the light booth. The wide window gave us a complete view of the stage and auditorium. I found the light switch that turned off the work lights. The dim blue glow of the lamp in the booth gave us just enough light. I perched on the stool in front of the control panel and looked down into the shadowy auditorium.

  Jerry sat on the floor. “What have you got so far?”

  “I still haven’t ruled out kids. The curtain was just singed, and the scenery easy enough to reassemble. It’s as if someone wants to make a mess, not cause real damage.”

  “Any clues?”

  “Evan’s the only one who smokes, and I doubt he set fire to his own theater. He doesn’t seem the kind of person to burn the one thing he’s crazy about.”

  In the dim light, I thought I saw Jerry wince. “You okay?”

  His expression was odd, but then again, it may have been the faint light. “Yeah, just a twinge. What else do you know?”

  “After a short rehearsal last night, all the contestants were sent home to practice their talent.”

  “That’s what they say.”

  “But all these young women want to win the pageant. Why sabotage it? It’s puzzling.”

  “What about your other case, the one with the haunted house?”

  “I haven’t even started on that one. Maybe Hayden’s ghost is responsible for the pageant mishaps.” I sighed. “I really don’t have much to go on right now.”

  “You’ll figure it out.”

  “Thanks.”

  He leaned back against the wall and gave me a serious look. “I have to tell you I’m jealous of you, Mac. You’ve always known what you wanted to do with your life.”

  “Not really. I knew what I didn’t want to do.”

  “As for me, I have no idea.”

  What brought this on? “That’s never bothered you before.”

  “You know Des has had a hard time composing lately. The last time I talked with him, he said he’d had a real breakthrough. Not only is he writing music like crazy, he’s featured soloist with the Parkland Symphony and has a big tour planned.”

  “So?”

  “Life has finally settled for him. And Tucker’s getting married, did I tell you? He tells me he’s found the girl of his dreams. I’m just wondering.”

  “Wondering what?”

  “Moving here, starting over. Maybe I’m due for a breakthrough, only I don’t have anything to break through.” He yawned. “I know what the answer might be, though.”

  “Figured it out already?”

  He nodded. He smiled at me. “Maybe it’s time I thought about settling down.”

  I didn’t know what to say. “Did you have to fall down the stairs to have this revelation?”

  He feigned a serious expression. “Sometimes it takes a brush with death to realize what life is all about.”

  “Have anyone in mind?”

  “Olivia wouldn’t have come to Celosia if she didn’t care. Maybe she’s the one.”

  Damn. “Is she ready to settle down?”

  “I’ll have to ask her.”

  “Remember how she feels about the Fairweather fortune. Won’t your lack of money be an issue?”

  He thought a moment. “I think she’ll get over that.”

  “Can you really trust her, Jerry?”

  “I’d like to.” He yawned again. “You know, you’re the only one I really trust.”

  That was something, at least. “Thanks.”

  “From the beginning, you were interested in me, not my name or my money. I’ve had plenty of girlfriends, but you’re a true friend. I can’t say that about anyone else.” He slumped down further and closed his eyes. “Wake me if anything exciting happens.”

  As he settled into sleep, I wondered if I was crazy to care this much about him. A true friend. Great. That’s just great, Jerry. Why can’t I be the girl of your dreams?

  CHAPTER THREE

  Nothing happened. No thrill-seeking teens, no ghosts, nobody returning to the scene of the crime. While Jerry took his nap, I took my flashlight and made the rounds, checking all entrances. I didn’t see any way anyone could get in without breaking a window, I didn’t see any signs of forced entry. Around 1:00 AM, I roused Jerry and took him home.

  The next morning, I called and left another message for Nancy Lundell’s friend Gloria, giving her my cell phone number. For now, I had enough work in Celosia, but it would be foolish to ignore a possible case. When I finished, I went into the kitchen for cereal and found nothing. I’d bought two new boxes yesterday, and I knew I put them in the cabinet. What was going on?

  I made some toast and poured a big glass of orange juice, which I took up to Jerry.

  “You doing all right?” I asked.

  His eyes were halfway open. “Just barely. You want to breathe a little quieter?”

  I set the plate of toast and the glass on the nightstand. “That bad, huh?”

  “And not even a wild party to forget.” He slowly sat up. “Ow. I must have landed on every part of me.”

  “No chance you zipped downstairs during the night and had a bowl of Sugar Pops, is there?”

  He gave me an incredulous look. “You mean it happened again?”

  “Well, we are staying in the dreaded Eberlin house, Mystery Home of Celosia. Apparently, our ghosts think breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”

  Jer
ry took two aspirin with a gulp of juice. “This house really is haunted, Mac.”

  “By cereal-loving ghosts? That’s pathetic. Post Toasties Ghosties, maybe? Sugar Coated Spooks?”

  “All-Bran Poltergeists.”

  “Eeeeuww.”

  “Well, you gotta keep them regular, or they’ll start throwing furniture.”

  I handed him the toast. “I think you’re feeling better. Will you be okay by yourself?”

  “Sure,” he said. “Who are you grilling today?”

  “I’ve made appointments with Benjy Goins, local DJ, and Ted Stacy. And Gregory Prill asked me to meet Shana Amry at Georgia’s around noon to talk about Hayden’s ghost.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “What’s that ‘hmmm’ supposed to mean?”

  “It was just a ‘hmmm’ of interest.”

  “Trust me, I’m not ready to hop into another relationship.”

  “Not even with Tall Ted?”

  “We’ll see.” I had to get out of there before I leaped into bed with him. “What are you doing today?”

  “I’m going to paint.”

  I had a vision of coming home to find him with his head stuck in the pail. “Well, please be careful.”

  ***

  At the local TV and radio station, Benjy Goins was in the middle of his radio show, “Benjy’s Big Hits.” As far as I could tell, “Benjy’s Big Hits” consisted of a lot of three-note thumping and loud, unintelligible voices shouting to the beat.

  Goins took off his headset and came out to the lobby of WCLO to meet me.

  “Morning, Madeline. Great stuff, huh?”

  “Rockin’.”

  “You a ‘Noxious Fumes’ fan?”

  “Since nineteen fifty-five.”

  He looked at me blankly, then got it. “Don’t know them, do you?”

  “Not exactly my style.”

  “Yeah, I would imagine you’re into cool jazz.”

  He could imagine what he liked. “I wanted to ask you a few questions about the pageant, if you’ve got time.”

  He turned to check on the large clock in his studio. “Got a bank of commercials running. It’ll be five minutes at most.”

  “You run a radio and TV studio yourself?”

  He grinned. “Well, it’s not much, as you can see. I do local news, sports, stuff like that. As for the TV studio, we have a local access channel on a cable station out of Parkland. Six hours a day.”

  “I would imagine you feature pageant news.”

  “The pageant is big news.” He pointed toward a video camera on a tripod and a stack of video cassettes. “And big business, for Celosia, anyway. I get my assistant to videotape the pageant and sell copies to all the girls’ relatives.”

  “Do you sell a lot of copies?”

  “You bet. It’s the event of the year.”

  “So who’d be against the pageant?”

  “Nobody’s against it except Ted Stacy, and he’s just making a statement. He’s not the kind of guy who’d sneak around at night knocking over some cardboard walls.”

  “Is there that kind of guy in town?”

  “If there is they’re just doing it for kicks. Not much to do in Celosia.”

  I recalled what Jerry had said about former queens. “Evan doesn’t have any enemies? Women who were rejected for the pageant years ago?”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “How many women have been in the pageant?”

  “Just about any good-looking teenager growing up in this town has been in the pageant. It’s like homecoming queen or head cheerleader. They make it, they usually leave town.” He looked at the clock. “You really ought to ask Kimberly Dawn. She’s the historian. She’s knows every little detail about the Miss Celosia Pageant.” He glanced at the clock. “I gotta go.”

  I thanked Benjy and went out. If he made a profit off the pageant, it seemed unlikely he’d have anything to do with the incidents at the auditorium.

  ***

  Benjy’s idea of talking to Kimberly Dawn was a good one. She might tell me, the former Miss Parkland, more in private than she would be willing to say in front of her colleagues. I got her address from Cindy, and headed over.

  Kimberly Dawn received me—there’s no other word—in the living room of her home on Crestwood Street.

  “My dear Madeline, I was just about to have some tea. Won’t you join me?”

  She indicated a fancy chair with an embroidered cushion. I sat down. “Thanks.”

  She settled herself in another chair. Tea in Kimberly Dawn’s house meant hot tea served in thin china cups. “Lemon?”

  “Just sugar, thank you.”

  “How about a cinnamon wafer? These are superb. I get them from Francie’s in Charlotte.”

  I took a wafer, remembering to hold my pinky up. Kimberly Dawn floated a tiny slice of lemon in her tea and sat back. In her pink suit, she looked just as stiff as the furniture. Her long fingernails gleamed pink. Even her toenails, peeking out from her pink sandals, were the same bright color. Middle-Aged Barbie.

  “I know why you’re here, Madeline. It’s about this pageant problem, isn’t it.”

  “Yes. I’d really like to know the history of Miss Celosia.”

  She beamed. “I can tell you whatever you want to know.”

  “Start at the beginning.”

  She set her cup on the end table. “Well, in 1985, a very enterprising woman named Alexandra Newsome decided that Celosia should have its own pageant and send the winner to Miss Parkland. She organized a committee, ran the pageant, and our first Miss Celosia, Carolyn Buford, was in the top ten that year. As you can imagine, that got everyone very proud and excited. Since then, we’ve had sixteen top ten girls, including myself, and a second-runner up. You might remember her. Phyllis Mayfield.”

  “Oh, yes.” No one who heard her jazz version of “O Caro Mio” ever forgot Phyllis Mayfield.

  “An excellent contestant. So, we’ve had a pageant since the mid-Eighties.”

  “When did Evan James come in?”

  “He’s been our pageant coordinator since 1990. He’s a bundle of nerves, but he always manages to have a good show. It is simply criminal the way things have been lately. He doesn’t deserve all these headaches.”

  “Is there anyone who would have a grudge against him or the pageant committee? Someone who felt she should have won?”

  Kimberly patted her solid helmet of hair. I was surprised it didn’t go “clang!” “Of course, there were hurt feelings and petty jealousies along the way, but I honestly can’t think of a girl who would lower herself to destroying scenery. It goes against the Miss Celosia Code.”

  “You have a code?”

  “A standard of rules and behavior. Every girl signs the agreement. Rule One states that each contestant will conduct herself in a manner befitting the ideals of Miss Celosia. Those ideals include fair play and a gracious attitude in defeat.” She picked up her teacup and took a sip. “We have to draw the line somewhere.”

  “Would you say all the contestants in this pageant are following the code?”

  “To be perfectly honest with you, Madeline, this is the most fractious group of girls I’ve ever seen. They’ve hated each other since grade school. Yes, they all signed the agreement, but I don’t think they know the meaning of ‘gracious attitude’ in anything.”

  I took another wafer. They were thin, but pretty tasty. “Yesterday, Chuck said that he thought Juliet was the best choice.”

  “We have to choose the girl we feel has the best chance to win Miss North Carolina. Right now, unfortunately, that girl is Juliet Lovelace. She does well in interview. She has an excellent figure. Her talent is strong.”

  Kimberly Dawn’s tone was bitter. I said, “But you don’t want her to win.”

  “No, I don’t. But who else do we have? Donna Sanchez has no talent. Randi Peterson doesn’t even know who our president is. Karen Mitman has no stage presence, no confidence. The rest of them are just as flawed.�
� She sighed. “I have to put personal feelings aside and go with the best contestant. It won’t be the first time.” She reached for the teapot. “More tea?”

  “No, thanks.”

  She poured another cup for herself. “Honestly, some of these girls are so unprepared. I’ve had to instruct them on how to stand, how to turn, how to present themselves in the very best light possible.”

  “Are you a professional pageant coach?”

  “I’ve done some coaching, but I’m also exploring other avenues. Commercials, for example. I’ve done several for some very prominent local businesses. I’ve also done some modeling. Have you ever considered modeling?”

  I’d been approached by several agencies, but I wasn’t interested. I’d served my time on stage. “No, not really.”

  She smiled. “I think you’d do very well. Like me, you’re tall and you’ve kept your figure.” She gave herself an admiring gaze. “Do you know I’m the same size as most of the Miss Celosia contestants? I’ve even lent some of my gowns to the girls.”

  “I’m sure they were happy to have them.”

  “Well, this pageant means a lot to me.” She gestured to a corner cabinet. “Let me show you my memorabilia.”

  I knew we’d get around to her glory days. We walked over to the corner. Inside the cabinet was a large framed picture of Kimberly Dawn in all her pageant finery, an overly beaded gown with padded shoulders and a frilly neckline. Her tiara and trophy sat in the center with her Miss Celosia sash draped carefully around the trophy. On the bottom shelf were framed newspaper clippings of the event.

  I felt a moment of nausea. My mother has an entire room full of stuff like this chronicling my years on the Little Miss circuit. Kimberly Dawn waited for a response, so I said, “Very nice.”

  She kept her eyes on her treasures. “I just wish these girls took this pageant as seriously as I do. They don’t realize what a positive effect being in this show can have on their lives.”

  Or how it can crush and warp their little minds.

  “The only reason most of them want to win is to beat Juliet Lovelace,” she said. “It’s not the purest of motives.”

  “So it’s doubtful any one of the contestants would’ve torn down Venice?”