Bone Appétit (4 page)

“There’s a young woman named Amanda Payne. She always travels with her mother, Voncil Payne, who was a runner-up in the late 1970s for the Miss America title. Voncil and Amanda have worked the beauty pageant circuit since Amanda was old enough to sit up and have her photo taken.”

“That’s a hard life for a kid,” Tinkie said.

“Thank goodness our parents didn’t push us into that,” I said.

Cece and Tinkie burst out laughing.

“And what’s so funny about that?” I demanded.

“Sarah Booth, your mother couldn’t make you wear a slip, much less a pageant dress. Don’t you remember how you’d tear your petticoat off behind the church and stuff it in that old pecan tree? You were the scandal of the entire Methodist congregation.”

“I was only six! The slip scratched.”

Cece leaned across the van seat and whispered in my ear, “One has to suffer for fashion, dahling.”

They both thought that was a lot funnier than I did. Even the driver was grinning as he pulled in front of the auditorium. We entered and found our seats with plenty of time to peruse the audience. The Delta had turned out in tux and gown.

This part of the competition involved a runway walk, where poise was evaluated, and had drawn a large crowd of locals who wanted to watch. Cece and Tinkie’s story about the roach incident had put the competition on the map. Like at a NASCAR event, some of the audience hoped for blood.

“There’s Johnny Durant! And he’s with Melonie Mason!” Cece was making notes. Tinkie pulled out her new camera with a telephoto lens and snapped the socialites. Johnny had been dating June Petra for the last two years, dangling the promise of a ring but never putting it on her finger. Now he was miles from home with another woman on his arm. Cece had some juicy tidbits for the
Dispatch
’s next edition.

We recognized dozens of Delta society members. “This is an event,” Cece said. “Thanks to Tinkie’s quick thinking, half the Delta has turned out for this. Until I got Tinkie’s fabulous photos, no one had even heard of the competition.”

“My pleasure,” Tinkie said. “Now, shush! The lights are dimming.”

I settled into my seat, prepared for a couple of hours of boredom watching glue-sprayed butts in tight swimsuits strut down the runway. Even worse would be the Q&A. The contestants would, no doubt, be interested in bringing about world peace.

The field had already been narrowed to ten contestants. Lined up on stage, they almost blinded the audience with pearly teeth and naked ambition.

The panel of judges wasn’t too shabby, either. Former Miss America Dawn Gonzalez had traded her crown for motherhood, but she still had presence. TV chef Harley Pitts, thanks to a bad temper that looked good on camera, had worked his way into a major cooking empire and led
the cooking segments with his expertise. Belinda Buck, a Mississippi native, had starred in her own TV show,
La Femme Noir
, in the 1990s. I’d actually enjoyed the show, and time—or a plastic surgeon—had been kind to her. Ms. Buck sizzled with vitality. The fourth judge was Clive Gladstone, a handsome Delta bachelor with an eye for athletic horses and a reputation as one of the finest riders in the Southeast. Clive’s horses were his life, a fact that had drawn more than a bit of gossip.

The contestants wore traditional one-piece swimwear and stiletto heels. Anyone who could actually walk in those shoes deserved to win something.

They paraded down the runway with the confidence of ships at full sail. I couldn’t begrudge them the soft glow of youth that clung to their skin. No one escaped hardship or time. Misfortune, in the shape of either illness, accident, or consequence, knocked at everyone’s door eventually. Time stood still for no one, a difficult concept for the young to grasp. Which was probably a good thing.

“Hedy is striking.” Tinkie lasered in on the raven-haired beauty who’d chosen a black swimsuit. The other women wore red, blue, or green. Hedy stood out like a dark priestess.

“She is that.”

“Karrie Kompton seems supremely confident,” Cece pointed out.

“She gives the impression she doesn’t consider the other girls real competition.” I fanned myself with the program. The auditorium was a little stuffy.

One by one, each girl came forward and answered a series of questions from the judges. To my amazement, the questions weren’t mere fluff. Some involved basic current events, and others covered complicated etiquette issues. Tinkie and Cece were both stirred by the answers. Social graces mattered.

When Karrie Kompton walked to the microphone, I couldn’t help but lean forward.

“Karrie, you have a long list of pageant wins,” Dawn Gonzalez began. “Which one means the most to you, and what’s been your hardest lesson?”

“When I was nine, I won the Little Miss Rankin County Sunshine Pageant,” Karrie said. “It was one of the few times my father was able to attend a pageant and it meant more to me than any other, because he was there.”

An audible sigh of approval wafted across the entire auditorium.

I hated to admit how smart she was. She knew exactly how to play on the heartstrings of the judges and the audience.

“And as to the second part of your question”—Karrie cleared her throat—“I’ve always been very competitive . . .”

“Cutthroat is more like it,” Tinkie whispered.

“. . . and I’ve had to learn to control that. A competitive spirit is good, but too much, or one that isn’t checked, can hurt the feelings of the other girls, and I’d never want to do that.”

When “the other girls” didn’t pull off their shoes and throw them at her, I stood up and applauded their self-restraint. Both Tinkie and Cece yanked me down in my seat.

“And finally,” judge Belinda Buck asked in a soft drawl, “if you were given a chance to star in a television show, would you take it?”

“It would depend on the content, Ms. Buck. If the show was as good as
La Femme Noir
, I’d be on it like a heart attack on a deep-fried moon pie.”

The audience erupted in applause. Karrie had managed to work in the line of dialogue Belinda used in almost every single one of her shows.

“Damn,” Cece said. “Karrie is good.”

“She’s clever,” Tinkie agreed.

“She’s doesn’t have it sewn up yet,” Cece said. There were several girls who had come across with more thoughtful answers.

“There’s still the talent competition,” Tinkie said. “Maybe she’ll suck at that.”

I laughed. Somehow, all three of us had become vested in the outcome of a competition we hadn’t even known about two days previous. And we didn’t have a favorite in the running, we had an anti-favorite. Life was strange indeed.

The girls finished the Q&A and strolled the catwalk with the grace of young felines, then assembled to hear the judges’ verdict. Tinkie, Cece, and I eased to the edge of our seats.

Dawn Gonzalez accepted the microphone from the emcee. “The judges have tallied their votes,” she said. Her smile revealed either genetic superiority or expensive orthodontic measures. “What we’ve decided is to keep the scores secret until the last event. We want every girl to give this competition her all, and the title truly is up for grabs until the final evening. So pick your favorites, keep a tally of your scores, and see if you can best the judges.”

The young women on the stage maintained bright smiles, but dismay crossed the faces of several. I could only imagine that some, feeling they didn’t have a chance, were eager to call it quits and go home. Now they were fated to carry on until the bitter end.

Dawn wasn’t finished, though. She held up a hand to calm the growing buzz in the audience. “We do have one award to give tonight. The girls voted among themselves for ‘Best-Humored Contestant.’ ” A drumroll came from backstage. “And the winner is Babs Lafitte.”

Babs was tall, nearly six feet, with long red hair that captured the stage lighting in a dazzling halo. She wasn’t a squealer, thank goodness, and she seemed genuinely surprised and pleased.

“Babs, would you like to say a few words?” Dawn signaled her to the microphone and held out the trophy.

As Babs stepped forward, her knees buckled. She went down like she’d been bolt shot. Once her body hit the floor, it didn’t stop. She began bucking, screaming, and what appeared to be convulsing. Her long fingernails dug into her scalp, and she tore out tufts of hair.

The smile faded from Dawn’s face. A startled “What the hell is wrong with her?” echoed over the silent auditorium. The other contestants froze for what seemed like an eon before Brook Oniada and Janet Menton dropped to their knees beside Babs and tried to control the convulsions.

“Is there a doctor in the house?” Dawn asked into the microphone.

Several stagehands rushed from behind the curtains and restrained Babs while an ambulance was called. Evangeline Phelps, the pageant organizer, took control of the stage, urging Brook and Janet away from the stricken girl. She removed the microphone from Dawn’s hand.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please move on to the reception. I’m sure we’ll have this situation righted in no time and our lovely contestants will join you.” She shooed the remaining young women stage left. They cast looks of horror over their shoulders at Babs, who was being held to the floor by the two stagehands. Karrie Kompton pointed at the writhing girl.

“This is just an act,” Karrie said loudly. “She knew she wasn’t going to win, and she pulled this crap.”

Before she could continue, Mrs. Phelps grasped Karrie’s
arm in what appeared to be a death grip and hustled her toward the wings.

“She isn’t sick. It’s an act!” Karrie threw over her shoulder as she was dragged away.

Mrs. Phelps was unshaken. “A doctor has been called, and if the audience would please continue to the reception.” There was a steely order in her tone. I gathered my purse and made to leave, but Tinkie pinched my arm.

“I need a photo,” she said.

“Mrs. Phelps will have you drawn and quartered.” The pageant organizer reminded me of a particularly stern grammar school teacher who’d always been able to bully me. “I’m not up to hand-to-hand combat with an old guerrilla fighter. My arm is still weak.”

“Have the car running,” Cece said as Tinkie tossed me the keys to the Cadillac. “We’ll be with you in two minutes.”

While I was tempted to watch, I went to get the car. I would be able to see the results of their investigative, or some would call it tabloid, journalism in the newspaper tomorrow, and likely on the faces of the contestants when the story broke. The rest of the week in Greenwood was going to be an interesting ride.

The after-competition party was held in the private home of Drew and Bethann Madison. The Madison estate was one of the largest contiguous plantations that spread across five thousand acres. Bethann had also been a beauty contestant at one point in her life, and I chatted with her about a woman who’d figured into my last case, Lana Entrekin Carlisle.

Bethann and Lana had competed against each other frequently in state beauty pageants, and Bethann held her old
rival in high regard. She told me a few humorous tales of pranks the girls played on each other before, during, and after some of the pageants they’d participated in.

While I listened to Bethann’s reminiscences, Tinkie cornered and photographed the pageant contenders while Cece grilled them. My partner had taken to the role of paparazzi like a duck to water. I watched in amusement as they double-teamed girl after girl. The only one who evaded them was Hedy Lamarr Blackledge. Which was strange, because the more publicity a girl got, the higher her profile; therefore, most of the girls sought TV and print interviews. Trained in the art of public presentation, the smart ones turned any moment into an opportunity for publicity.

Not Hedy. She drifted around the edges of the party, slipping up to speak with a judge here or there but avoiding Cece and Tinkie like the plague. Intrigued, I followed her out into one of the most incredible gardens I’d ever stepped into. Cross vines climbed Greek columns to create a shady pergola. In the center a fountain gurgled softly, sending water cascading over glass blocks lit to resemble giant ice cubes. Flowers of all descriptions were abloom, and the sweet singing of night birds wafted on the balmy breeze.

Money could buy everything. Well, maybe not happiness. The jury was still out on that one.

“Ms. Blackledge,” I called as I jogged after her. Drat Tinkie and her fashion slavery. My heels were good looking but not worth a hoot for pursuit.

Hedy stopped at a bench beneath an arbor covered in Virginia creeper. “Miss Delaney,” she said, “what can I do for you?”

“You know my name?” I was surprised.

“All of the girls know who you are. They’re wondering why a private investigator is at our pageant.”

“Vacation.” I wanted to put her at ease. “Tinkie and I
are taking cooking lessons. It just happened that the pageant was going on, too.”

“Is that the truth?” She was deadly earnest.

“Why else would we be here?”

A smile passed across her face, and in that flash I saw a beauty far greater than anything Karrie Kompton could summon. “I thought maybe Karrie had hired you to sabotage the contest. I mean, what’s wrong with Babs? She was fine an hour ago, then suddenly she’s on the floor like someone suffering from a heroin overdose.”

Her choice of descriptions gave me a second’s pause, but I addressed her concern. “Karrie hasn’t hired me or my partner.” I wanted to make that clear before I asked any other questions. Hedy struck me as someone who watched others. She paid attention.

“Then you aren’t . . . investigating any of us?”

The question begged another. “Is there something that needs investigating?”

“Only how Karrie has bribed the judges with special presents and gifts. That’s not supposed to be allowed, but she gets around it.”

“I’m sure she has her ways.” Girls like Karrie always broke the rules and got away with it.

Hedy looked beyond me, as if someone in the shadows beckoned her. “It’s been a pleasure, Ms. Delaney, but I have to get back to . . . uh, I’m tired.”

“You’re not going to the hotel, are you?” Somewhere in the pageant material I thought I’d read that the girls were required to stay in the Alluvian.