Chapter 9
NINE
“Forgive my crumpled state,” Aunt DeeDee said as she found me in the glittering lights of the ballroom.
She slid a hand across her periwinkle pants suit, the wrinkles very out of place in this grand setting.
Then she took my arm and pulled me into a hug.
“You, though, look fabulous despite the jeans.”
“Where have you been?” I asked, both relieved to see she hadn’t lost her normal focus and frustrated that she’d gone AWOL.
“I was out at the back of the property, getting something for the tent displays, and then I was in my office when the police arrived and…” She shook off the question. “I lost track of time. It doesn’t matter.”
“One of the contestants said she saw you arguing with Dr. Bellingham and holding a black bag.”
Aunt DeeDee narrowed her eyes and studied me. “That was two hours ago, and I was carrying my makeup bag. I needed a touch-up.”
I didn’t doubt her for a moment. “What were you two fighting about?”
“He wanted me to introduce you to him. A one-on-one. I told him over my dead body—not in those exact words, but he didn’t like that I encouraged him to meet you with the others at the tea tomorrow morning like everyone.
” Aunt DeeDee’s cheeks reddened in her frustration.
“He’s either looking for a good time or a new patient, and you’ll be neither, not for all the money in Aubergine.
” She lowered her voice to keep from listening ears.
“Sweetheart, the police are searching my room. They got an anonymous tip… something has gone missing…”
“Miss 2001’s crown?”
Aunt DeeDee assessed me as if trying to read my thoughts.
“Yes, that, and… well, never mind. For now I need to go with them, answer a few questions. I should be back later tonight for the Jewels and Gems party, but if I’m not, I had all of your makeup and hair products sent to your cottage.
Listen: you’ll want to use the curling iron to make soft tresses, and your outfit is—”
“Stop.” I cut her off, hardly believing that my aunt was trying to give me advice on how to wear my hair this evening. “Why would anyone need to question you about the missing crown?”
She gave me a knowing look and whispered in my ear, “Dr. Bellingham.”
The judge’s face sprang into my mind, and Aunt DeeDee could see that I was hearing her message loud and clear.
This man was framing my aunt.
Before she could say more, whispers arose from the middle of the room as Savilla helped her now conscious stepmother to her feet. The woman leaned against Savilla for support while contestants watched with concern etching their foreheads.
The three judges—Miss 1962, Katie Gilman, and Dr. Bellingham—made a sort of blockade around Savilla and Glenda Finch, and for a moment I was distracted from my aunt’s dilemma.
“My husband has disappeared,” Mrs. Finch said, her voice shaky and her face gaunt.
A murmur went up: concern for Mr. Finch no doubt, but also fear that the pageant might be cancelled.
I side-eyed Aunt DeeDee, who didn’t seem as worried as she should be at this announcement.
What was happening at the Rose Palace? What exactly had I stepped into? I’d arrived with my own concerns about a vanished pageant queen from two decades earlier. Now, in less than a handful of hours, I could add the following:
A missing crown
A fainting Mrs. Finch
A disappearing owner
My aunt, suspected of theft
I’d come for a pageant, but this was quickly becoming a different kind of show, and each of us contestants, a new kind of participant.
“I know all of you likely saw my husband earlier this afternoon as you arrived,” Mrs. Finch said, pulling a piece of paper from the pocket of her Gucci bag.
“I thought he’d gone to lie down to rest before the party this evening.
” Her voice trembled with emotion. “If I’d known that he might…
I would never have left him in our apartment, drinking a glass of whiskey and…
” She trailed off and held the back of her hand to her mouth as if she couldn’t go on.
Savilla took the page from her stepmother and read the contents to herself. From my vantage point, I was close enough to see the handwriting: a distinctive slant with occasional looping letters.
“Read it out loud, will you, darling?” Mrs. Finch stammered, tears forming.
Savilla, familiar with the spotlight, didn’t seem to revel in delivering these words, but she swallowed hard and began reading.
“‘I regret what I did to Miss 2001. I’m only getting what I deserve from the one who took her crown. To the real jewels of my life: Go on without me. Frederick Finch.’”
At the words, Aunt DeeDee took my hand and squeezed it hard enough for me to wince. A realization was dawning on her, one I couldn’t yet comprehend.
Mrs. Finch let out a huff of air as if on the verge of another fainting spell, and the contestants pulsed forward as a unit. One of the judge’s hands—that of Dr. Bellingham—extended as if to steady her.
The entire crowd of women as well as the sheriff, who’d recently entered the ballroom, seemed to be processing this missive, a brief one filled with regret and admonition.
I regret what I did to Miss 2001. Was this a confession? A suicide note? Had Mr. Finch known something or someone was coming for him?
Go on without me. The command, if interpreted one way, could sound like someone’s last words, but the same words could also signal that he’d gone out for a walk and thought it best that his wife go about her evening without expecting his return—though why Mr. Finch would disappear on opening night, when he was “the rooster” and we were his “hens,” I couldn’t quite understand.
He certainly hadn’t seemed like a person contemplating the end during our brief encounter.
As Momma would’ve said, Something’s not setting right here.
Savilla swallowed back emotion. “He’s only been gone a couple of hours, StepMommy. You haven’t had time to search the property, much less talk to the judges or the staff or”—here, her eyes landed on Sheriff Strong—“security.”
“Oh, dearest,” Mrs. Finch sighed. “You know how unhappy your father has been.”
I thought of his wide smile that afternoon—not that people couldn’t mask things, but still.
“Your father never goes out on his own these days, and he doesn’t speak to the help.”
That surprised me. Though Mr. Finch was obviously in his seventies, he’d seemed as cognizant and capable as anyone here—and eager to talk to any passerby.
“His phone and keys were left next to the note,” Mrs. Finch added, watching our reactions as if to ensure we believed her story.
I couldn’t help but notice that this woman seemed eager to jump to the worst possible outcome. But why? What did she—or anyone—stand to gain from her husband’s disappearance? And a very public one at that…
My eyes went to the chandelier of cut glass and glimmering lights, and I knew my answer. The palace. The pageant. That’s what she undoubtedly stood to gain.
“I’ve already checked his favorite spots myself, and I’ve asked members of staff to scour the property for him. I’m sure we’ll find him soon, although…”
Although what? He’d likely be dead? That’s what her free-flowing tears seemed to imply.
Savilla gently touched her stepmother’s shoulder. “Doesn’t all of this concern seem a bit pre-unsure?”
I studied Savilla, trying to decipher her particular misuse of language.
“Premature?” one girl offered from the back.
“No,” Savilla said, turning to face the crowd again. “Pre-unsure. It’s too early to be certain of anything.” She looked back at her stepmother. “We’re acting like Daddy is never coming back when he could just be out at the stables or even at the back of—”
Mrs. Finch threw up a hand, halting her stepdaughter’s musings. “Dearest, let’s try not to assume the best. It can lead to so much unnecessary disappointment.”
I almost laughed unceremoniously before realizing that Mrs. Finch was serious. The image of her jerking away from her husband’s touch earlier in the lobby came to mind.
“However,” she said, addressing the room, “the disappearance of my dear husband will not stop the good and important work we are doing here.”
Work. Good. Important. None of these seemed fitting descriptors, unless someone like Summer won.
Mrs. Finch took a step forward. “For now, all of you, please continue as usual. I know this is a daunting ask, but I’m confident that my husband, who adored this pageant and all of you, would want nothing less.
Besides”—here she extended a hand toward the sheriff—“law enforcement is already on the scene, and we may find Mr. Finch sooner than later. For now, if you know anything of my husband or of the missing crown, please come forward immediately.”
For the briefest moment, I thought I saw the woman’s eyes flicker to my aunt, but I must’ve been wrong. Aunt DeeDee could never be involved in something so… sinister, so… tawdry.
As I debated the reason for the flash in Mrs. Finch’s eyes, I realized that, as selfish as it might be, I didn’t want the pageant to be postponed or cancelled.
I’d allowed Aunt DeeDee to wax and loofa me.
I’d already accepted the fact that I would likely be watching TikTok eye makeup tutorials and caking my face with an inordinate number of products this weekend.
Perhaps most importantly, I’d already started spending the winnings in my mind.
I would save Momma’s house. I would pay off the debt collectors.
I would help Aunt DeeDee’s business recover financially.
I might go back to school. We would have a future again.
My mantra ran through my mind: You just need to place.
But I couldn’t place unless there was a pageant in which to compete.
Plodding feet interrupted my thoughts as another man in uniform stepped forward, holding a black velvet bag with sharp angles above his head and motioning to the sheriff.
Sheriff Strong stepped toward Aunt DeeDee, a look of resolution on his face. He took his handcuffs and held them at his side, and for a split second I thought he was coming for me.
Aunt DeeDee’s eyes bored into mine. “Now, Dakota, don’t believe a word they say, you understand?”
I found myself nodding, even though I had no idea what she meant.
Aunt DeeDee turned back to the sheriff, the hint of a pout around her lips, an expression I’d never seen her wear before. Sheriff Strong’s gaze flickered to me, and I almost thought I caught an apology in his eyes.
As the sheriff pulled my aunt’s hands behind her back and secured the handcuffs, I thought about how I hadn’t been able to save Momma from what had come for her, but now Aunt DeeDee—the only parent I had left—was in a different kind of trouble, one that I might be able to fix if I could think straight and find a solution.
“Arresting me will take time away from you finding the actual culprit,” Aunt DeeDee protested as shocked mouths fell open around us. “You know that.”
The handcuffs clicked into place, and the sheriff turned DeeDee back around, scratching at his jaw.
“Maybe. That’s why I’m gonna take you in, get you settled, and hurry back as soon as I can.
” He took a deep breath and avoided eye contact with me.
“For now, Deanna Green, you’re under arrest for theft.
You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be… ”
As Sheriff Charlie Strong stoically read my aunt her Miranda rights, tears welled in her eyes, and my heart cracked at the edges.
The only time I’d seen Aunt DeeDee cry had been when I’d walked into Momma’s room a week after her death, and she’d been lying in her sister’s bed, holding one of Momma’s ratty sweaters against her cheek, bawling her heart out.
Even then, five minutes later, she’d collected herself, blotted her eyes with a tissue, and apologized for bothering me with all that noise.
Now Aunt DeeDee was sad and scared, and I didn’t know how to help her. But I needed to try.
The contestants—their expressions frightened and intrigued despite their colorful hats, lined eyes, and glowing cheeks—parted like a curtain around Aunt DeeDee as the sheriff marched her out of the palace in handcuffs.