Chapter 10
TEN
When I was little, Momma tried to make me fall in love with Winnie the Pooh and the Honey Tree because she’d loved the short film as a kid.
We watched Pooh singing to the bees about being a storm cloud so he could steal their honey.
For reasons only a good therapist could explain, this scene terrified four-year-old me, giving me nightmares about bees and trees and suffocating in honey.
For years whenever so much as a fly buzzed past me on the playground at recess, I would fall to the ground, curl up in a ball, and wail until help arrived.
So, Momma did what she always did: She made me face my fears.
By the time I was ten, she’d taught me how to find hives in the mountains. She’d taken me to visit a working honeybee farm where I learned to smoke bees to sleep. She’d encouraged me to climb every tall tree I could find. By my eleventh birthday, I was no longer afraid of bees.
And maybe that’s why time froze around me now. My aunt in handcuffs was a reality I couldn’t comprehend. It made my knees weak and my heart thud in my chest. I stood still, immobilized by questions and that too-familiar fear.
I’d already lost my mother. I couldn’t lose my aunt. I pulsed my fingers in and out, trying to remind my body to move again, trying to make my brain jump-start as I watched Savilla tend to her stepmother.
These two women, the two closest to Mr. Finch, had to know something they weren’t saying—something about this palace, the pageant, or the people in it—and I needed information to help clear my aunt’s name before I let them out of my sight.
I sidled up to Savilla, trying for a sweet tone that came out more eager than I intended. “Can I do anything?”
Savilla appeared relieved. “Thank you, Dakota. I need to take StepMommy back to her apartment. Can you help?” She addressed the person behind me as well. “Summer, you too… can you get her other side?”
I turned to see the petite contestant still hovering behind me. Summer’s dark pink lips turned down in concern. “Of course.”
I did as bid and offered my arm to Mrs. Finch while Summer hurried around to act as a kind of crutch on her opposite side.
Mrs. Finch hesitated only a moment before deciding to allow both of us to give her aid while Savilla led the way to the Finches’ personal residence.
I caught Jemma watching us from beneath her hat, a hint of envy at our proximity to the Finches in her long-lashed eyes.
As the crowd dissipated, likely at a loss as to what to do with their unexpected free time, we slowly trekked past the library, down a long skylit hallway, past the lobby, around the edge of a solarium, and through a door camouflaged to look like part of the wall to a back flight of stairs ascending to the third floor.
With all the twists and turns, I would never be able to find my way back to the ballroom, and I could only imagine what kind of montage we made: Savilla and Summer in their hats, me in my boots and jeans, and the glamorous Mrs. Finch sandwiched between us all.
As we strode through the halls of the palace, the light airiness of the public spaces gave way to a dimmed, yellow-tinged hue, and the fading wallpaper grew more ornate, less modern.
A vine pattern on a dark blue backdrop meandered round and round the wall in endless figure eights, winding and threading into an infinity of intersecting lines.
The Gilded Age influence was apparent and I realized that this must be the original décor.
These were the rooms we hadn’t toured back in middle school, the ones reserved for family and close friends.
The rooms in the residential wing were labeled with placards like Anniversary Apartment, Queen Elizabeth Suite, The Remembrance Room, and the shift in ambiance gave the sensation of stepping into a well-preserved version of the early 1900s.
I wondered how many other secret doors fed off this hallway of suites.
I wasn’t sure who else might be staying in the residential wing, but I guessed those closest to the Finches—perhaps the judges, maybe even Aunt DeeDee. I spotted two people trailing behind us, one rather quickly for her age. It was the female judges: Miss 1962, aka Doris Davis, and Katie Gilman.
“Have you checked the wine cellar?” Miss 1962 asked Mrs. Finch.
Of course there would be a wine cellar. I could almost see row after row of expensive labels, of corks being removed, of drinks toasting the woman of the year.
I turned to take a closer look at the elderly woman as she theorized.
Her blue hair had been cut close to her eyebrows and the edges of her mouth.
“I know that Mr. Finch isn’t typically a lush, but I’ve seen him imbibe a time or two, and those stairs are no joke for folks of our generation.
Perhaps he poured himself a drink and got stuck down there.
I’m not saying it’s happened to me, but I’m also not saying it hasn’t happened. ”
“Yes, Doris. We’ve done our due diligence,” Mrs. Finch said vaguely as she continued to oscillate between leaning on my arm and Summer’s shoulder, even though, as far as I could tell, nothing was actually wrong with her own two legs.
“Regardless, I’m sure it’s nothing to worry your head about.
He’s bound to show up and surprise us all—a little pre-pageant fun,” Miss 1962 continued as we reached the door to what I took to be the Finch apartment.
“Maybe he’s taking time to prepare a grand speech for the hundredth year.
You know how he loves attention. He’ll be delighted to get us all worried for nothing. ”
As Miss 1962 chattered on, I gave Mrs. Finch back to the care of Savilla, let the others step inside, and excused myself for a brief moment to text Lacy.
Can you come to the residential wing? We’re somewhere in the third-floor hall. Near the Finch apartments
Can’t come now—with security, organizing search and then need to check on setup in the decades tents, sorry!
When I looked up, Summer was in the hallway, watching me. “Who are you texting?” Her words sounded inquisitive rather than accusatory.
“Um… Lacy.”
Summer studied me before glancing from side to side to ensure no one could overhear. “Do you think your aunt had something to do with… with Mr. Finch… with that note he left?”
I found myself appraising her tone and, instead of answering her question, I asked my own. “This is your third year competing now, right?”
Summer nodded.
“Do you know who might have access to every part of the estate?”
“With it being pageant week, I’d assume security staff and housekeeping.” She considered. “But if you mean the entire estate, I guess that would be Mr. and Mrs. Finch, Savilla… DeeDee…” She scrunched her face in a way that let me know she was sorry to have to mention my aunt again.
I lowered my voice and moved toward Summer, encroaching on her personal space. “Listen, I know Aunt DeeDee had nothing to do with whatever’s happened to Mr. Finch… but to confirm that, I need to take a quick peek in her room and I’d rather not go alone.”
“Oh… well. Earlier when I said I would help you, I meant with makeup or… um… how to talk without being so nasally.”
I furrowed my brow. I did not need pageant tips at this moment.
“I’m not sure if I should…” Summer trailed off, obviously torn.
Before she could answer, Miss 1962 appeared, peering around the doorway and calling out in a voice far too loud for her eighty-odd years, “THEY’RE IN THE HALL!” Then, she stomped back into the apartment.
The other judge, Katie Gilman, opened the door wider, her eyes darting from Summer to myself. “Are you two all right?”
“We’re fine,” I said.
Summer took two steps toward Katie. “Ms. Gilman, Dakota needs to get a couple of personal effects for her aunt to have in jail.”
Okay, I was impressed. I loved Summer and her ability to lie when the moment required.
Katie narrowed her eyes. “What kind of personal effects?”
“Her makeup”—Summer was thinking on her feet—“and her wig.”
I widened my eyes. Did my aunt even have a wig? I had no idea, but I didn’t want to spoil whatever Summer was attempting to accomplish here.
“If she could just have five minutes in her room? To gather her… supplies?” Summer’s voice was gaining authority. “You know what it’s like without one’s… one’s creature comforts. Her eye mask, her powder, her perfume… It could make a world of difference for DeeDee.”
I nearly balked at the fact that Summer was right: This was the exact list my aunt would likely request—minus perhaps the wig. I kept my thoughts hidden as best as I could.
Katie seemed to vacillate for a few seconds before she responded. “Give me a minute.” When she re-emerged, she held a key card. “I need to bring this right back to Savilla, and I’m coming with both of you.”
“I don’t know which room she’s staying in,” I admitted.
Katie waved a hand as if it was no matter and led the way to the stairs and up one more floor. “Deanna is always in the same room, the one right next to mine. It’s tradition.”
As the three of us reached the fourth floor, Katie gestured toward her own room.
“That’s the old nursery suite where I lived for years as nanny.
The Finches offered me and your aunt cottages, but it’s a force of habit to stay up here.
Every year, the same week, like clockwork. A family reunion of sorts.”
“How wonderful,” Summer said softly.
A sudden guilt pricked at me as I realized that I’d never even asked my aunt about her annual foray into the pageant world.
I knew the basics—that Aunt DeeDee had won the crown thirty-odd years ago, that she got a job as coordinator and MC a few years later, that she came back here to stay every year like a pilgrim returning to a holy site.
But beyond asking, Did you have a good week?
I just hadn’t bothered, and I certainly didn’t care half as much about her role here as Summer did.
The back of my throat clenched, and I wiped at one eye.
Katie opened the door to Aunt DeeDee’s room and moved to let me and Summer step inside.
It was obvious from the few beauty products and unmentionables scattered across the bed that the police had already been here, but I was determined to take a look for myself.
The paisley carpet was thick beneath my feet, and a hunter-green wallpaper darkened the room.
A gold-tinted comforter and rectangular pillows with dark blue cases sat atop the made bed.
An unlit but gleaming fireplace with a tiny mantel sat at the back of the room, and paintings of crowns, scepters, and roses hung along the walls.
My eyes landed on my aunt’s summertime purse—she preferred to change them with each season.
Next to the mirror was her black makeup bag and on the bed was a garment bag with a Post-it reading, For Dakota, All That Glitters…
Jewels & Gems party. Trust me—Aunt D. This must be the outfit that my aunt had selected for me to wear to the opening party this evening.
She’d been thinking of me despite all of the drama.
Katie must’ve noticed the emotions rising in me as I stepped across the threshold because she reached out a comforting hand. “I’m sure she’ll be fine.”
“That’s right,” Summer added, already making a beeline for the bathroom, where my aunt’s beauty supplies might be kept.
“They’ll hold her for a few hours, realize they’re barking up the wrong tree, and send her home,” Katie added. “Nobody thinks your aunt stole a crown—or was involved in anything else.”
I considered the “anything else”—Mr. Finch’s disappearance and possible demise. I tried to believe her.
While Summer checked the bathroom, Katie scanned the room and I stood still, assessing the space.
Aunt DeeDee’s room appeared to be pretty standard with a sitting area and a queen-sized bed.
I took in the neat row of perfume bottles on the desk and the line of dresses hanging inches apart in her open closet.
“I know this isn’t about a wig, so what exactly are you looking for?” Katie asked. “I’m happy to help if I’m able.”
“I have no idea, but I’ll know when I find it,” I told her as I got on my hands and knees and felt under the bed, which was spotlessly clean. Not a dust bunny in sight.
“Oh dear. I can’t join you down there, but I’ll check the…” She studied the cherry wood dresser at eye level. “Perhaps the drawers?”
“Sounds good,” I said. I stood back up and rifled through the nightstand that held a stained glass lamp that looked like Mr. Tiffany himself might’ve made it. Inside, there sat a Bible and notepad and pen, but no notes scrawled across them.
“What’s this?” Katie asked, holding up something she’d found while poking in my aunt’s undergarments.
Heat rushed to my cheeks as I thought about how much Aunt DeeDee would hate anyone searching through her things, but the police had already done as much.
“I heard something rattle when I pulled open the drawer, and I found this wedged in the slides.”
I took three steps forward so I could study the object Katie extended in an open palm. It was a ring, thick and sturdy, but small. Summer joined us from the bathroom, a makeup bag in one hand and, sure enough, a wig draped over her arm.
Katie placed the object in my hand, and all three of us formed a triangle, trying to understand what we were looking at.
“It’s too small for a ring finger,” Summer commented.
She was right.
I held the piece of jewelry up to the light and my stomach dropped.