Chapter 18 #2
Jemma didn’t seem interested in Summer’s plans, but she was interested in winning. She leaned forward, lowering her voice. “Okay, I’m going to be straight with you. I don’t really see either of you as real competition.”
Both Summer and I startled at the words.
“I’m not trying to be cruel,” Jemma continued. “But it usually takes a few years before a contestant stands a chance at being a top contender, and neither of you has competed in this particular pageant as long as I have.”
“What about beginner’s luck?” I asked.
Jemma didn’t deign to answer that question, and Summer shrank into herself as she seemed to notice the competitive gleam in Jemma’s eyes.
“How many times have you competed at The Rose?” I asked.
Jemma seemed to debate whether or not she wanted to answer. “I started at twenty-two, and I just turned twenty-nine.”
This was her last chance at the crown. Summer’s mouth morphed into an “Oh” and her eyes widened.
Jemma stared at me for a second too long. “That’s why I need you both to take this seriously.”
“I am,” I told her, thinking about the debt collectors calling incessantly and the number of messages I would need to return next week, hopefully with good news that I could pay the debts. “I need the money probably more than anyone else, and my aunt is in jail. Why are you here?”
“None of your concern,” Jemma answered.
“Except it is our business if you want us to have a nice chat with the judges this morning,” I informed her as I leaned back and crossed my arms, before continuing in a singsong voice: “Remember that conversation and comportment are the order of the day.”
“It’s okay if you don’t want to share,” Summer said, trying to put a hand on Jemma’s forearm—she jerked it away. “Sometimes it’s hard to talk about our emotions.”
I wanted to tell Summer good job at using her teacher voice, but Jemma broke in again.
“It’s not hard,” she insisted. “I just…” Jemma inhaled. “I’d like to produce my own show. Off-Broadway, but even that’s expensive. I wrote it years ago about my brother’s battle with recovery, but no producer has shown the slightest interest, so…”
I was surprised. Jemma actually had a goal and a family—and maybe even a semblance of a heart?
“That’s a good reason to be here,” I admitted.
“This is my third year at The Rose, but I’ve done thirteen pageants,” Summer said almost like a confession. “The only show I won was the very first when I was five and no talent was required. What does that say about me?”
Oh Lord. This was turning into a beauty queen support group.
“Since we all have reasons for winning, let’s work together,” Jemma said, a gleam in her eyes as she formulated a plan. “In all my years at The Rose, I’ve noticed one thing is consistent: The judges love it when we seem like we’re best friends.” Jemma mouth rose into what looked like a smile.
Huh. I hadn’t known she had that expression in her.
“They have these little score cards that they jot notes and numbers on whenever they leave an event, and this one is particularly important because it’s your best chance at scoring the conversation points. When they make their way to our table, turn on the charm. Talk each other up.”
Summer nodded eagerly, and I shrugged. Whatever would make this go smoothly.
A chime sounded, and all of us turned toward the woman who had handed us our schedules.
“All right, ladies. Today is a chance for the judges to get to know you beyond what you listed on your application. We’ll be treating this as a speed-dating situation in which the judges rotate from table to table, and they will be keeping score of the best conversationalists.
You’ll have seven minutes to chat it up, but because there are so many of you this year, you won’t have a judge at your table each round, so be patient.
I’ll ring a bell to start and stop the sessions, and we must stick to a strict schedule in order to accommodate everyone. Are we ready?”
Heads nodded across the solarium, and the energy in the room amped up.
“Let’s begin.”
The first judge at our table was Miss 1962, aka Doris Davis, dressed from head to toe in various shades of pink except for a bright orange silk scarf wound around her neck.
“Hello, young’uns,” Doris said as she inched her way into her chair. I could almost hear her hips creaking. “How are we today?”
“Great,” Jemma answered.
“Fabulous,” Summer said.
“I’ve been better,” I answered, too honestly for my table-mates.
Jemma nudged me under the table, and Summer’s mouth turned down into a rare frown.
“But I’m so glad to have made new friends,” I added, attempting a lighter tone.
“Hogwash,” Miss 1962 blurted. “Your aunt’s in the clinker for the suspected murder of Mr. Finch. That’s not nothing.”
My eyes widened at her no-nonsense assessment. Once again, I liked this lady, despite her brashness.
Summer leaned forward. “Do you think Mr. Finch is actually… dead?” she asked, her eyes beginning to water with unshed tears.
“Frederick Finch dead?” Doris mused on the question. “Perhaps. He was beloved here, but a philandering son of a bitch outside these halls, so I wouldn’t be surprised if some woman finally got fed up with his cheating ways.”
“Some woman like Mrs. Finch?” I asked.
Doris narrowed one eye. “Perhaps.”
“I’m sure all that will be determined soon enough,” Jemma said, attempting to steer us back on course.
“I am such a history buff, have always loved those documentaries about then and now, about how close we are in history to big events like the World Wars…” She chattered on for at least thirty seconds before realizing she was losing her audience.
“I’d love to hear about the amazing changes you’ve seen in the pageant over the years. ”
Miss 1962 paused, thinking for a moment about significant changes she’d seen. “The bras used to be much pointier, and you had to go commando before those thong-thingies that you bunch now wear.”
I loved that answer. “What about the kind of girl who competes?” I asked. “In the past couple of decades, how have the contestants changed?”
Doris had an immediate answer. “You all feel like you’ve got to have some kind of platform.
Don’t eat meat! Vote progressive! MeToo!
In my time, we were happy if society let us talk about anything other than becoming a wife or mother.
My own mother was lucky to get the right to vote, and she certainly didn’t go around announcing her political party. Different times.”
I studied this woman who had been part of the pageant in some capacity for almost seventy-five years. She’d seen and heard everything by now.
I decided to shift gears. “What about being a judge? Were you here in 2001, the year that Mrs. Finch was crowned?”
Miss 1962’s mind seemingly shifted to the past like a Rolodex flipping backward. “Yes, siree. Was a judge that year too, in fact, but Mrs. Finch wasn’t crowned.”
Now we were getting somewhere.
“Oh?” I tried to act surprised.
“That’s right. It was… what was it she called herself?
Cathy… Cathy P-something. Cathy Pierce?” She tapped a pointer against her chin.
“No, that’s not it.” She searched the table as if the name was waiting there for her.
“Peabody,” she finally said, snapping a finger.
“That’s right. Cathy Peabody won that year, but then she disappeared the next morning. ”
Peabody. That was the name in the ledger, a line item going back years in the Rose Palace accounts.
“Anyhoo, judging is fairly easy. We watch and listen in the days leading up to the show and then tally scores on the big day.” Miss 1962 licked her lips before clearing her throat.
“Though this year, two of us know what the hell we’re doing, and one of us is only here to drum up business.
As per usual.” She gestured pointedly to the right, where Dr. Bellingham sat sketching a new face on a napkin for a contestant.
The girl was beaming as if she couldn’t wait for him to get his scalpel in her.
“It must be such a difficult decision with so many great contestants.” Jemma kept her focus on Miss 1962, pushed back her shoulders, and put on a smile as she tried to change the subject.
She was a pro, I’d give her that much. “I’m just so glad that I can be here for Dakota while her aunt’s in jail. ”
Miss 1962 tilted her head. “I suppose DeeDee did it to herself, getting on the bad side of you-know-who.”
I was surprised by the statement. “Wait… who do you mean? Dr. Bellingham?”
“I’m not saying a word,” Doris said as the bell rang, forcing Miss 1962 back to her shaky feet and to her next table. I caught a glimpse of her scorecard and was shocked to see that I had received all five of the conversation points, while Jemma had four and Summer had only one.
“That was good,” Jemma said, offering the two of us a rare genuine smile. Maybe working together on a common goal was releasing some of her angst. “Just two more to go.”
We sat through three rounds without a judge, and Jemma turned to me and fixed a misplaced strand of my hair. At first I thought she was going to pull it out of my head, but she laughed softly. “I’m not that bad,” she smirked.
Both of us watched Summer re-adjust the neckline of her dress a number of times, and beat a tune on the table with her fingertips.
At last our second judge, Ms. Katie Gilman, strode to our table.
“Oh my word, I keep thinking about you,” she said to me as she tucked her ample frame into the chair.
Katie’s hands fluttered in front of her as she seemingly remembered the events of the previous evening.
“Poor Mr. Finch gone missing, and our very own Deanna Green led away in handcuffs. You know you can count on me as a character witness. Your aunt and I—we go way back. Even before I started selling her pieces at my store, we were friends.”
“I appreciate that,” I told her.