Chapter 26
TWENTY-SIX
After we reached the open door of the Rose Palace, Summer and I turned right and walked down a long veranda with a high glass ceiling that let in the remnants of sunlight.
The distant mountains gave edges to the clouds, and lights in the topiaries lined the windows, twinkling and shimmering like stars peeking through a waxy green sky.
We lost the sheriff at some point as he peeled off to speak to one of his officers.
The man standing guard at the door took our names and we were each handed a box with a label: Open Me, Property of Finch Jewelers. Mine contained a long strand of pearls with a diamond-crested rose in the center, and Summer slid on an emerald bracelet.
“Are these the party favors?” Summer joked.
The man standing guard answered with a rote statement he’d likely repeated all evening. “The Finches generously arranged for accessories to be provided. Please return at the end of the dinner.” He spoke without inflection and while somehow barely moving his mouth.
I looped the strand over my head a couple of times. “Fancy,” I said as I wondered how much money this strand was worth. Probably enough to pay several months of my mortgage, but for better or worse, I was no thief.
“I could get used to this,” Summer giggled.
After bejeweling ourselves, we entered a spacious banquet hall and saw the Gilded Age come to life: a vaulted entryway, ornately carved crown molding, gold-painted accents, a crystal chandelier. It was the epitome of gaudy wonder.
Jemma approached as if she’d been watching for us.
She wore a pair of amethyst earrings and motioned to our right.
“We’re seated through that door. All three of us are at the main table.
” She took a sip of champagne. “The winner for every show has always been seated there on the night of the dinner, though it’s not always a Gilded Age theme. ”
“I can’t believe I made it to the main table,” Summer said, eyes wide with wonder.
“I can’t either,” Jemma said in a tone that was so matter-of-fact it somehow didn’t seem offensive.
Jemma studied me. “You, too. You’re doing surprisingly well.
Your authenticity at the morning tea—I could tell that Miss 1962 ate it up, and of course, Katie Gilman is a fan.
I heard she helped you get ready this evening? ”
“How do you know—?”
Jemma lifted a shoulder with a single seed-pearl studded strap. “Everyone’s watching everyone at this point. This is when it gets fun.”
A bell rang, and we were asked to take our seats.
As we entered the room, the women around us glided to their upholstered chairs, most of them passing the center table with a look of longing.
One of the girls from earlier—Piper—rolled her eyes as Jemma, Summer, and I pulled out our seats and sat at the same table as the judges.
I looked at my name, heavy with calligraphy: Miss Dakota Green of Aubergine, Contestant.
Only a moment later I noticed that Charlie was pulling out the chair on my left.
Even seated, he was nearly half a foot taller than me, and this close, I noticed how long his eyelashes were.
He rested his hand only inches from mine and I could feel the heat radiating from him, though perhaps I was the only one who sensed it.
Control yourself, Dakota. Focus on the prize.
“Miss Green, so good to see you this evening,” Dr. Bellingham said from across the table, lifting a glass in my direction. “You look as fresh as the evening breeze.”
The sheriff’s hand curled into a fist, but he didn’t say anything.
“Thank you. It’s an honor to be here at this table with all of the judges this evening,” I said, doing my best impersonation of pageant royalty.
“And, my dear, how was your day?” Dr. Bellingham asked, his eyes still fixed on me as he leaned his elbows on the table, likely hoping for something clever from me.
“Oh, you know. The usual. I spent the morning reading my Beauty Queen’s Guide to Murder and Mayhem.”
The other contestants at the table—including Jemma and Summer, who looked like they might do a spit-take—stilled at my quip, one I hadn’t even considered before letting it pop out of my mouth.
But Dr. Bellingham laughed, full-throated and hearty.
“Beauty Queen’s Guide… that is very clever.
Very clever.” He continued laughing as he moved on to Jemma to inquire about her afternoon, and that’s when I noticed the pinky ring on his finger, which meant that it hadn’t been the one in my aunt’s room.
I was relieved to have the spotlight off me, and I turned to Charlie, who wore a look of surprise, which reminded me how out of practice I was at conversation. It was certainly too early to joke about Mr. Finch’s murder, especially not with the man who I thought might be involved in his death.
“Sorry. I’m not great at this,” I said quietly to the sheriff.
“No need to apologize to me.” He looked around at the other guests talking among themselves. “This isn’t exactly my usual scene either.”
“You don’t regularly dress like you’re from a hundred years ago and try to solve murders?”
“I reserve this outfit for only the most special occasions,” Charlie answered, patting the pocket on the front of his suit.
“Then I’m glad you could join us,” I said, surprising myself with how much I meant it.
At that moment the hum of conversation paused as Savilla Finch stepped into the dining room wearing a blood-red gown that trailed behind her.
She made her way to Dr. Bellingham, who stood to receive her.
She gave him her hand, and he folded it within his own.
A second later, he moved close to her ear and whispered something before she let out a silvery laugh.
Jemma, Summer, and I exchanged glances from our spots around the table. The dynamics between Savilla and Dr. Bellingham, this shared intimacy, seemed to be a new development.
I tried to fix my face, as Momma would say.
As Dr. Bellingham seated Savilla, I took a sip of my wine, wondering what Momma would think if she could see this scene—and me in it.
Just as immediately, I pictured Aunt DeeDee sitting in her jail cell, waiting for me to do something.
I set aside the wine and drank water. I needed to stay sharp.
The sheriff also seemed to be keeping a watchful eye on Savilla and Dr. Bellingham, which gave me some measure of comfort.
Within seconds of being seated, Savilla tapped a spoon against the edge of her crystal stemware, summoning the attention of the women gathered in the massive dining hall as well as a smattering of guests and staff.
All eyes turned to her as she spoke, commanding the room as well as, if not better than, her father or stepmother had ever done.
“I asked Doris Davis, as the longest-running judge of the pageant”—Savilla nodded in Miss 1962’s direction—“if she’d like to do the honors of welcoming you all here this evening, but she insisted that I do them instead.”
Miss 1962 was oblivious. She took a long gulp from her wine glass, and I wondered if she’d turned off her hearing aids so she could enjoy her evening in peace.
“I spoke to StepMommy on the phone a few minutes ago, and she wanted you all to know that she plans to be back on the premises for showtime tomorrow night.”
The room applauded. Savilla took a few moments to look at each of the faces in the room—the dozen or so at our table as well as those scattered across the dining space.
“This—the centennial year—has brought with it a magniftude of sorrow. My father’s death is a grave loss, not only to myself and my stepmother, but to the pageant world.
Even though I’m grateful we can be together and share this amazing meal, I can’t help but picture my father in the midst of you all.
He would have loved to see this room filled, the wine flowing.
I do want to acknowledge that we are doing all of this with a hint of dilapidation. ”
Magnifitude? Dilapidation? I considered the malapropisms before recalling that Savilla seemed to have an explanation for every odd word she spoke.
Dr. Bellingham raised a glass in support of Savilla and the beautiful women around him. He was grinning far too much for my liking.
“To that end, I would ask anyone who might know anything about my father’s death…
or my stepmother’s poisoning…” She choked back a small cry.
“Please, if you know anything, immediately come forward and tell Sheriff Strong.” Here, Savilla looked across the table at Charlie before her eyes fell on me, and she gave the slightest indication that she had noticed the two of us seated together.
“Any amount of information—no matter how ridicule…”
Ridicule? Perhaps a combination of minuscule and ridiculous? I could see it.
“… could be helpful to the sheriff in determining if we have a killer among us. I trust him to do a thorough job to bring justice to my family and this pageant.”
At the conclusion of her speech, I almost gave a standing ovation. It was as if Savilla had only been waiting to take her rightful role on the stage of her family’s pageant.
“To Mr. Finch,” Miss 1962 said. So her hearing aids were on after all.
“To justice,” Katie Gilman added, raising her wineglass.
“To all of you lovely ladies,” Dr. Bellingham said, nearly giddy. This man had either started on the alcohol long before everyone else, or he was a criminal relieved to have gotten away with his dastardly deed.
Across the room, glasses rose.
As I toasted the former owner of the pageant, I thought about these guests, the contestants, the judges, and the staff.
Were any of them likely to know the property as well as the Finches?
Would any of them have a stronger motive to kill Mr. Finch and poison Mrs. Finch than his very own daughter, the one person eventually set to inherit all of this?
And was anyone else paying as much attention to Savilla as her father’s dearest friend, Dr. Bellingham?
Still, even with signs pointing to the two of them as the culprits, I couldn’t help but wonder why she would need to involve DeeDee in any of this.
Why would Savilla plant a crown in Aunt DeeDee’s room?
Why place Polaroids in my bed? Why accuse my aunt of killing her father and Miss 2001?
As far as I could tell, Savilla Finch had no reason to involve my aunt—or me—in any of this.
But someone else might. A grudge that had turned into something stronger, perhaps.
My head turned to Dr. Bellingham. He’d been around a long time—since 1999, when he’d been a judge for three years.
That stint had culminated with the disappearance of Miss 2001, and he had only recently returned, two decades later.
Could he be the missing link between a winner vanishing in 2001 and the systematic takedown of the elder Finches in the past two days?
My eyes trailed back to Jemma and Summer, both of whom were focused on Savilla in her blood-red gown.
My cheeks heated as I watched Dr. Bellingham’s eyes rove across her body. Could they be working together? Or, if he was working alone, might Savilla Finch, for reasons I had yet to discover, be his next victim?