Chapter 36
THIRTY-SIX
When I entered the ballroom, three contestants stopped their conversation and stared at me, two ladies gave me finger waves, and one of the staff members paused to let me pass in front of him. The mirror hadn’t lied. I looked like royalty.
Katie, in a silver sequined sheath dress, poured Savilla a glass of water, and the younger girl leaned forward and whispered in her ear. Katie threw back her head and laughed. The action struck me as intimate, as familiar, as far from employer to employee as one could get.
“You look amazing,” Summer said when she greeted me. “That shade brings out your eyes and your highlights…” She paused and brought her fingers to her lips in a semblance of awe. “You’re stunning.”
Jemma reluctantly agreed, so I knew it must be true. “You look just like the photos of your aunt the year she won.”
Until tonight I’d never seen the resemblance to Aunt DeeDee as quickly as everyone around me. Even Momma had called me Aunt DeeDee’s Mini-Me on occasion, because our mannerisms and expressions were so similar. Still, I had trouble believing I looked half as good as Aunt DeeDee had on her big night.
As I watched the room fill, goosebumps prickled my skin. Behind me, Summer rested a hand on my shoulder before heading to the other side of the stage. “Don’t worry. The show goes by super fast.”
Jemma offered a rare smile from a couple of contestants behind me. “You’ll blink, and it’s over.”
I took as deep a breath as my corset would allow.
“Places for the opening number, ladies,” Lacy called backstage. “Places!”
The Rose Palace Pageant’s theme song blared through the ballroom and the house lights dimmed as we made our way across the platform, waving our arms and stepping in time to the music.
The lights on us felt like heat lamps, and I began to glisten.
I was grateful when a single spotlight shone on my aunt at center stage.
“Welcome,” Aunt DeeDee said to the room filled with people.
Resounding applause and a few cheers echoed. Every seat was filled.
“We couldn’t be more thrilled to have you here with us to celebrate the one hundredth anniversary of the Rose Palace Pageant, as well as these remarkable women.”
Her arms extended toward us, and I found myself proud to be among these contestants: Jemma with a hard outer shell that hid a deep love for her family, and Summer with aspirations to help every child in need.
Some of them could be silly or mean or ridiculous, but most were just women with insecurities and flaws, strengths and dreams.
Next, Aunt DeeDee segued into a video of this week that had been spliced together.
We exited to the dark wings of the stage, and those up first for the talent portion prepared quickly.
As we waited, I caught images on the giant screen of us ladies making silly headpieces, conversing at morning tea, and rehearsing in the tents.
Photos flickered across the screen, conveniently leaving out the darker side of the last few days: the murder and poisoning, the missing crown and the discovered corpse.
“And now, it’s time for our first performance of the evening. Please welcome to the stage… Summer Patel.”
The staff rolled a giant piano across the wooden stage, and Summer sat in front of the keys, a calm resolution on her face as she placed her hands on the ivory and began to play.
I recognized the piece as “I Hope You Dance” by Lee Ann Womack, a song I would’ve thought cheesy except for the fact that it had been one of Momma’s favorites.
She played lyrically, her fingers gliding over the notes and I couldn’t tear myself away from the edge of the velvet curtain as the words came back to me, a mother’s wish for her child. I felt a hand on my shoulder and caught a whiff of Aunt DeeDee’s perfume.
“I miss her too,” she said softly, reminding me of another thing we had in common. Aunt DeeDee handed me a Kleenex from her cleavage, and I dabbed at my eyes.
Several acts passed quickly as women danced and mimed and played instruments.
I perched on the edge of a stool as I waited for my turn to showcase my talent. I studied the judges. Miss 1962 wore a flat expression; Savilla sat with a straight spine, taking her new job very seriously; and Katie Gilman was all smiles.
Forty-five minutes later, Jemma walked onto the stage and began singing and dancing to Rent’s “No Day But Today,” and my breath caught.
Jemma, this law-student-turned-barista who wanted to produce an off-Broadway show about her brother, was an incredible performer with a mystifying stage presence, though I had to admit that this song didn’t have the same kind of soul as the one she’d sung in the tunnel when she’d been calming our fears. Still, her talent was astounding.
I was reminded that the women here contained multitudes—and I was next.
I went quietly to where Lacy had left my saddle, a stand, and a brush.
Then, I slipped out of my heels and stepped into my boots, grabbing my tools of the trade and pressing the leather against my hip.
I set them at the edge of the curtains so I could pull my supplies onto the stage and finish as quickly as possible before making my exit.
In what seemed like mere seconds, Jemma ended the song to applause and bowed twice before hurrying off-stage.
“Good luck, cowgirl,” she said, her smile playful.
I grabbed my supplies and put one foot in front of the other until I stood under the bright lights, trying to keep myself from shielding my eyes in the glare as I spoke.
“Hello. My name is Dakota Green,” I said, my nerves rising to the surface. How I wished I could rope a calf or even ride a bucking bronco—anything to take the attention off of me and onto a majestic animal.
I squeezed my eyes shut for a second, and a couple of hoots came from the audience. “I love your boots,” one woman yelled from the back.
The corner of my mouth lifted in a grin. There was no need for nervousness. I had three minutes to show the judges I knew something valuable, and dammit, that was what I was going to do.
“This evening I’ll be demonstrating how to properly clean and mount a leather saddle,” I said, focusing on the judges seated on the raised dais: they were the people who mattered right now.
“The first thing you want to do is properly prepare everything so you don’t get soap and water on any part of the saddle that could easily rust.”
I began my ministrations, methodic but quick, and though at first the audience seemed confounded that this was my talent, within a few seconds, I sensed a few of them leaning forward, actually interested.
The cameraman angled around so he could zoom in on my hands, and a hush settled across the room.
I unbuckled and removed the saddle’s fittings, chatting as I did each evening with Bella, pretending that I was bedding her down for the night.
“Horses were first domesticated in what is now known as southern Russia, but long before, they are believed to have evolved fifty-some million years ago from a creature known as Eohippus. But, please, don’t ever call them by that name because it’s hard to pronounce and they find it offensive.
Oh—and never, ever call them Mister Ed. They’re very sensitive about their depiction in the Golden Age of television. ”
A few chuckles emerged from the crowd, and I was relieved that at least some people were tracking with me.
“Another fun fact that I rarely bring up with my equine friends is the reality that their brain is actually smaller than the space taken up by their teeth.”
I gave a wide, tooth-filled smile, and a few more people laughed.
“I’m often asked by the students who come to the stables whether a horse is a boy or girl, and for the really young kiddos, I don’t always want to point out a horse’s huge…
or tiny… you know… so instead we count their teeth.
The boys have forty while the girls have only thirty-six.
I’m like, how cool is that? In the backwoods of Virginia, sometimes I’m lucky to find a guy with any of his real teeth. ”
Bigger laugh.
“Also, I’m really jealous that horses can sleep both lying down and standing up.
It would make bad dates a lot more bearable if I could just force myself into a comatose state while waiting in line at the shooting range.
Because that’s where guys with only a few teeth take you on the first date.
” I paused. “Afterward, if he’s still got his molars, we might grab a burger. ”
As I brushed the metal pieces with a wet towel and continued the kind of conversation I usually only reserved for Bella, the nameplate on the saddle glinted in the stage lights, and I couldn’t help but read the words: ones I’d skimmed in the stables a couple of days earlier.
To Savilla, All This Will Be Ours. Love, Your Mom.
Now, as I read the full message on this particular saddle, the inscription carried a new meaning. I read each word carefully as I continued to clean and chatter.
“Horses have huge eyes. They can actually see three hundred and fifty degrees, and if I hadn’t graduated from the Virginia public school system, I might know what that means.”
More laughter.
“If the saddle… if it’s especially dirty, you may need to… to redo this step several times,” I said, holding up a clean sponge. This saddle hadn’t been used recently. If ever. But it did hold a clue, a clue I was processing onstage in front of hundreds of pageant-goers.
I squirted more glycerin soap onto the sponge as my brain tried to dissect the engraved words, my mind forming the phrasing of the dedication into a list.
Savilla—daughter of Mr. Finch and… Katie Gilman.
All this—the estate? The pageant? Life itself?
Will Be Ours—Katie Gilman was taking something, and she was planning to share it with her daughter, Savilla.
Love, Your Mom—Also known as Savilla’s nanny, Cathy Peabody, Miss 2001, Pageant Judge Katie Gilman.
Twenty seconds passed as my thoughts slammed into one another and my mouth ran on autopilot.
“Now, a… a little… um… a little conditioner goes a long way—something I’ve learned from my own…
uh… beautification process this week.” I swallowed and wiped off the soap.
I dripped a nickel-sized dollop of leather conditioner onto a brush, keeping one hand on the saddle as I nearly rubbed a hole into the leather.
“Do y’all know how hard it is to look like the ladies on this stage?
I do. And so do my hair extensions, my fake eyelashes, and my push-up bra.
As of last Monday, I was a stable hand, and I cannot seem to get rid of the dirt, so I’m a bit like Weird Barbie: I’m fancy, but I’ve also been played with outside for too long. ”
I recalled what Lacy had said in Katie Gilman’s bio on the first night here: she’d worked at the estate as a maid and worked her way up to the position of Savilla’s nanny. When she’d been a maid, she must’ve had some kind of tryst—or encounter—with Mr. Finch that had left her pregnant with Savilla.
The sharp edges of the past few days began to fit together into a seamless mosaic. It was like I could see a continuous thread running through the past, present, and near future.
“If your saddle has silver fittings, you’ll want to… uh… be sure to add a bit of… of polish, not only for the… the shine, but also for long-term protection.”
I saw the sheriff listening to me from the very back of the ballroom, and then I glanced at Katie Gilman, who now sat with her hands folded on the table in front of her ample bosom.
I thought of my first night here, how she’d found the pinky ring in my aunt’s drawer.
Mr. Finch’s words from the first day came back to me all at once: It’s my personal design, he’d said.
Later, Dr. Bellingham had referred to the design as a judges’ ring, which presumably meant that only the judges received them.
Only the judges, which included Katie Gilman.
What if it was her ring? She’d been a judge for years, so she would’ve had the very same design as all the other judges.
What if she’d taken off her own ring, held it up to the light, and fooled me and the sheriff?
How far had she gone to hide who she’d once been?
Had she also worked with Dr. Bellingham in order to win the 2001 pageant, and later excised herself from the archives?
Katie Gilman had no idea that, as I performed my odd talent, I was on to her. She had no idea that she was fast becoming a primary suspect in Mr. Finch’s murder, at least in my mind.
I needed to let the sheriff know about the message on the saddle immediately, but I couldn’t exactly leap off the stage.
“Saddles don’t really get worn down with age.
In fact, once you break them in, you can enjoy them for the rest of your life.
You can probably even pass them on to future generations for…
for both practical and sentimental value.
And”—I couldn’t help myself—“if you share the same great backside, your child might be able to use the exact same saddle for years to come. After all, family sticks together. Mothers, daughters…” I rambled as I looked from the sheriff to Savilla Finch, who was watching me with an amused but puzzled expression.
I ran through potential motives again, but this time those of Katie Gilman.
Money, for sure.
Revenge against the man who’d taken her daughter from her, yeah.
Love for a child, definitely.
This was a crime of passion, just not the typical definition of the word. Still, a mother’s love was its own kind of passion, a passion that could justify anything. Even murder.
As I finished my talent portion of the show, Aunt DeeDee came back to the stage and waved an arm in my direction. “Give it up for Dakota Green, everyone.”
To my utter astonishment, people applauded and kept applauding as I packed up the saddle and cleaning gear. A few even stood up and, at one point, whoops issued from somewhere in the back as I waved to the crowd and made my way to the wings.
I couldn’t believe it. Not only had I possibly solved a murder, I’d actually entertained this crowd.