Death by Tiara Page 7

  “Really?” she replied, eyeing me with pity. “Better stock up on tranquilizers.”

  Then, no doubt realizing she wasn’t living up to her image as Teen Queen spokesperson, she quickly added, “Only kidding, of course. Pageants are such an exciting part of a girl’s life! I remember the year I won,” she gushed, launching into what sounded like a speech she’d given many times before. “What a thrill. It’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me, that’s for sure. I’ve met so many wonderful people and done so many wonderful things. I’m just so darn grateful to Candace and her fabulous team!”

  Another twinkly smile.

  “Gosh, the elevator’s slow, isn’t it?” she said, her smile now straining at the edges.

  She gave the button a vicious stab with a neon pink nail, and at last we heard the elevator ding. The doors opened to reveal Candace and Tex Turner. Both of whom sprang apart hastily at the sight of us.

  Candace’s hair was mussed, her bright red lipstick smeared, and I couldn’t help but notice a vivid swipe of that lipstick on Tex’s cowboy shirt.

  Clearly we’d just interrupted a smooch session.

  Bethenny stared at them, fire in her eyes, as we got on the elevator.

  Tex had the good grace to blush, but Candace eyed us coolly, as if she’d been up to nothing more than checking the schedule on her clipboard.

  “Hello, you two!” she chirped brightly. “Ready for today’s exciting contests?”

  “Um, sure,” I managed to say, holding up my end of the conversation.

  But Bethenny just stood there, glaring at Candace.

  I could easily picture those neon nails of hers gouging the pageant director’s face to ribbons.

  It seemed like a small eternity, but at long last we reached the lobby.

  Tex and Candace hurried out the elevator, but Bethenny seemed frozen to the spot.

  “I can’t believe Tex is cheating on me with that tramp of a pageant director,” she hissed.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” I asked, gently leading her out into the lobby.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. But Candace won’t be when I get my hands on her.”

  Uh-oh. Looked like more trouble in pageant paradise.

  Chapter 9

  Back at the buffet, I scarfed down a highly nutritious breakfast of coffee and a sticky bun, checking my cell every few minutes for a text from Scott. Alas, there were none. By the time I’d licked the last of the sticky bun from my fingers, I was pretty much convinced I’d never hear from Scott again, thanks to that god-awful dinner at his parents’ house.

  And so it was with heavy heart that I opened my emails and read the latest missives from my parents. Daddy was right, of course. It was only a matter of time before Mom would be begging him for a treat from the freezer. Poor thing. Dieting doesn’t come easy to her.

  Thinking how much Mom would enjoy it, I helped myself to another sticky bun and headed off for the swimsuit competition.

  The less said about the contest, the better. All in all, it was a most depressing affair—so many perfect young bodies parading around, tummies flat as washboards, skin sleek as silk.

  How come I never looked that good when I was sixteen? Oh, well. I only hoped a few of the lithe lovelies were hiding zits under their makeup.

  Up on stage, Eddie, sporting a freshly teased toupee, was doing his idea of comic patter. (“Welcome, everyone, to the Miss Teen Queen America Contest, where a raving beauty is the girl who comes in last, haha.”)

  The three judges sat at a table facing the stage, supposedly making notes on the contestants.

  But Dr. Fletcher wasn’t paying much attention to the bevvy of beauties before him. Instead he was shooting desperate glances at Candace, who sat at a separate table with her assistant Amy. Once again I wondered what on earth Candace was holding over him.

  And Dr. F. wasn’t the only one staring at Candace. Next to him, Bethenny was practically breathing fire as she gave Candace the evil eye.

  Of the three judges, only Tex seemed to be interested in the girls on stage—a little too interested, in my humble op, winking and smiling and doffing his cowboy hat at the ripest of the crop.

  Meanwhile, at my side, Heather was conducting a running snarkfest, trashing each contestant, pointing out nonexistent skinny legs, big butts, and flat chests.

  “None of them can hold a candle to my Taylor!” she boasted.

  And when it was finally Taylor’s turn to strut her stuff, I must admit she looked amazing. Just as I’d suspected, under her sloppy sweats, she was hiding a spectacular body.

  Over at the judge’s table, Tex doffed his cowboy hat with a flourish.

  “Applaud!” Heather instructed me, jabbing me in the ribs.

  I proceeded to clap loudly as Heather called out, “Woo hoo! Way to go, Taylor!”

  It had been that way with all the moms, each of them bursting into applause when their daughters appeared, bolstered by hoots from their posse of friends and relatives.

  Even Elvis, cuddled in Heather’s arms, began yipping. Although I suspect he was just annoyed at being woken from his nap.

  Up on stage, Eddie was saying, “And here’s Taylor Van Sant from Alta Loco, a perfect 34-22-36.”

  From several rows behind us, I could hear Luanne cackle, “But unfortunately not in that order.”

  The other moms around her broke out in a round of giggles.

  Heather whirled around in her seat, furious. For a minute I was afraid she was going to get up and slug Luanne, but just then Elvis whined for a dog treat and Heather restrained herself.

  But only momentarily.

  Heather was out for revenge, and she got it moments later, when Gigi showed up on stage. Then it was payback time.

  As Gigi paraded her hot young bod in her swimsuit, Eddie said, “Gigi exercises every day, which is why she’s got a flawless hourglass figure.”

  “Too bad it’s all sinking to the bottom,” Heather sniped in a voice that could be heard clear across the room.

  Candace looked over and shook her head in disapproval.

  But Heather didn’t care. She just sat there, gloating.

  Soon the last teen had strode across the stage in her swimsuit and the competition was over. A winner was announced.

  Much to Heather’s disappointment, it wasn’t Taylor. But rather, a stunning blonde from Fullerton.

  “She’s not so hot,” Heather and Luanne said in unison.

  For once, they were on the same team.

  “Those judges must be blind!” Heather said, as she zipped Taylor into her technicolor Carmen Miranda outfit.

  I stood awkwardly at their side, holding Elvis, who was busy baring his fangs at me.

  (Believe me, the feeling was mutual.)

  We were in a large hall adjoining the banquet room, set aside as a makeup and changing room for the girls. Everywhere frantic moms were squeezing their daughters into skimpy outfits and going over last-minute rehearsals for the talent competition, filling the room with the sounds of singing, tap dancing, and the occasional bonk of a baton landing on the floor.

  “I can’t believe they gave the swimsuit prize to that loser,” Heather sniffed in disgust, as she ruffled the flounces on Taylor’s dress. “But don’t feel bad, honey. Just because you didn’t win the swimsuit competition doesn’t mean you can’t win the grand prize.”

  Taylor looked up from my song lyrics, which she was still busy committing to memory.

  “Mom, I don’t feel bad. I don’t care if I win.”

  “Of course you care. You’re just putting on a brave front. Now remember. At the end of your song, when you take the peach from your headdress and toss it to one of the judges, throw it to one of the men. Don’t waste it on the bimbo teen queen—”

  She stopped suddenly, staring across the room.

  “My God! Can you believe how ridiculous she looks?”

  We followed her gaze to where Gigi stood, dressed like Cleopatra in a diaphanous harem costume and black wig,
her eyes thick with liner, an asp bracelet snaking up her arm.

  In her hand she held a piece of paper from which she was reading. Thanks to my years as an English major, I recognized it as a bit of chatter from Antony and Cleopatra.

  I listened as she mangled Shakespeare’s lines with gusto:

  Give me my robe, put on my crown! I have

  Immoral longings in me. Now no more

  The juice of Egypt’s grape shall moist this lip:

  Yeah, yeah, good Iris; quick. Methinks I hear

  Anthony call!

  The whole thing might have sounded a lot better if she hadn’t been chewing gum at the time.

  “Yee-uck!” Heather exclaimed, just a little too loudly, prompting some curses from across the room. “Taylor’s going to put that airhead to shame! Wait till you hear her, Jaine. She’s got the voice of an angel. Which reminds me. I left her throat lozenges in our room. I’ll be right back. Stay calm, honey. Deep breaths! Positive thoughts!”

  The minute she was gone, Taylor turned to me, a desperate gleam in her eye.

  “Got any M&M’s? I’m famished.”

  I was beginning to feel like a drug dealer supplying a junkie as I dug into my purse looking for the bag of M&M’s I’d had the foresight to stash there. I quickly retrieved them and handed them to Taylor, who was famished, all right. She actually put five in her mouth at once.

  “I can’t wait till this whole thing is over and I can go back to my AP English class,” she said, chomping down gratefully.

  She continued inhaling the chocolates until she saw Heather heading back into the room, then stuffed the remaining M&M’s in my purse and asked, “Do I have any chocolate on my teeth?”

  “No, you’re fine.”

  Breathing a sigh of relief, she pretended to be studying her song lyrics as Heather bustled to our side.

  “Here we go! One-calorie cherry-flavored cough lozenges!”

  “One whole calorie, huh?” Taylor said. “What a bonanza.”

  “Now let’s try on your headdress,” Heather said, choosing to ignore Taylor’s dollop of sarcasm.

  She lifted a cornucopia of plastic fruit and strapped it on Taylor’s head.

  “Mom, this thing weighs a ton!”

  “Just pretend it’s the winner’s tiara. Keep your eyes on the prize, hon! Keep your eyes on the prize!”

  “Yeah, right,” Taylor sighed, gazing longingly at my purse.

  Chapter 10

  Fifteen minutes later, we were back in the Amada Inn’s rooftop ballroom, waiting for the talent competition to begin.

  Sitting alongside Heather in the front row, I had the uneasy feeling that there was something important I’d forgotten to do, but for the life of me, I couldn’t think what it was.

  Up on stage, Candace had wrestled the mike away from Eddie and was now tapping on it to make sure it was working.

  “Welcome back, everybody,” she said, her pageant smile firmly in place. “Before we get started with the talent show, I just want to remind all our contestants that we will be rehearsing the musical production number for tomorrow’s crowning ceremony here in the ballroom from two to three p.m. this afternoon. So I expect to see you all back here at two o’clock. Promptly!”

  She glared out at her subjects to drive home her point.

  “Then the rest of the afternoon, it’s fun in the sun! You’re free to take advantage of all the fabulous facilities here at the gorgeous Amada Inn and rest up for tomorrow’s grand crowning ceremony.”

  Fabulous facilities? At the Amada Inn? I could only assume she was referring to the vending machines.

  Having delivered her marching orders, Candace thrust the mike into Eddie’s eager hands and headed back to her seat.

  “And now,” Eddie said, beaming from under his toupee, “one of the most exciting events of the competition, the Miss Teen Queen America Talent Show!

  “Do your best, gals,” he winked, “because there just may be a talent scout or two in the audience. Remember! Today, Alta Loco. Tomorrow, Hollywood!”

  A vigorous round of applause filled the air as the pageant moms looked around the room for hidden talent scouts.

  “For our first contestant,” Eddie was saying, “let’s all give a big hand to Betty Lynn Wallis, from Tustin, California, who’s going to play Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata on her banjo!”

  At which point a pretty young thing in a sequined tuxedo pranced out on stage and began playing Beethoven on her banjo, missing notes with wild abandon.

  Poor Ludwig was undoubtedly spinning in his grave, but Tex the car dealer seemed to be enjoying it enormously, his eyes riveted on Betty Lynn’s sequined chest.

  And so it went, one wacko act after another.

  Not content to merely sing or dance, the teen queen wannabes (or, more likely, their moms) had felt compelled to jazz up their acts with some rather quirky twists.

  One gal tap-danced to America the Beautiful. Another made animal balloons while roller-skating. And another (my personal fave) demonstrated the proper way to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

  Had there been any actual talent scouts in the audience, I’m betting they were gone soon after the peanut butter hit the jelly.

  At then it was Taylor’s turn.

  “And now,” Eddie crooned from the mike, “the song stylings of a peach of a gal, Miss Taylor Van Sant.”

  Taylor came sashaying out in her Carmen Miranda costume, her fruit bowl headdress perched on her head, shaking her hips to a Latin beat Heather had pre-recorded for the contest.

  Frankly, I was surprised to see her perform with such gusto. I’d just assumed she’d sleepwalk though the whole thing, eager to get it over with.

  I was beginning to think that Heather was right, that maybe Taylor actually had a shot at winning the grand tiara.

  That is, until she opened her mouth.

  That’s when reality hit the fan, big time.

  Taylor Van Sant was a gorgeous girl who looked quite fetching in a fruit bowl headdress, but alas, she couldn’t even begin to carry a tune.

  “I’m Taylor Van Sant and I’m here to say,” she began to sing, in a voice that could shatter glass at fifty paces.

  “What did I tell you?” Heather nudged me with pride. “Sings like an angel!

  A Hell’s Angel, maybe.

  Up on stage, Taylor was still caterwauling:

  “—I want to be teen queen in the very worst way—”

  From a few rows behind us I could hear Luanne guffawing, “You can’t get much worse than that!”

  Heather whirled around in her seat and hissed, “Shut up, you skank!”

  Taylor continued to assault our eardrums, singing so badly, poor Tex was unable to focus on her cleavage.

  At one point, Elvis, nestled in Heather’s lap—no doubt thinking he was listening to the sounds of a dog in heat—let out a love moan in reply.

  Thankfully, Taylor seemed oblivious to her own bad singing and continued to belt out her tune.

  Aye aye aye aye

  Taylor’s so sweet

  Aye aye aye aye

  She can’t be beat

  Aye aye aye aye

  Goodwill she’ll preach

  Aye aye aye aye

  Taylor’s a peach!

  Then, as rehearsed, she reached for a peach on her headdress, specially designed to be detachable, and tossed it to the judges. Unfortunately she tossed it with just a tad too much gusto, bonking Bethenny on the head.

  “Owww!” the former teen queen cried.

  “I’m so sorry!” Taylor cried. “Are you okay?”

  “We are now,” Luanne shouted out. “Now that you’ve stopped singing.”

  “Of all the nerve!” Heather huffed, whirling around to face Luanne.

  “I only speak the truth.” Luanne smirked. “Earplugs, anyone?”

  “Silence, ladies!” Candace raised an admonishing brow from where she sat on the sidelines. “Or your daughters will be penalized.”

  Heathe
r and Luanne turned away from each other like two tomcats pulled apart in an alley. Meanwhile, Taylor was skittering off the stage, her headdress in her arms, darting sorrowful looks at Bethenny.

  “I told you we shouldn’t have come here,” she said, plopping down next to us in the front row. “What if I gave Bethenny a concussion?”

  “Oh, please,” Heather said with an airy wave. “She doesn’t have a concussion. Not with that thick skull.”

  After a brief intermission while Amy got Bethenny an ice pack, the chatter about Taylor’s flying peach finally died down and the show continued to drag on, one quirky performance after another. I have to admit my mind wandered a tad, checking for texts from Scott, and still wondering what important thing it was I’d forgotten to do.

  “And now,” Eddie was saying, “performing Cleopatra’s soliloquy from Antony and Cleopatra, here’s Gigi Summers.”

  Clearly Luanne had spared no expense on Gigi’s act. Two burly stagehands wheeled in a huge chaise longue littered with cushions. Stretched out among them in her Cleopatra outfit was Gigi, staring dramatically off into space.

  When the stagehands had gone, she sprang to life and began reciting the speech we’d heard in the makeup room.

  Give me my robe, put on my crown! I have

  Immoral longings in me. Now no more

  The juice of Egypt’s grape shall moist this lip:

  Yeah, yeah, good Iris; quick.

  Now she cupped her hand to her ear as if listening to something in the distance.

  Methinks I hear Anthony call!

  At which point, a loud meow filled the air.

  A very familiar meow.

  Oh, lord. Could it be? Was it possible?

  Indeed it was.

  Before my horrified eyes, Prozac wandered out from behind one of the chaise longue cushions.

  And at long last I remembered the important thing I’d forgotten to do: I failed to put the DO NOT DISTURB sign on my door when I’d left my room. When the maid came to clean, Prozac had undoubtedly bolted.