I stepped up to the microphone. “That’s right. That was just a sneak peek at one of the great acts you’re going to see tomorrow, folks.”
A groan rolled through the crowd. “I know, I know, but we don’t want to give it all away. Buy a ticket, bring a picnic lunch, and you can see all of the acts from start to finish. It’s a terrific family-friendly event, and all the ticket money goes toward charities.”
The staccato click of a set of heels coming my way fast, told me I was about to get kicked off announcer duty.
“But hey, let’s give Gladys a hand.” I turned toward the blonde bombshell and started clapping. The crowd joined in with whistles and shouts.
Bertie’s heels were still clacking, but she clapped too as Gladys took a bow and waved, then walked backstage.
I stepped back from the microphone, and Bertie stepped up. “Well done,” she said as she passed me.
I didn’t think I’d ever heard those words out of her mouth before. I almost tripped over my feet.
“Now get rid of the hunter.” Bertie put her smile on high beam, spread her arms wide and took the microphone.
“It is wonderful to see you all here, but as our Police Chief Delaney Reed has said, this is just the warm-up. The main event will begin tomorrow at eleven o’clock and will run into the evening. We’ll have food, games, plenty of entertainment, and fireworks. You will get to choose this year’s Ordinary Show Off! I hope to see you all right back here tomorrow.”
She cut the mike, waved to the crowd, then followed Gladys behind the curtain.
I crossed the stage to Vivian. “You’re not supposed to be up here on stage,” I said. “This is rehearsal.”
“Her voice,” she said, like she was picking through memories to separate the chaff of reality from the blossoms of dream.
“Oh, Gladys? She’s amazing. Was offered a record contract back in the day but decided to settle down here by the ocean instead. You’d think she’d win every one of these Show Offs.”
“She doesn’t win?” Vivian sounded more like herself, and fell right into step as I walked her toward the stairs again.
“Nope.”
She glanced back at the microphone. Bathin was walking toward it, which made me burn with curiosity. He hadn’t been in the Show Off before, and I didn’t know if Bertie had forced him to perform, or if he really had some kind of talent.
“Who could top that?” Vivian asked.
“There’s a guy in town who does armpit music. Bach. Mozart. That sort of thing.”
“No,” she said sounding slightly horrified. It was probably the first real emotion she’d shown.
“Yep. Small town. You can take the pits to the city, but you’re never gonna get the country out of the pits.”
She shook her head. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Neither does Phil winning the Show Off two years in a row.”
We were almost there, almost down the stairs. The crowd was dispersing now that the Siren call was gone. About a third of the people remained, kids squealing, the construction sounds banging out through the air.
Bathin cleared his throat, and the microphone whinged with feedback static. “Testing,” he said. “Testing. This will be a dramatic reading ofJabberwockyby Lewis Carroll.”
The audience didn’t seem nearly as interested in that statement. Someone shouted, “Do it with your armpits!” and people laughed.
Bathin was unfazed. He took a breath and began in a spooky, quiet bass: “’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe; all mimsy were the borogoves, and the mome raths outgrabe.”
Someone in the audience made an armpit fart, and another person followed. Pretty soon, it was an off-tune chorus of flatulence.
I glanced at Bathin to make sure he wasn’t going to get mad about the hecklers, when I saw a shadow behind the curtain move.
The shadow had a sword in one hand and an ax in the other, and my first take was that Bathin was about to turn his boring poetry reading into live-action battle slam poetry.
And honestly, I wanted to see that.
