Savilla took the page from her stepmother and read the contents to herself. From my vantage point, I was close enough to see the handwriting: a distinctive slant with occasional looping letters.
“Read it out loud, will you, darling?” Mrs. Finch stammered, tears forming.
Savilla, familiar with the spotlight, didn’t seem to revel in delivering these words, but she swallowed hard and began reading.
“‘I regret what I did to Miss 2001. I’m only getting what I deserve from the one who took her crown. To the real jewels of my life: Go on without me. Frederick Finch.’”
At the words, Aunt DeeDee took my hand and squeezed it hard enough for me to wince. A realization was dawning on her, one I couldn’t yet comprehend.
Mrs. Finch let out a huff of air as if on the verge of another fainting spell, and the contestants pulsed forward as a unit. One of the judge’s hands—that of Dr. Bellingham—extended as if to steady her.
The entire crowd of women as well as the sheriff, who’d recently entered the ballroom, seemed to be processing this missive, a brief one filled with regret and admonition.
I regret what I did to Miss 2001.Was this a confession? A suicide note? Had Mr. Finch known something or someone was coming for him?
Go on without me.The command, if interpreted one way, could sound like someone’s last words, but the same words could also signal that he’d gone out for a walk and thought it best that his wife go about her evening without expecting his return—though why Mr. Finch would disappear on opening night, when he was “the rooster” and we were his “hens,” I couldn’t quite understand. He certainly hadn’t seemed like a person contemplating the end during our brief encounter.
As Momma would’ve said,Something’s not setting right here.
Savilla swallowed back emotion. “He’s only been gone a couple of hours, StepMommy. You haven’t had time to search the property, much less talk to the judges or the staff or”—here, her eyes landed on Sheriff Strong—“security.”
“Oh, dearest,” Mrs. Finch sighed. “You know how unhappy your father has been.”
I thought of his wide smile that afternoon—not that people couldn’t mask things, but still.
“Your father never goes out on his own these days, and he doesn’t speak to the help.”
That surprised me. Though Mr. Finch was obviously in his seventies, he’d seemed as cognizant and capable as anyone here—and eager to talk to any passerby.
“His phone and keys were left next to the note,” Mrs. Finch added, watching our reactions as if to ensure we believed her story.
I couldn’t help but notice that this woman seemed eager to jump to the worst possible outcome. But why? What did she—or anyone—stand to gain from her husband’s disappearance? And a very public one at that…
My eyes went to the chandelier of cut glass and glimmering lights, and I knew my answer. The palace. The pageant. That’s what she undoubtedly stood to gain.
“I’ve already checked his favorite spots myself, and I’ve asked members of staff to scour the property for him. I’m sure we’ll find him soon, although…”
Although what? He’d likely be dead? That’s what her free-flowing tears seemed to imply.
Savilla gently touched her stepmother’s shoulder. “Doesn’t all of this concern seem a bit pre-unsure?”
I studied Savilla, trying to decipher her particular misuse of language.
“Premature?” one girl offered from the back.
“No,” Savilla said, turning to face the crowd again. “Pre-unsure.It’s too early to be certain of anything.” She looked back at her stepmother. “We’re acting like Daddy is never comingback when he could just be out at the stables or even at the back of?—”
Mrs. Finch threw up a hand, halting her stepdaughter’s musings. “Dearest, let’s try not to assume the best. It can lead to so much unnecessary disappointment.”
I almost laughed unceremoniously before realizing that Mrs. Finch was serious. The image of her jerking away from her husband’s touch earlier in the lobby came to mind.
“However,” she said, addressing the room, “the disappearance of my dear husband will not stop the good and important work we are doing here.”
Work. Good. Important.None of these seemed fitting descriptors, unless someone like Summer won.
Mrs. Finch took a step forward. “For now, all of you, please continue as usual. I know this is a daunting ask, but I’m confident that my husband, who adored this pageant and all of you, would want nothing less. Besides”—here she extended a hand toward the sheriff—“law enforcement is already on the scene, and we may find Mr. Finch sooner than later. For now, if you know anything of my husband or of the missing crown, please come forward immediately.”
For the briefest moment, I thought I saw the woman’s eyes flicker to my aunt, but I must’ve been wrong. Aunt DeeDee could never be involved in something so… sinister, so… tawdry.
