The Jewels and Gems party would start soon, but there were no more bustling hallways or women click-clacking across the marble floors. Since I still didn’t know how to find my cottage, I decided to sneak into the bathroom nearest the lobby. Even the restroom was opulent, with gleaming brass faucets and gray-speckled marble.
As I sat in one of the stalls, I took the ledger I’d “borrowed” from Mr. Finch’s whiskey cabinet, perusing the contents.
The original entry on the first page of the wire-bound book was dated 1982. The lettersR.P.P.—Rose Palace Pageant—had been written next to a series of numbers, most of them deposits, but a few debits that increased with the years. The next page was dated 1983, the following 1984, and on and on the pages went, a detailed account of that year’s pageant and the income brought in and expenses going out. The bottom of each page ended with a profit until the year 2001, when the numbers on the page grew smaller and smaller. Hmmm… so maybe Mrs. Finch had been wrong. Perhaps her saving the throne that year hadn’t been as effective as she’d assumed.
I couldn’t make out most of the abbreviations in the left-hand column, but a repeated entry labeled “Peabody” started in 1996. At first, the amount next to the name was meager by Finch standards—$16,000. But every few years after, the amount increased.
1996 Peabody: $16,000
2000 Peabody: $35,000
2003 Peabody: $47,000
2007 Peabody: $62,000
Whoever this Peabody was, they’d gotten a lot of money over the years.
I flipped past empty pages and a folded white piece of paper fell to the floor. It was a series of numbers for a policy—a life insurance policy—taken out on Mr. Frederick Finch in the amount of eight million dollars on May 3 of this year. A month and a few days ago.
My eyes scanned the document to the signatures at the very bottom of the page. There were two.
First, Savilla Finch was the guarantor, paying the monthly premium, but why would Savilla need an insurance policy on her father? Wasn’t she already set to inherit? Or would everything go to her stepmother?
My eyes landed on the second signature, the witness. It readDeanna Green.
Oh Lord, this didn’t look good. Again.
Even with signs pointing to the contrary—the crown in her room, the pinky ring in her drawer, her name at the bottom of a recent life insurance policy—I knew Aunt DeeDee wouldn’t doanything sinister or underhand. I wished I could talk to her, hear her explanations. I imagined the things I would say to the sheriff to set him straight after all of this was resolved.
My mind skimmed possibilities, many of which I did not want to seriously consider and which would hamper my first goal of getting Aunt DeeDee out of jail. I could march upstairs to the apartment and demand an answer from Savilla, but what good would that do? If she had something to hide, I would’ve shown my hand. No, better to keep quiet.
I briefly considered tearing up the life insurance policy and the pages of the ledger into tiny pieces and flushing them down the toilet. Instead, I decided to wait and do what was next on my schedule: attend the All That Glitters… Jewels and Gems party.
I checked the time. Twenty minutes, certainly not enough time to find my accommodation out on the grounds, change into whatever was inside the garment bag, and make my way back here on time. And I needed to be on time in order to rack up as many points as possible.
I hesitated only a few seconds before pulling off my jeans and my button-down shirt and wadding them into a ball with the ledger inside. I would hide them in the stall while I made an appearance and collect them before I headed to my room.
I unzipped the garment bag and found a formal romper that blended from a dark graphite color on the bottom into a shimmering explosion of tiny crystals on top. One side was off the shoulder and the other featured delicate straps. It was spectacular, and I knew immediately the narrative that Aunt DeeDee was going for: The graphite-colored bottom was the carbon from which diamonds sprang. Ingenious.
I slid into the romper and grabbed the loose items from the bottom of the bag—rhinestone-studded heels and a small Melbourne Cup-style charcoal hat.
I added the finishing touches and stepped out of the stall to study my sparkling reflection. Aunt DeeDee had outdone herself. I didn’t even need more makeup. The woman gazing back at me in the mirror had already changed since Monday, when I’d learned I’d been registered to compete. I looked more mature, more accomplished but, more importantly, I was beginning to rediscover the spark that had always defined me.
I pulled my hair into a stiff ponytail and then decided to wind it into a bun, securing the flyaways with bobby pins from a basket on the counter filled with last-minute necessities. Reminding myself that I had everything I needed to win, or at least place, I made my way into the Primrose Ballroom for the Jewels and Gems party.
FIFTEEN
Two giant geodes with crystal centers, split open to reveal layers of sparkling turquoise, flanked the doors at the entryway of the ballroom, and a pianist played lyrical versions of thematic songs: “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend,” “Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds,” and “Diamonds on the Water.” It was likely Mr. Pratler, my high school choir teacher who accompanied every church Christmas special, community theater production, and children’s play in Aubergine.
A woman scanned badges, looking for the tiny rose logo of the pageant, as if there were people just dying to forge credentials and sneak into this place. Not for the first time I wondered how long it would take for news of Mr. Finch to hit media outlets. The man was from a long line of multimillionaires who owned the second-largest estate in the United States, and if he wasn’t soon found alive and well in some hidden nook, his disappearance wouldn’t go unreported.
As I walked into the ballroom, my eyes took a moment to adjust to the space lit only by twinkling lights above, and all around me a sea of women in gold, finishing off the titular name of the event—All That Glitters… Is Not Gold—assaulted my eyes. The few not wearing gold were dressed in jewel tones. No onewas wearing anything like what Aunt DeeDee had selected for me, and I knew by the admiring—and jealous—glances that this was a very good thing.
“You look lovely, dear,” Miss 1962 said, strolling past with a drink and holding up what must have been her score card. Less than a minute later, Dr. Bellingham caught my eye and gave me a faint nod before scribbling something down. I only needed Katie Gilman’s vote of confidence, but she hadn’t yet arrived.
We’d been encouraged to invite a date for the evening, so men in tuxes walked the room with golden and glimmering ladies on their arms. Apparently, Mr. Finch’s AWOL status wasn’t slowing down these women or their show and, if I’d had to guess, I would have said that was the way the sheriff wanted it. People were more likely to let things slip in a loud room with alcohol rather than in a lockdown situation. If anything, recent events were making the staff and contestants more curious and thus more eager to gather in large numbers to confirm they were safe and sound.
I spotted the bar and got in line, grateful for something to get me through the rest of the evening. Pushing back my shoulders, I stood straighter, reminded myself to make sure the judges saw me being confident, comported, and those other two Cs I wouldn’t normally care about.
