“Since we all have reasons for winning, let’s work together,” Jemma said, a gleam in her eyes as she formulated a plan. “In all my years at The Rose, I’ve noticed one thing is consistent: The judges love it when we seem like we’re best friends.” Jemma mouth rose into what looked like a smile.
Huh. I hadn’t known she had that expression in her.
“They have these little score cards that they jot notes and numbers on whenever they leave an event, and this one is particularly important because it’s your best chance at scoring the conversation points. When they make their way to our table, turn on the charm. Talk each other up.”
Summer nodded eagerly, and I shrugged. Whatever would make this go smoothly.
A chime sounded, and all of us turned toward the woman who had handed us our schedules.
“All right, ladies. Today is a chance for the judges to get to know you beyond what you listed on your application. We’ll be treating this as a speed-dating situation in which the judges rotate from table to table, and they will be keeping score of the best conversationalists. You’ll have seven minutes to chat it up, but because there are so many of you this year, you won’t have a judge at your table each round, so be patient. I’ll ring a bell to start and stop the sessions, and we must stick to a strict schedule in order to accommodate everyone. Are we ready?”
Heads nodded across the solarium, and the energy in the room amped up.
“Let’s begin.”
The first judge at our table was Miss 1962, aka Doris Davis, dressed from head to toe in various shades of pink except for a bright orange silk scarf wound around her neck.
“Hello, young’uns,” Doris said as she inched her way into her chair. I could almost hear her hips creaking. “How are we today?”
“Great,” Jemma answered.
“Fabulous,” Summer said.
“I’ve been better,” I answered, too honestly for my table-mates.
Jemma nudged me under the table, and Summer’s mouth turned down into a rare frown.
“But I’m so glad to have made new friends,” I added, attempting a lighter tone.
“Hogwash,” Miss 1962 blurted. “Your aunt’s in the clinker for the suspected murder of Mr. Finch. That’s not nothing.”
My eyes widened at her no-nonsense assessment. Once again, I liked this lady, despite her brashness.
Summer leaned forward. “Do you think Mr. Finch is actually… dead?” she asked, her eyes beginning to water with unshed tears.
“Frederick Finch dead?” Doris mused on the question. “Perhaps. He was beloved here, but a philandering son of a bitch outside these halls, so I wouldn’t be surprised if some woman finally got fed up with his cheating ways.”
“Some woman like Mrs. Finch?” I asked.
Doris narrowed one eye. “Perhaps.”
“I’m sure all that will be determined soon enough,” Jemma said, attempting to steer us back on course. “I am such a history buff, have always loved those documentaries about then and now, about how close we are in history to big events like the World Wars…” She chattered on for at least thirty seconds before realizing she was losing her audience. “I’d love to hear about the amazing changes you’ve seen in the pageant over the years.”
Miss 1962 paused, thinking for a moment about significant changes she’d seen. “The bras used to be much pointier, and you had to go commando before those thong-thingies that you bunch now wear.”
I loved that answer. “What about the kind of girl who competes?” I asked. “In the past couple of decades, how have the contestants changed?”
Doris had an immediate answer. “You all feel like you’ve got to have some kind of platform. Don’t eat meat! Vote progressive! MeToo! In my time, we were happy if society let us talk about anything other than becoming a wife or mother. My own mother was lucky to get the right to vote, and she certainly didn’t go around announcing her political party. Different times.”
I studied this woman who had been part of the pageant in some capacity for almost seventy-five years. She’d seen and heard everything by now.
I decided to shift gears. “What about being a judge? Were you here in 2001, the year that Mrs. Finch was crowned?”
Miss 1962’s mind seemingly shifted to the past like a Rolodex flipping backward. “Yes, siree. Was a judge that year too, in fact, but Mrs. Finch wasn’t crowned.”
Now we were getting somewhere.
“Oh?” I tried to act surprised.
