An hour after the gates had opened, there I stood in the kitchen in my polka-dotted red dress, proudly proclaiming, “Robert will tan my hide if I can’t learn how to cook. And fast.” I turned to Jemma and asked with my inquisitive tone, “How did you catch your cool cat?”
While she answered, I caught Aunt DeeDee and Lacy on the fringes of the crowd crammed beneath the white canvas. In front of them was Mrs. Glenda Finch, seated but present, and I almost broke character as I did a double take when Savilla strolled to her side. I wasn’t surprised to see her there—at least no more surprised than I was to see her stepmother—but the look of utter ease on Savilla’s face, the genuine smile she gave as she watched us perform, did catch me off guard. After all the chaos, she seemed fine. Better than fine.
Jemma held up a cookbook from the era, facing the audience as she proudly announced her lines. I was so distracted by Savilla and her stepmother looking so normal, I nearly forgot my cue.
Jemma said her line again, prompting me gently, and Summer stared at me, mouthing the words.
“Geez. That cookbook sounds like it’s full of swell recipes,” I said, coming back to myself and the moment at hand. “The pageant judges and Robert are gonna love the new and improved me.”
Thankfully, that was my last line, so my eyes trailed back to the audience, where Miss 1962 stood on the fringes, her arms crossed at the content of our ridiculous little tableau. But when I saw her gaze dart to Savilla, her frown deepened as if she too thought her manner a bit casual.
A memory pulled me back. Years ago, Aunt DeeDee told me and Momma one night over dinner, almost casually, thatthe pageant had almost been canceled that year because of in-fighting. I hadn’t paid enough attention to her stories back then to know who was fighting or why, but I do remember Momma asking her about it. We were seated at the café downtown, me and Momma side by side eating burgers and slurping milkshakes while facing Aunt DeeDee, who ate grilled chicken and drank unsweetened tea.
“You know,” Aunt DeeDee said. “They’re arguing over what fights are always about: love or money.”
Love or money.
As I took the cookbook from Jemma’s hands and held it up for the audience to see, I thought about these two motives, so familiar that Aunt DeeDee would toss them out as a blanket for most troubles.
I’d seen the insurance policy that Savilla had taken out on her father, and I’d seen the kind of attention that Dr. Bellingham had paid to her as soon as her parents were out of the way.
My eyes traveled back to Savilla, who cheered and applauded our efforts on the makeshift stage of the 1950s kitchen. Jemma grabbed one of my hands, and Summer held the other, and everyone in the scene took one final bow.
Dr. Bellingham was behind bars. I wanted that to be enough, but I couldn’t pull my eyes away from Savilla. She hadn’t returned his admiration last night at the Gilded Age dinner, but perhaps that was only because Katie, in her role as former nanny, had lured him away from her. As thoughts crowded my mind and I attempted to put them in some kind of cohesive order, the crowd dispersed to see the next show.
A line formed to greet Mrs. Finch and Savilla, who handed out hugs and quick pecks on cheeks like a trained politician, like she’d been born for this kind of spotlight.
Aunt DeeDee approached to congratulate me on the performance while Lacy was waiting, no doubt to poke fun at theridiculous show I’d just put on, but before either of them could say a word, they saw the look on my face.
“Are you okay, dear? Are you feeling ill?” Aunt DeeDee asked, instantly reaching to feel my forehead.
“You need me to grab a water?” Lacy echoed.
I shook my head and swallowed back tears, unable to speak the questions swirling in my mind. What if Dr. Bellingham’s accomplice was still on the loose, shaking hands and having a grand old time? What if the sheriff and I had gotten this—or at least a big part of this—very, very wrong?
THIRTY-FOUR
Since I didn’t have any other official duties until that evening, after the guests dispersed I excused myself to grab a sandwich and a drink before heading back to my room to make a list of everything I’d discovered since I’d stepped across the threshold of The Rose.
I knew Aunt DeeDee and Lacy needed to mingle and be on call for any last-minute emergencies, so I told them I would see them soon.
“Oh, hey—on your way back to your cottage, swing by the 2000s,” Lacy told me, something teasing in the suggestion.
“I arranged to have a little surprise delivered there even before all this began,” Aunt DeeDee added. “Lacy said the two of you have been asking about Miss 2001, so I thought you’d find it of particular interest.”
I narrowed my eyes at them, but they gave nothing away.
“You go grab lunch, and we’ll see you this evening,” Aunt DeeDee said, her tone much like the one she’d used to send me off to bed when Momma had worked the night shift.
I walked outside the 1950s and got my bearings before heading to the 2000s, which featured contestants floating around displays that ranged from 9/11 to the Olsen twins.
Beyoncé’s “Crazy in Love”played through the tent, and I caught sight of a small group of contestants huddled together and doing a last-minute run-through of their skit, which seemed to be an homage to the reality TV showSurvivor, based on the skimpy island clothes they wore.
At first I didn’t see anything that would warrant Lacy and Aunt DeeDee sending me in this direction, so I wandered around the edges, watching the crowd milling about, attendees grabbing sample cups of French Toast Crunch and Trix Yogurt. My mouth puckered at the combo before I saw a solitary Mrs. Finch, eye to eye with a cardboard cutout that I could only see from behind. I followed a circumference around her and watched Savilla break away from a group of guests and come to her side.
Savilla’s eyes flashed with… something. Anger? Or was it shock?
I skirted behind them to view the row of cutouts they were studying, cardboard likenesses I’d recognized in the foyer on the first day as the winners from 2000 to 2009.
