grooming, and personality. Our first contestant is Caresse Wren.”
May gasped and clutched Skye’s arm. “Do you see what that girl is wearing?”
Caresse wore formfitting black satin pants that rode low on her hips and were connected to her skimpy halter top by silver laces. Over this was a chiffon bolero jacket trimmed in marabou.
“Prepare yourself, Mom,” Skye warned. “That may well be one of the milder outfits. You should have seen what the little kids wore last weekend.”
“Do you mean the twins let their daughters expose themselves in public like this?”
“They did last weekend.”
May sputtered. “I always knew those girls were a few feathers short of a whole duck, but I didn’t realize they were dumber than a box of hair.”
“Lots of people do this.”
“I wonder if Minnie knows about it.” May had a gleam in her eye, and Skye knew that her aunt, her cousins’ mother, would be informed by this evening.
As more and more contestants came onstage, it was all Skye could do to contain her mother’s comments. Most of the teens wore incredibly titillating outfits and paraded around as if they were dancing at a “gentleman’s club.”
When Farrah Miles was finally announced, Skye held her breath, afraid that if she were dressed too provocatively, May would charge the stage. Luckily for everyone, the girl wore a relatively modest yellow sundress with a matching hat and jacket. She still looked ten years older than her actual age, as did the other contestants, but the hooker quality was muted. May happily snapped several pictures for Farrah’s grandmother.
The next round was Talent. Most of the girls seemed to do some variation of song, dance, or gymnastic routine, though a few performances were truly unique.
May whispered to Skye, “Whoever let that poor girl come out here and pack a suitcase for her talent should be horsewhipped.”
“Or forced to watch that first girl, over and over,” Skye said, agreeing with her mother. “The one who showed the video of herself doing tractor drills.”
“True.” May crossed her arms. “When’s lunch?”
After a quick meal in the hotel restaurant May and Skye hurried to the conference theater for the Interview competition. It was the longest segment and often the one that separated the winners from the losers.
Skye scanned for seats in the already-full auditorium. She spotted two near the front and took her mother’s arm. May was still complaining about the prices at the restaurant.
As the women sat down, the lights dimmed. The emcee came out, and after a brief spiel he introduced the judges. There were five. Charlie and Abby were the only two Skye recognized.
Skye perked up when she realized that Zoe VanHorn was the first contestant. She came onstage dressed in a shocking-pink-and-black suit. The pleated skirt barely covered her derriere, and she wore nothing under the jacket.
The emcee approached her with a broad smile. “Good afternoon. Zoe, your question is: If you were given a hundred thousand dollars and had to spend it on yourself, what would you do with it?”
A murmur ran through the audience. This was a tough one. Almost anything the girl said would make her look bad.
Thirty seconds went by, and the emcee called time. “Do you have an answer for us, Zoe?”
Skye had never seen the teen at such a loss for words.
Zoe fumbled with her hair and tugged at her skirt, losing points for poise. Finally, she said, “I’d use it to go to college and medical school.”
The audience let out its breath. An acceptable answer.
“What would you specialize in?” the emcee asked.
Zoe blurted out, “Plastic surgery. No emergency calls to interrupt my beauty sleep.” She flashed a smile that seemed to say, see how clever I am, but no one laughed.
Skye heard Priscilla VanHorn’s groan from three rows away.
Her daughter must have heard it, too, because she quickly continued. “Just kidding. Really I want to ah . . . help burn victims and others with deformities.”
The emcee raised an eyebrow, but moved on to the other contestants without comment. The next girl was asked: Why did you enter this pageant? Others were given questions such as: What can you contribute to the Miss Central Illinois pageant organization? and Who are your heroes?
After the program ended, Skye and her mother were chatting with someone May knew as they made their way out of the theater. A commotion onstage caught Skye’s attention, and she turned in time to see Priscilla VanHorn confront the emcee. Skye edged backward toward the front.
After a minute or so of intense whispering between Priscilla and the emcee, Skye heard, “That was an unfair question. None of the other girls were asked anything nearly as tricky.”
The emcee replied, “As I’ve been telling you, I don’t make up the questions. The judges hand me a sheet of paper with a list of the contestants’ names and a question next to them.”
Priscilla’s face turned red. “I see. So one of the judges had it in for my daughter.”
“I’m sure the process is completely random.”
“And I’m Princess Grace. I need to talk to the judges.”
“You can’t do that, ma’am. Not until after they hand in their score sheets.”
“Are you an idiot, or do you just play one on TV? It’ll be too late by then.” Mrs. VanHorn ran from the theater.
Skye debated. Should she follow, or try to notify someone? Finally, she grabbed May with the intention of running after Priscilla.
May didn’t budge. “What in the world are you doing?”
“Hurry, Mom, I think she’s going after the judges. If she murdered Lorelei, she might do some serious harm to one of them.”
“Who?” May had still not moved.
“Zoe’s mother.” Skye was trying to shake off her mother’s restraining arm so she could pursue the woman alone.
May started running, yelling over her shoulder, “When I asked Charlie to go to lunch with us, he said they had a room set aside for the judges. He pointed in this direction.”
As they hurried along, Skye kept an eye out for an official. Of course, the halls were now deserted. Most contestants had retired to their rooms to rest before the night’s Evening Gown competition, and the audience was probably in the bar.
Skye heard several people shouting before they rounded the corner. Security guards were holding Mrs. VanHorn by both arms, and she was swearing like a rap singer on an MTV video.
Charlie was sitting on the floor with blood coming from his forehead. Skye and May ran up to him.
May whipped a Wash’n Dri from her purse and ripped open the foil packet. “What happened? Are you alright?” She pressed the damp paper to his wound and ordered, “Skye, call 911.”
Charlie stood up slowly. “I’m fine. It’s just a scratch. Don’t call an ambulance.”
Skye put her fingers to his wrist. His pulse was rapid and weak. His color was pasty, and he was shivering. She turned to the guards still struggling with Priscilla VanHorn. “Can you get hold of Abby Fleming? She’s another one of the judges, but she’s also a nurse.”
One of the guards nodded and spoke into his radio.
Skye led Charlie to a chair and checked his cut. The bleeding had nearly stopped, but his breathing was shallow and his pupils dilated.
She was trying to decide whether to go against his wishes and call 911 as Priscilla was led away by the guards, shouting, “Zoe had better win, or you ain’t seen nothing yet!”
Abby finally arrived, complete with first-aid kit and blanket. She cleaned Charlie’s wound, had him lie down with his feet raised, and then covered him up. She tried to talk him into going to the hospital but he repeatedly refused. Abby reluctantly agreed to check back in fifteen minutes and told Skye and May to keep an eye on him.
