She Walks in Beauty (44 page)

“So that’s what they really did?” asked Sam. “They docked right there beside the pier where the Miss America festivities were supposed to be held? While people were looking for Bette Cooper everywhere else? It’s like ‘The Purloined Letter.’”

“Exactly,” Rashad grinned. “Now, do you want to see the rest?” He punched the remote button again. “This is the second intercut of the subplot. You saw the red Mustang earlier driving into the Pines. Now here’s the action.”

*

“Get me out of here!” Lana screamed. She had great lungs from her singing lessons. “Help! Help!”

But no one heard her. The walls of the wine cellar were two feet thick with heavy insulation.

Lana plopped down on a case of orange pop and buried her face in her hands. This couldn’t be happening to her. She was Lana DeLucca of the Sea Girt DeLuccas. Her daddy was an underboss. She’d won swimsuit. She was going to make 10. She had an excellent shot at taking the crown. Shit like this didn’t happen to Miss America finalists.

*

“I’m going to smell like a pizza,” Darleen said, “if you don’t get me out of here.”

“You’re awfully cool for a lady who’s being held for ransom.” Angelo pulled up a chair beside her and handed her a little glass of Chianti.

“If you think Billy’s got any money, you might as well shoot me now.”

“I know Billy ain’t got no money. He owes
me
money.”

“So
you’re
the loan shark. That’s what this is all about?”

“Sort of.”

“Look. How much is he into you for? I run my own business. I have some funds.”

Angelo reached over and patted her hand. “Nice thought, but it don’t work that way. Listen, you hungry? You can have some pizza. Or we’ll make you some noodles. See, the way this happens, Billy’s gonna do me a little favor, we’re gonna let you go.”

Darleen sighed. “I wouldn’t count on it.”

*

“She’s dead,” said Michelangelo, staring into the trunk.

“Oh, well, listen. These things happen. This was just a little added extra attraction. But, what do you think? I’ll go get Miss New Jersey, make the tape, plant it in the judges’ rooms. Though—” Wayne pushed his Monopoly Special Services hat further back on his head. His aviator glasses were fogged. And suddenly he realized that he’d lost it somewhere in a little blip, just like when he’d had the shock treatments. His plan didn’t make sense. There was
no time
for subliminals to kick in. “—maybe we ought to do something else, too. You got any ideas?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact I do,” said Michelangelo, turning and giving Willie a small nod. “I tell you what. Willie here is going to drive you in my car over to the Ventnor office. I’ll stay here for a few minutes and make arrangements to have this,” he gestured at the Mustang’s trunk, “taken care of, and then I’ll join you over there. Your car will be fine.” He placed a heavy hand on Wayne’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Great! Great!” Wayne was really excited. Things were going even better than he’d hoped.

*

“Oh, my God!” said Sam.

Rashad flipped Junior a look. This was going really swell. Both Harry and Sam loved the video. Especially this scary part they’d spliced in with the guys out in the Pines. Like the old Miss America footage they’d used—no need to reinvent the wheel when the stuff was at hand. Especially when you were under the gun of a deadline.

“Do you
know
who that is?” Sam asked.

“Yeah,” said Rashad. “That’s the dude who pushed Junior in the swimming pool, the one who’s playing dead. He’s a photographer—not a bad actor, either, huh? The other one is this spaced-out nerd who works in the Monopoly. Junior’s mom knows him, right, Junior?”

“Yeah,” Junior nodded. But he was getting a little nervous. Sam and Harry were acting weird. He bet they knew something about the equipment being lifted. He was beginning to wonder if Harry wasn’t lying about the cop business.

“It’s Wayne Ward, isn’t it, Harry?” said Sam.

Harry nodded, mesmerized by the sight of Wayne rolling Kurt Roberts’s body over and over through pine needles, then down a bank and into a river of dark water. “That’s Wayne, all right.” Then he turned to the two young men. “Hey, guys, where’d you get this footage?”

Damn,
thought Junior.

52

At nine o’clock, an hour before the broadcast of the Miss America Pageant live from Atlantic City, Michelangelo and Willie were driving through Ducktown in the Lincoln. Michelangelo picked up the phone.

“Ma?” It was Petey from the Ventnor office. “Listen, a call came in from Vince over at the club. There’s this woman, Stein or something, from Convention Hall trying to reach you. She practically called the cops, trying to track you down. I thought you’d want to know.”

“What’s it about?”

“Something about Miss New Jersey? Missing in action? I don’t know what the hell they’re talking about, boss. You want the woman’s number?”

Goddamnit!
Ma slammed the receiver so hard Willie jumped in the front seat.

“That little bimbo! Now she’s missing. Pageant’s looking for her, looking for me. Remind me never to get mixed up in this kind of business again, Willie.”

So where did Ma want Willie to take him? Did he want to forget going by Tommy’s? No. It was only a block. They’d go see what Angelo Pizza wanted first.

*

Billy Carroll tripped over his own words introducing the governor of New Jersey in the preshow up on the big stage.

“Stuttering. God, he’s worse than ever,” Sam said to the
Inquirer
from their vantage point rampside. “And his color’s bad.” Had he caught Gary Collins’s stomach flu? Was he going to faint halfway through the show?

The
Inquirer
predicted a rocky evening. Then, looking over Sam’s shoulder, her eyes widened. “Uh-oh. Uh-oh.”

Sam turned. No. Please, no. She didn’t have the strength.

Sam was already running on pure adrenaline. This beauty business had turned out to be so much more exhausting than she’d ever dreamed.

Not to mention that she and Harry had spent a good part of the day with Rashad and Junior and Captain Kelly who wanted to hear
everything
they knew, from the top. Meanwhile, he said, the APB on Wayne Ward hadn’t turned up a thing. Wayne had probably split.

Later, Kelly got back to her. He was a nice man. Cindy Lou had copped to making it up about Roberts in the Bahamas. “Said she did it to get you off her butt.” Sam could hear his wry grin. Not funny. Not funny at all, she’d been 15 years in the business and had taken the woman’s word just like that. Kelly had sent a man up to Cindy Lou’s room to see what the hell this voice business was she kept yapping about. And they’d sent a crime scene team off to the Pine Barrens. Nothing there yet.

Then Rae Ann called. She wanted to know if Sam was still interested in a last interview before the big show.

It had been worth the time.

Rae Ann met her in the pressroom in Convention Hall. She’d brought along the field director for the Georgia state pageant. Ron Templeton was tall, dark, handsome—and a flight attendant who lived in Dallas. But he grew up in Valdosta, and his heart lay with the Peach State and its pageant, and flying back was no big deal. He was responsible for coordinating the efforts of 12 local pageants. Pageants were his hobby, his passion, his religion, his life. All his best friends were into pageants. “We all love each other,” said Ron. “It’s just like when I used to do local theater. Romance, the spectacle, the magic of fairy tales come true. Don’t you love fairy tales?”

Sam left them visualizing victory and raced over to the trade show to pick up a package from Jeannie Carpenter, the bugle bead lady, before the sales floor shut down for good at five.

Back in the hotel room, she’d sprawled on her bed to catch her breath when Big Gloria pounded on the door. The cops were still holding Junior! And Rashad!

It took Sam half an hour to calm her down, explain that Kelly had promised to get the wallet-snatching and burglary, which had come out as the boys had told their tale, reduced to probation. All Gloria and Rashad’s folks had to do was go sign for them.

In the end, Harry had poured Gloria a couple of shots of Jack Daniel’s, which worked better than the explanations, then called Lavert to drive her over to Northfield Barracks.

Seven-thirty and counting, Sam had already blown off the Old South Ball. She grabbed a ham sandwich, a quick shower, and tossed on her turquoise Carnival gown.

“Gorgeous as the first time I laid eyes on you,” said Harry, buttoning the studs on his tuxedo shirt. “Sazerac Bar of the Roosevelt.”

“The first time was out at the airport, and I was wearing a skirt and sweater. Black, as I remember.”

She had to be tired, she was being so picky. Harry snuggled up behind her and gave her a hug.

“I’m sorry I’m being such a grump. I’m wrung out. I can’t
wait
to get out of this town.”

“You’re going to let Captain Kelly catch Wayne Ward on his own? Not going to stay and tell him how?”

Sam ignored the sarcasm. “I’ve told him all I know. Now all I want is to go home and lie down. No more beauty queens, for maybe the rest of my life.”

*

Given that, Sam was in no mood for Mary Frances DeLaughter, Ph.D., heading down the Convention Hall aisle straight at her.

“Samantha Adams!” the woman screamed at the top of her lungs. “I have such a scoop for you!”

Scoop. Right.

*

“You
what
?”
Michelangelo shouted.

“It’s gonna work like a charm, Ma. Trust me.”

He’d kidnapped the emcee’s wife? Unbelievable.

“I didn’t hurt her. She’s a nice woman. Real cooperative. She’s right here.”

Angelo opened Tommy’s pantry door and a tousled Darleen Carroll stepped out in her bare feet.

She was the cutest thing Michelangelo Amato had ever laid eyes on. She was an angel. She was perfect. His heart soared. He’d do anything to win her. Anything. Just name it.

*

“
Who
grabbed you?” Sam was writing as fast as she could while glaring at the
Inquirer
and
USA Today
over her shoulder. It was
her
story. “You pick up that phone,” she said to the
Inquirer,
“before I can file this, your ass is grass.”

“That’s what I’m telling you,” said Mary Frances. “I don’t know. I was standing in front of Miss New Jersey’s door, about to knock, when he grabbed me.”

“And the next thing you remember?”

“I was tied up in this dark place. I realized later, of course, it was a car trunk.”

“How much later?”

“I don’t know exactly. It was around ten this morning, I guess, when I was in the hotel—and then—gee, I guess it must have been about two or so when they pulled me out.”

“Who’s they?”

“I never saw them. Two men, I was still blindfolded. They said I would be all right, they would help me, but they didn’t want to get involved. They carried me inside in a chair. I couldn’t walk at first.”

“Inside where?”

“They didn’t take off the blindfold. I don’t know.”

“Jesus Christ, Mary Frances!”

“Well,
you
should have been there. You wouldn’t quibble about a little thing like a blindfold if somebody pulled you out of a car trunk, I can tell you that!”

She had a point. But what kind of story was this, Mary Frances a witness to her own kidnapping, and she didn’t know jack. Though it didn’t help to snap at her. Sam apologized. Then what?

“They untied me. Somebody with big soft hands massaged my wrists and ankles. Then they gave me some wine. After a while, they loaded me into a car and drove me somewhere. Then they put me in another car, then in a taxi that brought me back to the hotel.”

“You were in two cars and a taxi?”

“Yes. It was in the taxi that the driver said to me, ‘Lady, you can take your blindfold off now.’ So I did.”

“What kind of taxi?”

“A white one. I was about six blocks from the Monopoly on Atlantic Avenue.”

Sam sighed, “Mary Frances, why do you think you were kidnapped?”

“I have no earthly idea.” She shrugged.

“And did you hear any names at all during this whole thing?”

Mary Frances paused for a minute. Up on the big stage, Billy Carroll was in the middle of a bad rendition of “Mack the Knife” when he forgot the words. Sam had never seen a professional entertainer so nervous. Then Mary Frances nodded.

“Yes, I heard one name. The man who spoke first, who had a very nice voice, a
warm
voice, do you know what I mean, once he said to somebody else, ‘Don’t worry. That Ward’s ticket is punched.’ I think Ward was someone’s name, don’t you?”