She Walks in Beauty Read online

  “Me too,” said Hoke Tolliver. Sam’s editor poked his head around the edge of the door. “Knock, knock.” He was carrying a massive bouquet of calla lilies in one hand.

  “I’m not dead,” said Sam, “if those are for me. Looks like you thought you were coming to my funeral.”

  “See what I mean about spunk?” Hoke replied. “It’s that kind of attitude that goes right out there and gets the story.”

  “Forget it,” said Sam, sliding back down under her white cotton sheets. “I’m disabled. I’m staying here for the duration of my recuperation. Eating gallons of chocolate ice cream.” And getting over her terrible guilt, even though she’d been forced to drug and drink.

  “Now, that’s a shame, idn’t it,” said Malachy Champion. “To have to pass on an opportunity like that. My heart’s desire has always been to go to Atlantic City to the pageant. To be right there.”

  “Hey, Hoke,” said Sam. “You hear that? Mr. Champion here’d love to cover the pageant for you.”

  “And I’d love to send him.” He smiled. “But it might be a little tough to get him the credentials. You’re not a journalist, are you, Mr. Champion?”

  “Don’t insult the man,” said Sam.

  “Of course, if you went, you could take him along,” George said to Sam.

  “Wait a minute! Whose side are you on anyway?”

  “Oh, I couldn’t think of going,” said Malachy. “Old man like me, I don’t much take to traveling anymore. And what with Suzie still recovering.”

  The man who saved my life is throwing in his injured dog who was an accessory to the saving, thought Sam. It’s getting pretty deep in here.

  “But on the other hand, if you went, you could bring him back an autographed program, the autograph of Miss America, in fact—”

  Sam didn’t let Hoke finish. “You’re so sure it’s gonna be Rae Ann, we could just call her up and get one from her right now. Surely she’s already signed something for you, Hoke? A T-shirt, your BVDs?”

  “Sammy! What on earth do you mean?” Hoke’s eyebrows almost met his crew cut.

  “Oh, I forgot that Rae Ann’s a certified member of the vestal virgin society.”

  “Well,” Malachy Champion drawled, “I reckon that would be pretty nice, if you went. You could bring me back a souvenir, tell me all about it firsthand, if you got up real close to the girls, to that Phyllis George. Maybe even Mary Ann Mobley. I always was partial to those southern girls.”

  “Okay,” said Sam. “Whose idea was this? Hoke just happens to drop by with posies. Joins the two of you in pressuring me like crazy.”

  “We just thought it might help you to get up and about—and it would be nice to have those autographs—” said Malachy, trailing off.

  George spread his hands wide. He didn’t say a word, but the message was clear. Was it too much to ask, to do a little favor for the man who’d rescued you from a hideous death?

  “You’re a terrible old man, do you know that, George?” She wanted to get out of bed and punch him, but she was still too sore. “A manipulating, scheming, conniving, four-flushing, double-dealing cheat. A lawyer, through and through!”

  “Retired lawyer,” he sniffed. “Who’s always been a fan of the pageant. Samantha, sometimes I think you’re positively un-American.”

  “I’m not well.” Sam pouted. “The pageant’s in two weeks. I couldn’t possibly.”

  “You’ll be fine,” said George. “Especially if you take Harry along with you.”

  “Harry! What’s Harry got to do with Miss America?”

  “Well, you know, it’s the damnedest thing,” said George. “I was with him on the phone yesterday. He flew over the minute he heard about the—incident,” George said by way of explanation to anyone who cared, “and had to get back to New Orleans pretty soon, but he calls at least three times a day to check on Samantha. Anyway, he said it was the funniest coincidence, but he’d just found out that the young woman who’s Miss Louisiana this year, from New Orleans, her name’s Lucinda Washington, and she’s—”

  “Oh, my God.” Sam fell back onto her pillows. “Don’t tell me. Is she tall?”

  “Real tall,” said Hoke, who made it a point to know everything about Rae Ann’s competition.

  “Is she black?”

  “She is,” said Hoke. “Isn’t that a miracle, her being from Louisiana? Wonder when Georgia’s gonna name a black—”

  Sam cut him off. “And she’s related to Lavert Washington, isn’t she? Harry’s friend?”

  “That’s what he said,” said George. “Lavert’s second cousin. Maybe second, once removed. But isn’t that wonderful? I remember you’re so fond of Lavert.”

  “That’s right. I’ve always been crazy about chefs who also chauffeur for the mob.” But the truth was, she was crazy about Lavert Washington. “So I guess that means Lavert’s going to Atlantic City to cheer his cousin on, and Harry wanted to go, too? Thought it’d be one big party? That’s why he put you all up to this?” Sam had gotten up quite a head of steam for a knife-stabbed woman. But if there was anything in this world she hated, it was being manipulated.

  The three southern gentlemen—Uncle George, Malachy, and Hoke—looked at her in astonishment.

  “Put us up to what, Sammy?” Hoke said finally.

  “Shut up, Hoke. I’m going to kill that boy. Kill Harry. Kill him! And you should be ashamed of yourself, Mr. Champion. Guilt-tripping me like this.”

  “Doing what?” Malachy cupped his ear like he didn’t understand, but she could see the little grin slipping around the corner of his mouth.

  “Forget it,” she said. “Okay. You win. I’ll do it. And then”—she hung on that last word for a long minute—“I’m quitting, Hoke. I swear to God. This is the last straw. I’ll do your damned pageant, not for you, but for Malachy, and get him his Miss America autographs, and then it’s over and out. Speaking of which, clear out of my bedroom, all of you.” She reached for the phone as if it were loaded with live lead. “I’ve got a few choice words to say to someone in New Orleans.”

  But in the end, after she’d finished blowing off steam, she thought, What the heck? Atlantic City was on the water, right? And a long weekend with Harry was a long weekend with Harry.

  “We’re gonna have such a good time, pretty lady,” he’d said in his sweet, husky voice when she stopped yelling at him.

  Besides which, that day Skeeter Bosarge had risen up behind her like a bad dream, she’d thought she’d never live to see September. Every day after that one, even if she did something silly with it, was a gift.

  1

  However, less than twelve hours into it, Sam turned to Harry in their huge round bed and said, “I can’t tell if it’s the pageant or Atlantic City, but I feel like I’m on Mars. Tell me I haven’t fallen off the wagon again, Harry.”

  “No way, sugarplum. Probably the pink satin. It’s making me bilious.”

  And certainly there was a gracious plenty of that in their high-roller suite. On the walls, swagged up to the center of the ceiling, where it was pinned by an awful crystal chandelier that was probably left over from the Taj—Donald Trump let the Monopoly decorator have it cheap. There was even a pink satin dust ruffle–like affair around each of three toilet seats and the two matching bidets.

  “Why couldn’t they just give us a nice little Holiday Inn-ish room, Harry? A room for normal people?”

  “Hell, they thought they were doing us a favor. I personally think it’s kind of fun.” Harry reached over and punched the remote control that opened the heavy rose drapes. “Ta-dah. The Atlantic Ocean. Doesn’t that make you happy? Look at Harpo, he loves it.” Sam’s little blond and white Shih Tzu wagged his tail at the mention of his name, then gave Harry a hard look. The man was in his bed.

  *

  Maybe this was what Atlantic City and the casinos did to you. It was in the water.

  “Sucker bet,” said the Inquirer.

  “Ho ho ho. Define your terms.”

&
nbsp; “By the end of this week you’ll be a bona fide Miss America enthusiast. You’ll see that the pageant is not what you think, nor the girls.”

  “We’re talking major redeeming values?”

  The blonde nodded.

  Sam shook her hand. “You’re on, cookie. I hope you’ve got a sugar daddy tucked away who can afford your flights of fancy.”

  “Marks like you, I don’t need him.” The blonde grinned. Then, “Uh-oh. Get ready. Here she comes.”

  “Who?” The room had filled. Sam craned her neck.

  Why, Miss America, that’s who. And there she was, live and in color, the outgoing Miss A, Lynn Anderson, a very pretty young woman in a scarlet suit. She really was stunning. Sam hadn’t expected that. Her complexion was gold-brown velvet. Her dark hair curled in a boyish bob. Her eyes were Hershey’s chocolate with almonds. Well, maybe she was no brain surgeon, but she certainly was beautiful.

  Miss A was introduced by Barbara Stein, a bubbly little redhead in a bright yellow dress who was the pageant’s executive director. Barb explained that Lynn was going to talk for a few minutes about the judging procedures, and then they could ask questions of the preliminary judges themselves. On cue, the door opened, and the seven judges made their entrance. The tallest of the women, and she was very tall, waved at several members of the press, who called her name.

  “Eloise Lemon, a Miss America from the sixties,” the Inquirer whispered. Oh, yes. She was one of the last ones Sam remembered before she’d grown up and stopped watching the pageant.

  Now Miss America stepped up front and in a beautifully modulated voice said: “The Miss America Pageant is not a beauty contest.”

  Oh, yeah? Sam stifled a snort. Beside her the Inquirer nodded along—a self-evident truth.

  Then Miss A did it again: “I want to emphasize this point because it’s really important. The Miss America Pageant is not a beauty contest.”

  The sentiment would have been a lot easier to swallow if it weren’t coming from the lips of one who was not only gorgeous but built like a brick shithouse.

  “There are so many other qualities the judges are looking for.” Miss A lowered her volume and raised the wattage of her smile. They’d probably taught her how to do that in one of those pageant schools Sam had read about. “There’s so much more than a pretty face she’s going to need to get her through this very exciting but very tough year.”

  Miss A paused, her own gorgeous dusky kisser a perfect deadpan. She really wasn’t kidding.

  “Now”—she turned to the judges—“I’m not saying you ought to choose a dog, no matter how bright she is.”

  They laughed. There was an awful lot of bonhomie in this room. If it was going to be like this all week, Sam was going to need some insulin.

  “But it’s grueling as well as wonderful. Miss America’s reign begins with a press conference fifteen minutes after she’s crowned, another one Sunday morning, and she’s in the NBC studio in Manhattan at five-thirty A.M. Monday for her appearance on the Today Show.”

  So give Miss A three points for preparedness. Sam made a note. “She’ll do the networks, radio, magazine interviews, the fittings for her traveling wardrobe; then she hits the road. And she better hit it with her running shoes on. Sure, she’ll have that sparkly crown and some beautiful gowns along with her, as well as her traveling companion, but none of that’s going to save her when the first gentleman”—she leaned into the word, turning and smiling at the judge nearest her, who was handsome, Sam thought, if you liked the smarmy type—“asks her the Big Question in front of an auditorium jammed with people.”

  Sam scanned her press release. This gentleman was Kurt Roberts, New York fashion and celebrity photographer. Most of the other judges seemed to be old hands on the pageant circuit, but there was no mention of his prior duties in that area.

  “What’s the big question, Lynn?” Mimi Bregman, a large, jolly white-haired judge who looked like Mrs. Santa Claus in a red tent dress, beat the press to the punch.

  Miss America winked at Mimi, then aimed her million-dollar smile back at Kurt Roberts. “Do you believe in premarital sex?”

  “And how do you answer?” the photographer drawled, exhaling smoke through his perfect nose. Make that perfect nose job. Tall, lanky, he was good-looking in a self-satisfied sort of way. With his slick dark-blond ponytail, pastel Armani tailoring over a black T-shirt, turquoise bracelet, he looked like he’d watched too many episodes of “Miami Vice.”

  “No, I asked you that question, Mr. Roberts,” Miss America purred.

  Everybody laughed, including Sam. Everybody except Roberts, who narrowed his pale eyes. Mean eyes, thought Sam. What was going on between him and Miss A? She made a note. You could never tell what might turn into a story, and God knows with this twaddle, she was going to need anything she could scrounge.

  “What they ask me is how does it feel to be the first Black-Vietnamese Miss America, and I say, ‘Just great, thank you,’ and then try to steer them on to something more important—like my platform.”

  Give the girl two points for spunk.

  But the moment passed, and Miss A was spieling off the short version of her “platform” speech. The pageant now required each contestant to champion a “socially relevant” cause.

  “I’ve tried to tell young people that they have to assume responsibility for their lives. That they need to put down the drugs, get off their duffs, figure out what their business is, and get on with it. No excuses. None whatsoever that’ll wash with me, the daughter of a black American soldier whose real name my mother didn’t know when he left her, alone and pregnant in Saigon. We were boat people, my mother and I, and if I can make it, I can graduate magna cum laude from Berkeley, you can make it.” Miss A pointed a pretty finger at the judges, and they all, including Kurt Roberts, sat up straighter.

  Not bad. Okay, a tad too much flag-waving, but Sam was at least interested. She’d always been a sucker for a good immigrant story.

  “Now, here’s how the system works.” Barbara Stein picked up when Lynn left off. “Our blue ribbon panel of preliminary judges started the preliminary interviews Sunday, finishing up just about an hour ago. The scores they give the girls for interview will carry over to the final Saturday night judging—”

  “By the A team,” judge Mimi Bregman interjected.

  “The celebrity panel.” Barbara Stein, who was tougher to derail than an Amtrak express, corrected her. “The preliminary judges’ scores on interview carry over for thirty percent of the total scoring Saturday night. And, of course, it’s they who determine the ten finalists from whom the celebrity panel will select the four runners-up and Miss America.”

  The other preliminary judges included two old hands from state pageants, both named Bob, both from the Midwest. Each was soft, round, fortyish, and pale and looked as if he should have been left in the oven a little longer.

  Julian Temple, a flamboyant peacock of an older man, complete with cape and silver-headed cane, had directed the Miss Mississippi pageant for 32 years, by God.

  Eloise Lemon, on Julian’s right, a Miss America from South Carolina, the tallest winner ever at six foot one, was still quite beautiful, and funny. “We have been working so hard,” she drawled. “And I, frankly, am sick of these other judges’ faces. We’ve been locked up together for days. It’s so nice to see yours,” she said to the press. “With those wickedly cynical grins. I know you just can’t wait to ask us some horribly rude questions.”

  “Don’t let Eloise make you think we’ve been at one another’s throats.” That was the last judge heard from, Cindy Lou Jacklin. About thirty, also quite tall, blond, green-eyed, and pretty in a glitzy, frosted sort of way, she was a former Miss Ohio.

  “Cindy Lou made ten,” said the Inquirer.

  That meant, Sam was already beginning to pick up the lingo, Cindy Lou had been one of the ten finalists the year she’d tried for Miss A. Now, according to the release, she did the weather in Orlando. Probably still h
ad her eye on the Big Time, newswise. Definitely had her eye on Kurt Roberts, unless Sam was misreading her body language. Cindy Lou couldn’t seem to turn away from him.

  “Now, at the risk of being called Miss Bossy, I want to remind you again how terribly important these interviews are,” said Barb. “Once again, the interview scores count thirty percent of the total and are carried over into the scores Saturday night, so that they’re crucial in determining the final winner.” Finally she opened the floor to questions.

  “Eloise, how do you think the pageant’s changed since you became Miss America?” someone called from the back.

  “The girls are better educated, more articulate, better read, just better informed, more well-rounded perhaps than we were.”

  “But still they’re judged in swimsuits.”

  “The girls make an appearance in swimsuits, yes. But they’re not photographed on the beach in them. And they no longer do that loooooong fanny shot on TV.”

  “Would you like to see them done away with completely?”

  “Do away with their swimsuits? Then, honey, what would you have them wear? Their birthday suits?”

  Everyone laughed. But the questioner persisted. “Seriously, Eloise, doesn’t the swimsuit competition make you uncomfortable? Didn’t it then?”

  “Then? You mean back in the ‘dark ages’?” Eloise paused for the laugh, which didn’t come. “Seriously? No. But then, you’re talking to someone who’d do anything, who had plastic surgery, to become Miss America.”

  The crowd murmured in surprise.

  “Oh, yes. I was only five foot seven before. I had six inches grafted into my calves.”

  It took them a moment to realize Eloise was pulling their legs.

  “Speaking of cosmetic surgery, do you ask them in the interview,” another reporter asked, “about any reconstructive work they might have had?”

  “Hardly,” sniffed Julian Temple, who looked like he might have had a tuck or two himself. “There are much more interesting things we’d rather hear them talk about.”