We also had an apples-and-oranges—or maybe lemons-and-grapefruit—problem: how to compare the various talents. A brown-eyed six-footer tap-danced to “Has Anybody Seen My Gal” (“Five foot two, eyes of blue”) incongruously and despite a shoe that flew off in mid-song, making her sound like a stuttering telegraph machine. A country-and-western guitarist performed her own composition, “You’re Win, Place, and Show in the Derby for my Heart,” despite a broken string, several artificial nails that flew off, and another brief blackout of the stage lights. Another contestant held her breath for three minutes, a useful skill for a scuba diver, I suspect, or a person close to a petulant skunk. One woman did bird imitations, but not being an ornithologist, I don’t know how well she mimicked the corkscrew-beaked sap sipper. Miss Mosque recited a sorah from the Koran in Arabic, but no one knew if it praised Allah, cursed the infidel, or just gave general rules for proper behaviour, such as not wearing brief clothing, even in a beauty contest. She received loud cheers from the feminists brigade–maybe they understood Arabic.
When the display of talent was finished, we averaged our scores and gave them to Ms. Sharapova, who then amalgamated them with the results of the other panel of judges. While this higher mathematical computation was being done, a series of pops, cracks, and booms startled the audience. Someone had let off a string of firecrackers, a fire hazard indoors, but luckily nothing disastrous happened.
After the top three winners were announced, there was the traditional screaming, crying, hugging, and kissing, in which the Mayor took an active role—well the hugging and kissing, at least.
As people ate sandwiches and drank coffee at the post-contest party, I overheard two contestants talking. “I’m sure glad they dropped the spelling bee as part of the contest. I can’t spell for beans.”
“Me neither. But I bet Cleo is even gladder. Remember what a bad speller she was in school? The teacher said she even misspelled her own name when she signed tests.”
“Maybe that’s what kept her out of this contest. She may not have heard they dropped the spelling part.”
I felt guilty eavesdropping, although it was unintentional, but it gave me an idea. I had no trouble finding Cleo: she was offering sandwiches on paper plates and punch in plastic cups, surrounded by toung males, like worshippers before a goddess. How could I get rid of them? I took a sip of my watery drink, then said in a confidential tone, but audibly: “I think someone has spiked the punch.” There was an immediate exodus of Cleo’s congregants, leaving me alone with her.
“I was very disappointed that you were not in the contest tonight, Miss Patter.”
“Well, I . . . like . . .”
“May I have your autograph?” I held out my programme. She signed it.
“Thank you.” I noticed two things: first, she had spelled her name correctly, and second, the calligraphy strongly resembled that on the threatening note. I held out both together.
She blushed, stammered. “I knew . . . I’d never win . . . with the spelling contest, so I didn’t enter. I hadn’t heard it was cancelled. But I . . . hated to see someone else win, so I like . . . tried to wreck the pageant.”
“Well, all you did really was to commit a few acts of mischief.”
I left before her disappointed fans returned and took my evidence to Ms. Sharapova, who decreed: “She’ll certainly be barred from both contests next year.”
“Both?”
“Yes. This year’s pageant went well, so next year we’ve decided to have two: the conventional one and one with only the face showing.” I wondered if any of the protestors would enter.
Maybe beauty is in the eye of the beholder and is only skin deep. But some people have thick skin.
