22

Sam wasn’t the least bit surprised Miss New Jersey took swimsuit. You could smell the excitement in the crowd when she’d stepped out on the stage with her platinum curls, big red smile, cleavage that ate Kansas. It made chills run up and down your spine, how much she looked like Marilyn, even down to the Jell-O-on-springs wiggle.

But she was surprised, amazed even, to see Billy Carroll standing in for Gary Collins. He was pretty awful. Phyllis George looked like she wanted to die—or kill him.

She was also surprised that Sally Griffin, the silver-haired beauty strategist from North Carolina, hadn’t shown up this evening. In her seat, flashing the badge she said Sally had loaned her, though Sam had to wonder why, was Mary Frances DeLaughter, Ph.D., the tall skinny redhead she’d seen outside Barbara Stein’s office whining about being robbed.

She was whining now, too. “These seats aren’t nearly as good as I thought they’d be. You have to kind of crane your neck—”

Which ought to be pretty easy for someone with a neck like hers. The V-necked tan blouse she was wearing didn’t do a thing for her. It was too bad Sally wasn’t here to do a little fashion consulting. Up on the stage Miss Minnesota was pounding out an abbreviated version of the Moonlight Sonata. Sam, whispering, introduced herself to Dr. DeLaughter. It never hurt to be polite. You could never tell where your next story might come from.

“Oooooh,” said Mary Frances. “I know you. I was in England researching serial murderers, and your name came up.”

See? The context wasn’t so nice, but Sam was rather an expert. She’d been a young reporter in the Bay Area in the seventies when there was a bumper crop of killers who went for quantity.

“Oh, yes. Everyone knew your name. It was bandied about among the feminist crowd at Oxford.”

Well. That would give the young whippersnapper from the Inquirer something to think about. Definitely a cut above this nonsense. Maybe instead of a true crime book, after she left the paper, she’d think about doing some research—

“And the case you made in your book for the sterilization of men who don’t support the children they’ve already spawned, well, I needn’t tell you—”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It was brilliant! Absolutely brilliant. Though I think maybe sterilization is too gentle. Castration would be more the ticket.”

“Mary Frances? I think you—”

“Now don’t be modest. I hate modesty.”

So did Miss Kentucky. Up on the stage the girl did a baton-twirling number in a costume that left nothing to the imagination. “Mary Frances, I didn’t write a book. Certainly not that book.”

“You didn’t?”

“You must have me confused with somebody else.”

“Really? Oh. Then, you mean you’re nobody?”

“Well, I don’t know that I’d—” But what was the point? Especially with the Inquirer snickering into her root beer. Sam was glad someone had mugged this twit. She hoped her belongings were floating out in the Gulf Stream right now.

“And now, Lucinda Washington, Miss Louisiana, who’s gonna show us how to really make a bunny hop! A magic bunny, that is!” Billy Carroll was shouting. He could make the Lord’s Prayer sound like a game show promo.

But even he couldn’t touch Lucinda. She glided, a black swan in a gown of molten silver, onto center stage to Pachabel’s “Canon in D”. A large purple velvet cloth edged with gold lay across her right forearm. In her left palm sat a large silver ball.

The music rose, Lucinda smiled, took the ball into her right hand to show you. It wasn’t attached.

Then she tucked the silver ball into the crook of her left forearm, about breast height. She pulled the velvet cloth tight with both hands and the ball rolled back and forth across the top of the cloth.

The audience went oooooh!, and the ball rolled right over the edge and hid beneath the purple velvet. It bumped around like a child under a sheet looking for a way out.

Awwwwwh! the crowd cooed. Lucinda had them, if not the ball, in the palm of her hand.

Then the silver globe floated out again, and hung in thin air.

Lucinda tucked the purple velvet into her right hand, then opened the hand. The cloth was gone.

Good riddance! The ball bobbled up and down.

The audience was delighted. Then the ball snuggled up to Lucinda, as many in the audience would have liked to do, danced up her right arm, kissed the back of her neck, then rolled down her left shoulder. It floated out from her fingertips, out, out, out (an impossible distance, said a master magician in the audience to his wife) over the heads of the judges.

And though they were supposed to maintain their cool no matter what, Julian Temple reached for the ball while Eloise Lemon whooped with delight.

The silvery globe twirled around the judges’ heads once, twice, while the crowd ooohed. Finally it floated back to Lucinda, who made the purple cloth reappear in her right hand and lassoed the ball.

Snared in the purple velvet, the ball struggled, it fought, until Lucinda flung the velvet wide, and, instead of the ball, out poured a cascade of shiny golden ribbons that pooled on the floor.

The silver ball was gone. The purple drape floated down.

Lucinda curtsied and smiled. She’d never said a word. It had been a spectacular performance, graceful as the most delicate ballet.

The crowd went berserk. Magic! Magic! Magic! they called. They clapped their hands and stomped their feet.

The Inquirer shouted over the din. “What was that?”

The Zombie was the name of the trick. But Magic! was what the crowd shouted. Magic! was the one they loved.