Queen of Murder

The judges and host returned to the stage to the sound of Covergirl, while the impatient spectators cheered. Jenna had also been surprised by the variety of folks in the audience, with all ages, races, and gender representations sitting side by side sporting smiles on their faces. She had expected the inked, rainbow-clad younger crowd, the flamboyant gays and their female friends, but there were older people in conservative suits, grandmothers, and families with children all here to support their local—and regional—drag queens. There’s a whole lot more in here cheering than out there jeering, she decided as satisfaction rolled through her.

“Welcome back, everyone,” Colin greeted. His plastered smile hadn’t faded all evening. “I must remind you about no flash photography and please remain in your seats while each contestant walks the catwalk so those around you can enjoy the show. And what a fabulous second half we have in store. First tonight, I’m privileged to present the one, the only, Pansy Craze.”

The spotlight shone on an exquisitely elegant mixed-race performer sporting 1920’s showgirl fashion, a jet bob, and a long cigarette holder in a gloved hand. She glimmered in gold and black with over-the-top plumage on her head and a feather boa dangling from one arm. Owning the runway, she sissied her walk to the sounds of Louis Armstrong’s Ain’t Misbehavin’ in stilettos that made Jenna’s feet hurt just to look at.

“Wow,” Randi exhaled into her ear. “She embodies the flapper era showgirl and still adds her own pizazz. You know, her stage name is so clever because historically—”

Jenna pressed a finger to Randi’s lips. “One night without a history lesson, if it’s OK with you.”

“Sorry.” Randi wilted with embarrassment, prompting Jenna to give her hand a squeeze.

“Tell me on the way home,” she suggested in consolation. “I don’t want to miss anything.”

“Fair enough,” chirped her once again bright-eyed partner. Jenna adored Randi’s engaging brown eyes that brimmed with equal parts childlike wonder and sage intelligence.

Jenna marveled at the prance the slender, average-height drag queen achieved and how effortless she made it appear. The crowd went wild clapping when, before she swished behind the curtain, Pansy Craze blew everyone a kiss.

“Next, I present to you an Alabama transplant, Roanoke’s own Azalea Trayle,” Colin crooned.

Studying Randi’s student, Jenna concluded he made a striking woman, even if her walk was less polished than Pansy’s. However, the runway look was an imaginative cross between Scarlet O’Hara and the French cancan legend Louise Weber, with countless lace petticoats and a similarly laced parasol.

“Isn’t she fabulous!” Randi gushed. “And Chris is pretty as a boy, too. You know, he made that costume—”

Jenna shushed her so she could hear the southernized version of Sparkling Diamonds from Moulin Rouge. Randi made a mouth-zipping motion, prompting a chuckle from Jenna.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the District of Columbia’s Miss Anthrope.”

The petite Vietnamese queen glided out in a rhinestone-studded, pearl-beaded two-piece, barely-there costume with white gloves running past her elbows. Jenna marveled at how the performer balanced a golden, authentic-looking cultural headdress on whirling, stiff braids of a black wig while casually swinging her hips, crossing one high-heeled foot in front of the other to the rhythm of uniquely Vietnamese instruments, including the bamboo flute, which Jenna recognized. She spun and struck poses fearlessly, and the elaborate headpiece never wavered. Animated applause followed.

Just as the host stood to announce the next contestant, a man in a black jumpsuit like a stagehand might wear rushed out and whispered something in his ear. Jenna recognized the horror in Colin’s stunned expression as he covered the microphone.

“I wonder what’s wrong?” Randi whispered.

A cop’s intuition tightened in Jenna’s gut as her imagination spun. She gave Randi’s hand a squeeze.

“Excuse the interruption,” Colin said, absent his trademark grin. “We have a slight delay.” Then he followed the worker off stage, accompanied by uneasy murmurs from the crowd.

Jenna was about to respond to Randi when she felt the phone vibrate in her pocket. She held up a finger and fished it out to read a text message from Murphy. ‘Come backstage. I’ve got the scene secured. There’s been a murder.’

Her eyes were hard when they met Randi’s. “Sorry, love. I’ve got to go to work.”

“Really? Now?” Randi’s expression was pleading. “Where?”

“Here, backstage. That was Officer Murphy, and someone’s been killed.”

A shadow of desperation covered Randi’s face as she stood with Jenna, gripping her hand even tighter. “Chris? It couldn’t have been Chris. Oh, Jenna, I have to go with you. I won’t be in the way, but he’s my student. I must know if he’s all right. Maybe I could even assist you until your team gets here.”

Jenna’s first impulse was to say absolutely no way, but seeing how scared Randi looked, and knowing how capable she was in an emergency, she simply nodded and led her past the spectator’s feet to the aisle, down front, and out the door nearest stage right.