PRAISE FOR THE COSTUME SHOP MYSTERIES
“[A] quirky cast of characters, a fascinating setting, a fast-paced plot, and yummy recipes . . . [A] thoroughly appealing whodunit that will keep you guessing all-night long.”
—Kate Carlisle, New York Times bestselling author of the Fixer-Upper Mysteries and the Bibliophile Mysteries
“Both madcap and moving, A Disguise to Die For has the right amount of humor, poignancy, and danger for a most irresistible whodunit. Highly recommended!”
—Naomi Hirahara, Edgar® Award–winning author of the Officer Ellie Rush Mysteries
“A fresh, funny voice, irresistible characters—and oh, the costumes! No disguising the fact that Diane Vallere’s new cozy is a winner.”
—Lucy Burdette, national bestselling author of the Key West Food Critic Mysteries
“An unpredictable mystery that serves to both entertain and spark creativity in readers, who may don a costume just for the joy of it.”
—Kings River Life Magazine
“The book has depth and the plot is solid. The dialogue between the characters is fluid and the story is fast paced. The murderer(s) is hidden among a myriad of potential suspects and isn’t easily figured out . . . Fantastic.”
—Sleuth Cafe
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Diane Vallere
Material Witness Mysteries
SUEDE TO REST
CRUSHED VELVET
SILK STALKINGS
Costume Shop Mysteries
A DISGUISE TO DIE FOR
MASKING FOR TROUBLE
DRESSED TO CONFESS
BERKLEY PRIME CRIME
Published by Berkley
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
Copyright © 2017 by Diane Vallere
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
BERKLEY is a registered trademark and BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the B colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Ebook ISBN: 9780698183452
First Edition: August 2017
Cover art by Mick McGinty
Cover design by Sarah Oberrender
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.
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To anyone who has ever loved a teddy bear, because you understand.
Contents
Praise for the Costume Shop Mysteries
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Diane Vallere
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Recipes
Costume Ideas for a Conspiracy-Themed Party
About the Author
Acknowledgments
The acknowledgments for my first Costume Shop Mystery were very official and, to be honest, didn’t feel like me. And since one of my goals for 2017 is to be authentic, I’m using this space as a do-over.
My lifelong love of costumes can be traced back to a black cat costume that my mom made me in—what was it—kindergarten? From that moment, I’ve defined my own identity through those of others: gypsy, hobo, Indian princess, witch, clown, alien, and more. I’ve suited up as pop stars and B-movie stars, Disney villain and Hitchcock victim, cowgirl, hippie, and more—and not always for Halloween. Every “look” inspired an element of confidence that I otherwise lacked until the elements of costume became part of my style.
I’d like to thank: my parents for buying me a wig for my eighth birthday and not thinking it strange when I wore my dance recital costume to dinner. Josh Hickman for accepting that caftans and go-go boots both have their place in everyday life. Deborah Nadoolman Landis for putting together the most fantastic exhibit of movie costumes that I’ve seen in my life, and the organizers of Malice Domestic for giving me a four-day event where I can dress like a newspaper boy, policewoman, safari hunter, and flapper. And to the good people who attended Left Coast Crime in Phoenix and acted like my clown tie was high fashion.
Bonus mention to Josh, who seemed to enjoy the conspiracy aspect of this book and also taste-tested the spicy acorn treats featured in the appendix. Thanks to Yumiko Hoshiyama for the gracious use of her name, Gigi Pandian, who handed an early draft of this manuscript back to me and pushed me to make it better, and Kendel Lynn, who makes this whole crazy publishing journey a little more sane with her friendship. To the community of Sisters in Crime, who adopted me when I was little more than a writer with a first draft, and elected me their president around fifteen books later. I hope I make you proud.
Thank you to my editor, Katherine Pelz and the team at Penguin Random House, and to my agent, Jessica Faust, who first heard a story about a teddy bear in a Halloween costume and, instead of saying, “Seek professional help,” said, “That’s an idea for a series.” My life (and that of Bear Vallere) has never been the same.
Chapter 1
PARTY PLANNER EBONY Welles stood in the center of Marvin Gardens. Around her feet, additional properties from Monopoly were scattered, along with stacks of oversized salmon-colored Chance and ochre Community Chest cards. She had one hand on her hip, while the other held an old orange walkie-talkie up to her mouth. “There ain’t gonna be no Ouija board and there ain’t gonna be no séance,” she said. “I don’t care if you can conjure up the spirit of Isaac Hayes. I don’t want no ghosts at my festival. You got that, old man?”
The walkie-talkie crackled. “Roger that. Over and out.”
On most days Ebony was the spitting image of Pam Grier, a fact made all the more noticeable thanks to her authentic ’70s wardrobe. Two weeks ago she’d had her Afro chemically straightened, and now her hair hung in feathered waves away from her face à la Charlie’s Angels, which did little to soften her annoyed expression.
She drop
ped her arm and looked at me. “Girl, you would not believe how difficult it is to run a game-themed festival. I’ve bought up every vintage board game in town and half the ones in Moxie too. I’ve taken to reading back issues of Martha Stewart magazines and even have a call in to some foundation director I read about in Southern Living. It’s a wonder I haven’t redone my bathroom in Scrabble tiles.”
“You’ll be fine. The park looks great and nobody can run with a theme like you can.”
“Tell that to the mayor. He’s been breathing down my neck since Monday. I was about to up and quit after the trouble with Trivial Pursuit and now I gotta deal with catfighting dancers and conspiracy theorists.”
“‘Conspiracy theorists’?” I asked slowly. There were two resident conspiracy theorists in our small town: my dad and his friend Don Digby. Seemed the roots of Ebony’s ire were starting to show.
“Your dad and Don Digby talked their way into getting a booth and now who knows what they’re cooking up over there.”
“A booth for what? The festival theme is board games. Our store couldn’t get our own booth. Bobbie gave me a corner of hers to share. I thought my dad knew that.”
She shook her head back and forth and rolled her eyes. “Those two are nothing but trouble when they get together.” Her walkie-talkie squawked before she had a chance to continue. She raised it up to her head. A tinny voice said, “Ebony, the divas are at it again. We need you at the main stage.”
She pressed the talk button. “I’m sending Margo Tamblyn,” she said into the speaker. To me, she said, “Ebony can’t be everywhere at once.” When stressed, Ebony had a habit of talking about herself in the third person. Frankly, based on all of the fires she was putting out, I was surprised it took her this long.
“You sure you don’t want me to handle my dad and Don?”
“Girl, compared to the Domino Divas, those two are pussycats. You got your work cut out for you. Good luck,” she said. She turned away, crossing over the rest of the Monopoly property pieces that lay scattered across the grounds of the Proper City Park.
Ebony was in charge of planning the annual Sagebrush Festival. It took place for two weeks each year around Walpurgisnacht—the end of April into the beginning of May—otherwise known as the calendar opposite of Halloween. In a small town where we celebrated events with costume parties, holidays were celebrated for more than just one day. According to history, Walpurgisnacht was an ancient ceremony to welcome spring and drive away evil spirits. According to the mayor’s press release, it was a community-building, family-friendly event in a public area.
What the mayor’s press release didn’t mention was that over the years, our festival had turned into his biggest cash cow, bringing in money he used to fund his obsession with incorporating the city. Residents proposed themes for the festival, which were voted on at a town hall meeting. This year’s theme was family game night, which explained the large Monopoly properties on the ground. The theme had garnered a significant portion of the votes, but not unanimously, thanks to Don, a self-appointed watchdog for the board game industry.
The hot arid sun of the desert, our own special blessing/curse, combined with the general lack of rainfall, made it impossible to maintain a green park like other cities had. Patches of yellow grass grew here and there, but mostly the public area was comprised of light brown dirt that had been leveled off and tamped down over the years by feet passing through for picnics, cookouts, and the occasional Frisbee game. The festival became the main attraction for anybody who wanted a change of pace from the Las Vegas casinos forty miles to our east.
This morning, it was close to eighty degrees, though the lack of humidity made it tolerable. I was dressed in an old tennis outfit that had arrived at our costume shop with other items left in lost and found at the local country club. The tunic top and skirt were white trimmed with aqua. A small appliqué of intersecting tennis rackets was stitched onto the front, and matching aqua bloomers were under the skirt. I tended to dress in items from Disguise DeLimit, my family’s costume shop, for two reasons: it made me a walking ad for our store, and, frankly, the clothes they sold at the mall were boring compared to how I’d grown up.
Ebony headed toward a red and white striped tent and I went the opposite direction toward the main stage. Located at the east end of the PCP—or Proper City Park for those who never learned to speak in initials—the stage faced a row of open tables and booths, including the one assigned to Disguise DeLimit. We’d been commissioned to create costumes for the festival volunteers and the headlining act in exchange for a prime position in the park.
There’d been a time when the Domino Divas were our town’s dance troupe. From their first Watusi in the ’60s, they built a reputation on elaborate choreography and matching outfits and wigs, and they left behind a case of trophies, blue ribbons, and a collection of domino masks in the front lobby of Proper City High School where they’d been enrolled. The colorful satin masks were the only thing that kept them from looking identical during performances. Each of the women had her own color, like the bad guys in Reservoir Dogs except without the “Mr.” The masks had done more than hide their identity; it had provided one. In their heyday, the Domino Divas epitomized Proper City in competitions across Nevada, and then to the West Coast. Considering we were a town of people who loved to dress up in costume, we couldn’t have picked better representatives.
The real interest in the return of the Domino Divas lie not with their fifty-year-old routine but in the scandal that surrounded them. A robbery at the Proper City Savings and Loan had coincided with their last performance in 1968. The only thing stolen was a block of gold originally owned by Pete Proper, the prospector for whom our town was named. Rumors connected the Domino Divas to the theft, leading them to dissolve the act and go their separate directions. The gold was never found.
The Domino Divas—or Double Ds as people sometimes called them—had agreed to dust off their masks in order to headline the festival. In addition to the costumes for the volunteers, I’d made the dancers black and white dresses that were inspired by domino game pieces. The costumes were white with black felt dots glued on with fabric glue. Felt wasn’t the most forgiving—or sturdy—fabric, but considering the dancers were in their late sixties, I didn’t expect them to have the kind of moves that required Lycra.
Five identically dressed women milled about on the stage. Each wore a black T-shirt with DIVAS written across the chest in sparkly rhinestones. Two wore short black pixie wigs and two had their hair pulled back, one in a ponytail at the nape of her neck, the other in a bun that looked like a doorknob on top of her head. When they were suited up in matching wigs and their domino masks, I had a hard time keeping track of which was which, but today, I had no trouble identifying Jayne Lemming, the self-appointed choreographer of the Domino Divas. A yoga teacher by day, she lived in stretchy spandex: colorful ensembles that coordinated with her sneakers. She had dark brown hair with chunky blond highlights and surgically enhanced cheekbones and lips. She held up a small compact and adjusted the curls on either side of her face. Her domino mask dangled around her neck like a pink satin surgeon’s mask. She clicked the compact shut. “Let’s get started,” Jayne said.
The woman with the doorknob bun crossed her arms in front of her T-shirt. “We can’t start. Ronnie isn’t here yet.”
“We have two choices. Start without her or cancel the whole thing.”
“Wasn’t Ronnie the one who talked us into this?” Ponytail said. “Maybe somebody should have said something then.” A red domino mask was perched on top of her head like a pair of sunglasses pushed up when someone went indoors.
Jayne turned around and shielded her eyes, scanning the festival grounds for signs of the missing member of their group. A few seconds later, she dropped her arm, turned, and followed the other women to the center of the stage. I was about to suggest that they split up and search the common areas
when a woman in a domino costume ran toward us.
“Here she comes now,” I said. Jayne and the others turned to look. The approaching woman was dressed to perform, her short black wig and blue domino mask already in place. She stopped a few feet from the stage and held her arms out to keep anybody from getting too close. She pointed at her throat and moved her hands back and forth, one over the other, in a no gesture. Either that or she was trying to hand jive.
“Ronnie?” I asked.
She nodded but didn’t speak. She moved away from the group to a corner and bent down in a toe touch.
Ponytail and Doorknob pulled on their black wigs, slid their masks over their faces, and took their places on stage. This was it, the final rehearsal before their first performance. I didn’t know how they couldn’t know their routine by now. I’d spent the past week setting up my corner of my friend Bobbie Kay’s booth and I knew the routine. Bobbie owned a nonprofit that sold teddy bears as fund-raisers, and I was fairly sure the teddy bears knew the routine by now too.
“Put on your mask, Jayne,” one of the now-anonymous dancers said.
“I’ll put it on for the performance,” Jayne said. She slid her finger around in a circle over a small iPod and music trickled out of speakers that were hung on either side of the stage. She took her place in the middle of the group, three dancers on one side and two on the other, and they started.
Considering this was their last rehearsal before showtime this afternoon, it was painful to watch. Twice the blue domino turned the wrong way, bumping into Jayne, who pushed her away and then spun her around. I turned my back on them before it could happen a third time and set up a display on my table. One by one, I pulled domino masks out of their plastic wrap and lined them up. Instead of tagging each individually, I’d printed up a sign to sit in the middle: PLAY DOMINOS! DOMINO DIVAS, THAT IS. $5 EACH. FESTIVAL SPECIAL: 5 FOR $20!
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