Dressed to Confess

by Diane Vallere

  “I don’t know.”

  “I suggest you find out. We can’t hold this thing up for much longer.”

  I turned back around and faced the remaining dancers. The cluster looked at me.

  “Who’s missing?” I asked.

  “Who do you think?”

  I looked at the women and inventoried their mask colors. “Have any of you heard from her since this afternoon?” I asked.

  “You saw her take off after the performance. She just wants attention. She thinks she’s the whole act, but she’s not,” Jayne said. “If she doesn’t show, we’re done.” She snatched the wig off of her head and tossed it onto her duffel bag. “We should have known not to trust Ronnie again. Look what happened the last time we performed.” She wrapped her robe around her and knotted the belt tightly, and then turned around and stormed down the back stairs. A few seconds later, the scent of cigarette smoke wafted through the air.

  “Is there something else going on here that you need to tell me?” Mayor Young asked. “Because there’s a whole town waiting to see a performance by the Domino Divas. No—not a town. This is bigger than Proper City. There are fans from out of state out there. A couple of Las Vegas talent scouts too. If there’s been something brewing between the divas that caused this delay, I will hold them personally accountable for the loss of income from the festival and for any negative press that colors the mayoral office. That crowd out there expects a performance by the original Domino Divas and they’d better get it. Or else.”

  “Which means there are only two options: postpone the show or find Ronnie.”

  “There is one other option: find a replacement act.”

  “The crowd is expecting the divas. We have to find Ronnie.”

  My words fell on deaf ears. Jayne returned, smelling vaguely of an ashtray. I walked to the front to see the audience. Row upon row of folding metal chairs had been set up for the occasion. Twice as many as earlier. Not only were they filled, there were people standing as well. The nostalgia craze was sweeping the nation, and the mayor’s office had been promoting the upcoming Domino Divas performance for weeks. If the dancers didn’t deliver, they’d never hear the end of it.

  “Did anybody call her?”

  “I left her three messages,” said one of the dancers.

  “I texted her twice,” said another.

  “Did anybody check her trailer?” I asked. They looked at each other and shook their heads. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

  I left the park and waited for the light to change before crossing the street. Something about what Jayne had said struck me as odd. Before I could figure it out, the signal went green. Something blue lay on the sidewalk in front of me. A car drove past, creating a breeze that caused the blue item to skip along the sidewalk and then roll under the trailer. By the time I got closer, I recognized that it was a domino mask. I was about to squat down to retrieve it when the door to the trailer slapped against the latch. It hadn’t been closed properly.

  I tapped on the aluminum door and called out Ronnie’s name. When she didn’t answer, I pulled the door toward me and peeked my head inside. And that’s where I found Ronnie Cass partially dressed in her black and white domino game piece costume, slumped in a folding chair. A stream of fresh blood trickled down the side of her head from under her black pixie wig.

  Chapter 3

  I TURNED AROUND and hung my head out the door of the trailer. “Help!” I yelled. “Somebody, help! Call the police! Call an ambulance! Help!” A few people at the festival looked in my direction. I waved my arms and yelled again. One woman waved back. It was clear that she couldn’t hear me.

  I went back into the trailer. Maybe Ronnie wasn’t dead—maybe she’d tripped and fallen and knocked herself out and then pulled herself up into the chair? As unlikely as it was, I couldn’t accept the alternative. I reached for her wrists to check her pulse. Her body tipped forward and the black wig fell from her head. Her light brown hair was matted with caked blood.

  I looked up and around the interior of the trailer. There had to be a phone. I looked over surfaces covered in silk robes, feather boas, pantyhose, and nightgowns, until I spotted a cell phone on the counter. I stepped past Ronnie’s body to grab it and called 911.

  “This is Margo Tamblyn. A woman is dead. Send the police.”

  “Stay on the line,” the operator said. I heard her fingers tapping on the keyboard. “Tell me what happened.”

  “I’m in a trailer parked on the corner of Main Line and Rapunzel Road. One of the Domino Divas—they’re the dance troupe that’s supposed to be performing at the Sagebrush Festival right now—is dead. Please send the police—”

  “How do you know she’s dead?” she asked.

  “There’s no pulse. And she has a head wound. And there’s a lot of blood.” I felt myself go light-headed and looked away from Ronnie. I reached out for the countertop to steady myself and something jabbed the palm of my hand. “Ouch!” I said. I shook my hand and a small sewing needle with red thread dropped from the fleshy part of my palm to the floor.

  “What happened?” the operator asked.

  A tiny dot of blood appeared on my palm and I rubbed it against the hip of my tennis outfit. “Nothing. Please send help. Hurry!”

  Click click click went her fingers. “Stay right where you are. The police are on their way.”

  The trailer smelled of musk and copper, an unpleasant combination that spoke of Ronnie’s life and death. I had to get fresh air. I turned around and went out the door, gulping deep breaths, trying to calm my racing heart. The small prick in my palm itched. I scratched at it as I stumbled onto the street, and then leaned against the white brick building on the corner and closed my eyes. Images of Ronnie filled my mind. I opened my eyes. Something didn’t seem right with the memory.

  I took a deep breath and held it as I reentered the trailer. Ronnie remained in the chair. An empty glass sat on the table next to her. Amber pill vials were scattered about on the table and the floor. She was slumped forward, thanks to me checking for a pulse. Her wig now lay on the floor by her feet. Inexpensive glossy black synthetic hair fanned out against the striated rubber floor. Cabinets were open, exposing shelves of more prescription bottles. I closed my eyes and tried to picture what had happened. She’d been getting ready for her performance when someone had come into the trailer and hit her over the head and killed her. Had she taken prescription drugs prior to performing? Had she been fully dressed in costume when her attacker arrived? If so, it would have been hard for someone to know which diva she was. Had she been the intended victim, or had someone made a mistake?

  The blow to the head had been fatal. If there had been a mistake, it had been one of identity, not of intent. Whoever had struck her had done so with the goal of taking a life.

  The trailer was a mess, which made it hard to know if there had been a struggle, if someone had searched for something, or if Ronnie was a slob. Glasses sat inside the small sink. A boa lay in a pool of shocking pink feathers. A teddy bear from Money Changes Everything sat on the kitchen table, the red stitching along the base of his head loose, with tufts of gray stuffing poking out.

  Sirens grew close. Car doors opened and shut. I backed away from Ronnie toward the door and ran right into Detective Nancy Nichols.

  “Ms. Tamblyn, I need you to leave the scene. Please wait outside,” she said.

  “But—”

  “I’ll take your statement in a moment.”

  Nancy Nichols was a no-nonsense officer of the law who had been reassigned to Proper City shortly before I returned to town. She was built like a pro volleyball player and had either been blessed with the sun-kissed blond hair and the even tan to go with it or she’d embraced the look with the help of professionals. I’d first met her when a client of Disguise DeLimit had been murdered at his own birthday party and Ebony had been the number one su
spect. I wanted to dislike Nancy for a lot of reasons, but she’d shown me compassion when I’d needed it and that made things muddy. At the moment, I accepted that I’d wanted to find Ronnie’s dead body about as much as Detective Nichols had wanted me to, so I stepped out of the trailer and waited for her to join me so we could wrap this up.

  Two uniformed officers stood on the sidewalk. I scanned the street. “Did one of you pick up the blue mask that was out here?” I asked.

  “What mask?”

  “It’s a domino mask.” They looked at each other and then at me, apparently not familiar with the term. “It’s a half mask, the kind that comes to the tip of the nose and covers the cheeks.” I held my hands up to either side of my eyes, thumbs down and fingers up, showing them what I meant. “That’s what the Domino Divas wore to perform—that’s where they got their name. When I crossed the street, I saw a blue one on the sidewalk. It might be a clue.”

  The men looked at the sidewalk. There was nothing on it. “You sure?”

  “Maybe it blew under the trailer.” When neither officer made a move to look, I squatted to look. Even though there were aqua bloomers under my tennis outfit, I was too modest to bend over. I straightened up.

  “You sure it wasn’t a leaf?” the taller of the officers said.

  “I know what I saw,” I said.

  Detective Nichols returned to the sidewalk and instructed the two officers to secure the scene. She turned to me. “Ms. Tamblyn, what brought you to this trailer?”

  “The Domino Divas are—were—scheduled to perform at the festival tonight. Ronnie didn’t show for the performance. The mayor wasn’t happy, and I’ve been helping Ebony manage them, so I came here looking for her.”

  “Why the trailer? What made you think she’d be here?”

  “This is her trailer. Ronnie didn’t seem to want to socialize with the others after rehearsal, so I thought—it just made sense.”

  Detective Nichols made a note on her tablet. “What made you go inside?”

  “The door wasn’t closed properly. I tapped on the door and called out to Ronnie. When there was no answer, I looked inside.”

  “And what did you see?”

  “She was slumped in the chair. There were pill vials on the counter and table. I didn’t know if she had passed out or worse. I checked her pulse—her wig fell off when I grabbed her wrist—but it wasn’t there. The pulse, not the wig. The wig is on the floor next to the pink boa.” I pictured the wig, fanned out against the floor.

  “Are you trained in CPR or emergency treatment?” the detective asked.

  “No, but—”

  “Then you should have left her trailer and called for help.”

  “I did call for help. I hung out the door and yelled as loud as I could but everybody is at the festival and they couldn’t hear me and it’s dark out here. It can’t be much past seven. Why is it so dark out here?” We both looked up at the closest streetlight. The bulb was out. “I went back inside and called you from her phone.”

  “Where’s your phone?”

  “In my booth at the festival.”

  Detective Nichols hooked her stylus to her tablet and tucked it under her arm. “Tell me again how you knew Ronnie would be here?”

  “I came here this afternoon.” I dropped my voice. “She and Jayne Lemming had a fight during the rehearsal. Mayor Young wanted to make sure they wouldn’t air their dirty laundry at the festival.”

  Detective Nichols stayed silent and watched me. I felt awkward and self-conscious under her stare.

  “What does the mayor have to do with this?”

  “Mayor Wharton Young has been all over this performance. He even hired a publicist to maximize exposure for Proper City. He’s the one who negotiated the Domino Diva contract with Ronnie.”

  Nancy turned her tablet on again and made a few more notes. “So you came here to check on her,” she said. “Did you see anything else?”

  “I saw her mask on the sidewalk. A blue domino mask. A car drove past and the draft sent it under the trailer.”

  “Keep going.”

  “The trailer is a mess inside, so I can’t say if there was a struggle. But—” I chewed my lip, nagged by the wig. “She has a head wound, right? So why isn’t there any blood on her wig?”

  Detective Nichols studied my face. “What makes you think there isn’t?”

  “It’s a cheap synthetic wig. We sell them at Disguise DeLimit. If she’d been wearing the wig when she was struck, the blood would have gotten onto the fibers and clumped the strands together, like a glob of peanut butter. But it’s not like that. When it fell off, it landed on the floor and the hair fanned out.”

  She tapped the end of her stylus. “Do me a favor and don’t repeat that part to anybody else.”

  “Why?”

  She didn’t answer. Instead she turned toward the two officers who’d arrived with her. “Did either of you see a blue mask?”

  “No,” they said in unison.

  Nancy scanned the sidewalk, walked over to the trailer, and bent at the waist to look underneath. “No mask,” she said.

  She straightened up and then powered off her tablet again. This time she folded the case shut over it, as if to indicate she didn’t think I’d say anything else of value. She didn’t make a note about the blue mask, the wig, or the possibly inferior housekeeping habits of Ronnie.

  “I might have some follow-up questions. In the meantime, you’re free to go. I think, in light of what happened, somebody should tell the mayor the divas won’t be performing.”

  “Will that somebody be you?” I asked.

  “You deliver the message and have him contact me if he doesn’t believe you. Give him this.” She handed me a card with her name, e-mail, and several phone numbers on it.

  The walk back to the park was a slow, somber one. For a week I’d watched six women who had maintained a zest for life rehearse their show. But now one of those women was dead. Compared to the rest of the divas, Ronnie’s attitude had been sour. She’d been late for rehearsals, complained about the routine, and criticized her costume. Had that attitude motivated someone to take her life?

  And the wig. Detective Nichols didn’t have to answer my question, because I’d answered it for myself. This hadn’t been a case of mistaken identity because Ronnie hadn’t been wearing her wig when she’d been struck. Whoever killed her had done so first and then put her wig on her head to hide the wound. I’d only seen the gash because her wig had fallen off when I’d checked her pulse. That told me the injury was fresh. Detective Nichols telling me to keep quiet about it—that told me that it was a significant observation.

  I reached the stage. Mayor Young was at the back of the crowd talking to a thin blond man in a green floral short-sleeved dress shirt with green tie, green pants, and white shoes. The mayor saw me, said something to the man, and came my direction.

  “Where is she?” he demanded.

  “She’s not coming.” I dropped my voice to a whisper. “Can I talk to you in private?”

  “What do you mean, she’s not coming?” he asked in an equally quiet—but more urgent—whisper. “We have a crowd of over a hundred people here. There’s press out there from six major newspapers. Joel pulled strings to get the tabloids here.” He turned around and looked at the man in the flowered shirt, waved, and gave him a thin smile, and then turned back to me. “Does that no-good tart have any idea how much we’re spending to publicize her act?”

  I put my hand on the mayor’s arm and stepped backward, pulling him a few feet away from the nearest audience members. When it seemed as though we had a pocket of privacy, I broke the news. “Ronnie is dead. Murdered. Detective Nichols is with her now. It would be wrong for the divas to perform without her.” I held out the card that Detective Nichols had given me. “The detective said you should call her if you don’t believe
me.”

  “Murdered?” he asked. “At the festival?”

  “In her trailer.”

  He closed his eyes and stood very still. I was touched. Until now, he’d been so focused on the logistics of the festival and the importance of expanding Proper City’s allure that he’d seemed to lack the qualities attributed to normal human beings. But now, he was noticeably shaken by the news. I looked over his shoulder and beckoned the blond man toward us.

  “The man in the green pants, he’s the publicist, right? I’ll have him notify everybody that the festival has been postponed and—”

  Mayor Young’s eyes popped open. “You’ll do nothing of the sort. The trailer was parked on Rapunzel Road, right? That’s what I agreed to. That’s not part of the PCP, which means it did not happen on festival property. The Sagebrush Festival can continue as planned.”

  “But there was a murder!” I said. Several people looked at me, eyes wide.

  “Those dancers have done enough damage to our town’s reputation. They are in breach of contract and everything I agreed to is null and void. I gave them a chance to rewrite history, but this is too much. They are over in more ways than one.”

  He stormed off, leaving me alone with a crowd of over a hundred, at least six members of the press, and a tabloid reporter, all waiting to see what, exactly, had gotten him so steamed.

  Chapter 4

  AS I WAFFLED between getting on stage and announcing what had happened and looking for a quick place to hide from the potentially angry crowd, the man in the green floral and stripes approached me.

  “Something happened. Good? Bad? I need to know. I can spin it either way. Give it to me straight and I’ll get to work.”

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  “JV Publicity. What’s the news?”

  “‘J-V’? Like junior varsity?”

  “Joel Vanderpoel. It’s a long Dutch last name that nobody remembers so I shortened it.” He held up his fingers in a peace sign. “Peace, Roman numeral five, or scissors.” He tipped his hand and moved his fingers in a snip-snip motion. “Whatever makes you remember me. Now, what’s the skinny on the divas?”