Dressed to Confess

by Diane Vallere

“I’ll do it,” I said. “On one condition.”

  The initial look of success that had flashed across her face froze and morphed into furrowed brows. “Just ’cause you’re gonna be a diva doesn’t mean you get to demand a bowl of green M&M’s like J.Lo.”

  “It’s nothing like that. It’s just—we should retire the blue domino mask and let me pick another color.”

  “I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, but that Ronnie doesn’t deserve to have you fill her domino mask.” She opened her arms and squished me into a tight hug. When she let go, she pulled a CD from her back pocket and handed it to me. “Here’s the music.”

  We worked out the details as best as we could. Ebony said she’d handle the mayor for now. Her eyes glowed with an unspoken idea that she could implement on short notice. I was afraid to ask.

  She picked up her smoothie from the table and swallowed several gulps. “So, you wanna talk about it?”

  “About what?”

  “About finding her body.”

  “How’d you know it was me?”

  “Word gets around.”

  “Does everybody know?”

  “If they don’t, they will soon. It’s not the kind of thing people can keep quiet.” She finished her smoothie and set the empty glass in the sink. “I heard it from Joel V. Truth is, that’s one of the reasons I came to you. I know you’ll respect what happened and you won’t turn it into some kind of opportunity. You’ll do the thing, and then when it’s over, you’ll move on.”

  I glanced at the newspaper on the table. Her words—“turn it into an opportunity”—were exactly what I’d thought when I’d discovered Don’s notes in the trash.

  After Ebony left, I called Don and left a vague message on his voice mail. I dressed in yellow tights and a yellow and black striped bumblebee costume. Instead of stuffing the body with pillows to make it full and round like I suggested to the people who rented it, I cinched it with a wide black belt and slipped on black ballet flats. I poured what was left of my smoothie into a bright yellow plastic tumbler and went downstairs. When I reached the store, I slipped on a yellow plastic hair band that had two antennae attached to the top. The antennae bobbled around over my head while I finished my smoothie.

  Almost everything I owned was in some part a costume, thanks to the costume shop. I’d been wearing clothes from our inventory for as long as I could remember, and if high school peer pressure hadn’t changed me, then I doubted anything would. You can take the girl out of the costume shop, but you can’t take the costumes off the girl. That was my motto.

  I unlocked the front door to the store and a hot breeze swept over me, like someone had left a fan inside a preheated oven. I rolled the racks of boas onto the sidewalk. Soot assisted. He wasn’t the most active of cats on a regular basis, but this morning the neon feathers were too great a temptation. I made a sign that read: INDULGE YOUR INNER DIVA! And then, regretting the choice of words, threw it out and made up a new one. INDULGE YOUR INNER GLAMOUR GAL! FEATHER BOAS: $7 FOR ONE, 2 FOR $10. I fed the sign into a magnetic sign holder, stuck it to the rack, and shooed Soot back inside.

  Since I’d be alone in the store today, I found the supplies needed to make up a domino costume and carried them to a display table out front. After clearing off gold doubloons, a treasure chest, and a couple of colorful parrots that easily attached to the shoulder of the pirate costume, I set to work. First, I traced a series of circles onto black felt and cut them out, stacking them on the edge of the table like poker chips. Next, I rolled out the white felt and, with a tape measure, marked off large rectangular shapes. I cut four rectangles to piece together for the front and back of the costume and four more narrow ones for the sides. The last piece was a white rectangle that I’d attach to the top of the costume with a slit for my head. All in all, it was a pretty easy costume to assemble. As the machine chugged along the fabric, I thought back to yesterday. I kept wondering what had happened between the rehearsal and the performance, and then something hit me like a ton of dominos.

  When I’d talked to Ronnie after rehearsal, there’d been no sign of the slap from Jayne. She hadn’t even mentioned it. I lifted my foot from the pedal and stared at the fabric in front of me. The diva who’d performed at the rehearsal had had red threads on the side of her costume, and I knew why. It wasn’t the costume that I’d made. Ronnie had been dressed to perform when I found her. That meant a non-diva had shown up for rehearsal in her place. Why? Had the diva impersonator been planted to keep us from looking for Ronnie? If I hadn’t gone to her trailer to find her, how long until someone else would have? Or worse: Had the person who had taken her place been the killer, adopting her identity in order to fly under the radar?

  As crazy as my thoughts were, I knew I couldn’t ignore them.

  I called the police station and told the desk sergeant that I had information related to Ronnie’s murder. Minutes later, Detective Nichols arrived at Disguise DeLimit.

  “Ms. Tamblyn,” she said when she entered. She scanned my bumblebee costume but said nothing.

  She wore what I’d come to think of as the Detective Nichols costume: white T-shirt under a black jacket and trousers. Silver chain at her neck. Small hoop earrings hugging her lobes. Silver watch strapped onto her left wrist. Low-heeled shoes that appeared to be both comfortable and practical. If we carried the costume in the store, I’d rent it with a badge, a blond wig, and a tube of lip gloss—scowl optional.

  “I’ve heard you have information that you withheld yesterday,” she said.

  “I didn’t withhold anything. It’s something I remembered—more like worked out—this morning.”

  “I’m listening,” she said.

  “I don’t think Ronnie performed at the rehearsal yesterday. I think the person in the blue domino mask was pretending to be her.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “First of all, she showed up late with her wig and mask in place, so nobody got a good look at her face. She didn’t speak to anybody. And she didn’t seem to know the routine very well, kept bumping into the others.”

  She made a note on her tablet. “What else?”

  “Jayne slapped Ronnie at rehearsal, but when I talked to Ronnie at her trailer, there was no sign of redness on her cheek.”

  “Is that all?”

  “What else do you need? That’s pretty big. The impostor might have been the murderer. Or she was an accomplice, someone who knew what was going to happen. Whoever it was knew what Ronnie would be wearing. Somebody could have killed her, then put on a spare costume and performed as her so nobody knew she was dead. What does the coroner say? Did he come up with a time of death?”

  “Ronnie’s trailer was parked in the sun and wasn’t air-conditioned. Time of death isn’t an exact science, especially in this case. Without evidence, we can’t assume that it wasn’t Ronnie at the festival for the rehearsal.”

  “You can check if the costume she was wearing when she was murdered has red threads on the side. There was a needle with red thread inside the trailer, so probably somebody tore the dress and had to do alterations.”

  “I’ll look into it,” she said. Her voice was calm and controlled.

  “What about the bear?” I asked.

  “What bear?”

  “There was a teddy bear inside Ronnie’s trailer when I found her. But later that night, Chet Lemming had the bear. He said he found it. You secured the scene, right? How did Chet get the bear if it was secured in her trailer?”

  “Chet Lemming?” she repeated. She tapped the end of her stylus and made another note. “He’s Jayne’s husband, isn’t he?”

  “Yes. He said he found the bear lying on a table at the festival, but he could have made that up. I don’t know why he’d be in Ronnie’s trailer, especially after she was murdered and you’d secured the scene, but I can’t figure out any other way for him to get th
at bear.”

  “How do you know it was the same bear?”

  “It had some damage around its neck. Your team took photos inside the trailer, right? Have them check the pictures and see if there was a bear on the table. It was there when I was. If the trailer was secured, they should be able to go in and see if anything else has changed.”

  “Are you advising me on how to run my investigation?” she asked.

  “Detective, I don’t have evidence. I only have what I saw and what I think. I know that’s not enough. I’m trying to help you here.”

  She tucked her hands in the pockets of her trousers and leaned back against a pair of giant foam dice. They toppled over and she stumbled. I’d been planning to redo the windows into a Boggle theme, but hadn’t had a chance to finish the concept.

  “I appreciate you calling me with this information,” she said after she regained her balance. “I’ll send some officers back to Ronnie’s trailer to check things out and compare with the photos.”

  I held out my hand and she shook it. Detective Nichols and I were probably not destined to become friends in the foreseeable future, but what the heck. I could be civil.

  Business was slow. Two ladies came into the store shortly after noon. I helped them choose and reserve ten small princess costumes for their granddaughter’s birthday party. A newly engaged couple came in after them and wandered around, getting ideas for their theme wedding. Before they left, they’d reserved the Dread Pirate Roberts and Princess Butterbean. I hinted around about getting an invite until they confessed they were going to elope to a chapel of love in Las Vegas. A private ceremony in costumes that awesome? Inconceivable.

  I took advantage of the lack of customers to work on the windows. I’d installed a curtain rod directly inside the street-facing display. This way I could redo the windows in private and unveil them when they were complete. The door to the store was next to the window entrance. If any customers arrived, I’d hear the bell over the door and, most likely, see them too. Today I didn’t expect much in the way of foot traffic. Word of Ronnie’s murder would have spread around town. Between that and the festival, people wouldn’t be thinking much about costumes.

  I dressed several mannequins in colorful fishnet tights, white vinyl boots, and sleeveless dresses that curved out from the body and ended above the knee. They were based on the player tokens from the game of Sorry! and would be perfect with Varla’s backdrop. I maneuvered the oversized board game into the window and then set each mannequin on a cart, slid a wooden incline into place, and pushed the cart along the ramp until it was inside. I pulled white bobbed wigs onto each mannequin and finished with oversized bubble hats that matched the color of the dresses. It took a few attempts before I worked out their arrangement, but I got things pretty close. I’d have to check the real Sorry! board game to figure out what other props I could put into the window, but I’d need to see it from the street first. Mostly happy with it, I reached up and pushed the velvet curtains to the side. I hadn’t expected to see a face pressed up against the glass, and I screamed.

  As soon as I recognized Gina Cassavogli, owner of Candy Girls Costume and Party Store, the scream turned into a groan.

  When you have a town of people who entertain in costumes, it stands to reason that sooner or later more than one costume shop will open. Disguise DeLimit had had a long solo run under the original owners and then my dad, but a few years ago, the inevitable happened. Candy Girls, a superstore that carried cheap plastic party props and flammable costumes that came prepackaged, had opened on the opposite side of town.

  Candy Girls had become the go-to employer for the eighteen- to twenty-eight-year-old female crowd. They probably handed out applications during sorority rush. They kept their prices low thanks to their inventory suppliers in China, and somehow reinvented themselves to suit whatever crisis arose in town. At one point they’d added “condolences” to their flyer after costumes and catering—a marketing move that, fortunately, hadn’t gained traction.

  Gina Cassavogli was the store manager. Recently divorced and in her late thirties, she was tackiness personified: caked on makeup, neon high heels, short dresses, and cheap plastic jewelry. Today, she was in all turquoise, including her eye shadow. I would have made a comment, except that I was dressed like a bumblebee. It seemed best to let this one fly. I came out of the window and met her on the street.

  “Getting ideas for your next display?” I asked.

  “Cut the crap, Margo. I know you’re the one who found her and I want to know what happened. The police won’t tell me anything.”

  “Found who? Ronnie?” I asked. “Why are you asking the police about her?”

  Gina paled. “I—she—” Her eyes filled with tears. She raised her hands to her face and brushed away tears as they appeared. “You need to tell me what you saw in her trailer.”

  “What makes you think I saw something? And why do you think I’d tell you?”

  She dropped her hands to her sides. “Because you know what it’s like to lose a parent.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Get with the program, Margo. I thought you were good at figuring things out.” Her voice started out shaky but gained strength. “I mean that Ronnie Cass was my mother.”

  Chapter 7

  I QUICKLY DID the math in my head—or as best as I could without a calculator. Ronnie was in her sixties. Gina was late thirties. The ages fit. Ronnie could have been Gina’s mother. And then I remembered Ronnie’s attitude, her demands, and the way she supposedly treated the other divas. Even if the facial resemblance was hidden under a layer of Gina’s heavy foundation and liberally applied blush, I couldn’t deny that the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” I said automatically. It was a phrase I’d heard my whole life when my father told people that my mother was on another plane. I hated to hear it, but I’d come to respect what it stood for. “When did you find out?” I asked.

  “The police notified me this morning.”

  “Detective Nichols?”

  “No, two officers. Why would I talk to Detective Nichols? Ronnie and I weren’t close. We barely spoke. Why am I telling you this?” She crossed her arms over her turquoise tank top. “I want to know what you were doing in her trailer.”

  “Let’s talk inside the store,” I said. I walked in and Gina followed. Soot crouched by the base of the rack with the boas and hissed at her. She jumped. I turned my head and laughed, and then sobered quickly when I realized that, regardless of her normal disposition, today Gina got a pass.

  “Can I get you anything? Coffee, soda, water?”

  “Stop acting like we’re friends. We’re not. If you weren’t the one to find her, then this conversation would never be happening.”

  “Gina, I know we’re not friends, but you just found out that you lost your mother. It’s completely understandable that you’re angry.”

  “I’m angry because not having a mother at all would have been better than having Ronnie for one. She was self-absorbed and greedy and always had to be the center of attention. All the time. Being late for everything she was ever invited to—attention. Resurrecting the divas—attention. Demanding her own trailer—attention. Sleeping with—never mind. This is so like her.” She looked at my head and then stepped back and scanned the bumblebee outfit. “You are really weird, Margo. You know that?”

  A very small part of me wished I wasn’t wearing the antennae headband, but I wasn’t going to take it off now. “I think you should talk to Detective Nichols,” I said. “She knows everything I know, and I’d rather you heard it from her.”

  “Heard what?”

  “About your mom.”

  “What’s to know? The original act for the festival was supposed to be Clue: The Musical. Only Ronnie convinced the mayor to bring the divas out of retirement instead because of the dom
ino connection. Candy Girls did the costumes for Clue. We should have had the contract for the festival. Even after she made him change everything, we should have done the domino costumes too. How hard do you think it is to sew a couple of circles onto a couple of rectangles? But no. She couldn’t let me share in her limelight.”

  “If another act had already been chosen, how’d Ronnie convince the mayor to change his mind? Was it because the divas would bring in bigger crowds and be better for Proper City?”

  Gina rolled her eyes. “Ronnie doesn’t care about Proper City. She didn’t even care about the festival until she heard the game theme. Next thing you know, it was a done deal. Part of the agreement was that the mayor removed all evidence that the community theater was ever involved. All publicity went to Ronnie. You know the rest of them didn’t even want to do it? I mean, it’s been fifty years. And then, she’s so selfish, she demanded a trailer for herself and she refused to rehearse. She managed to screw her group, me, and the mayor all at the same time.” She swatted at the bright green boa on the end of the rack. “I guess you could say the mayor got screwed twice.”

  “How’s that?”

  “How do you think she convinced him to scrap his original plans and hire the divas in the first place?” She opened her mouth and pretended to stick her finger down her throat, letting me know what she thought of anybody having sex with Mayor Young. “We all should have known better than to expect anything from her.”

  We stood face-to-face for a moment that felt like an hour. “Talk to Detective Nichols,” I said a third time.

  In a swift motion, she grabbed the antennae off my head, threw it to the ground, and stomped on one of the round bobbly balls. The plastic crushed under her heel. She balled up her fists and then stormed out of the store.

  I located a broom and dust bin wedged into the space next to the register and cleaned up the mess. Pictures of car parts had been taped to the inside of the case that held colorful masks and small accessories. Red marker had bled through the back of the page. I flipped it up and saw a phone number below the name Varla. I let the page drop back into place. Kirby’s business, not mine.