I followed the trio into the costume shop.
Chapter 9
Entering Masquerade felt like being swallowed by a whale made of glitter. Within the warm, dim space, racks of costumes covered every vertical surface, taking away the very idea of walls, let alone their angle or color. As my eyes adjusted, details popped into focus, from the flamingo-like feather boas to the shimmering reptilian scales of a display dedicated to sequins.
I spotted the familiar cheerleading supplies and went to them, leaning forward to smell the pompoms as though they were pink chrysanthemums. They smelled of plastic and dust.
“Can I help you with anything?” asked the man working behind the counter. He was so tall and thin; he seemed to be standing sideways even though he wasn’t.
“Just browsing.” I ducked behind a rotating carousel rack of sequined costume ball masks. I looked high and low for more top hats but couldn’t spot any other than the one in the window. If I wanted information, I would need to use that powerful investigative tool, the question. I picked out a glittering purple mask with green feathers and brought it to the counter.
“You’re not browsing,” the thin man said.
“I’m not?” My heart started pounding. The tall man had long fingers, perfect for strangling. His deep-hooded eyes narrowed behind a pair of rectangle-shaped glasses that accentuated the length of his thin face.
“Looks to me like you found what you were seeking.” He offered a thin-lipped smile, flicking his dark, deep-set eyes toward the other customers. His angular chin elevated, he asked, “And how are you lovely ladies? Finding your heart’s desire?”
Oblivious to the thunderous pounding of my heart, the woman answered that she was fine and continued to shop, sorting through a rack of ballerina costumes. One of her teen daughters held a phone in her hand and stared at me with round eyes, like a baby owl. Had she gotten the bad news already?
The thin man clicked on a keyboard with skeletal fingers. “Still snowing out there?” he asked.
“The snow’s letting up now.” I meant to set the feathered mask on the counter, but my body disobeyed; I took a step back, clutching the mask to my chest. The man was familiar, a long-time Misty Falls resident. I knew his name but couldn’t think of it because my imagination was too busy picturing his long fingers in action, wrapping a red scarf around people’s throats before choking them.
“You can hang onto that if you like,” he said, nodding at the mask clutched to my chest like a tiny, glittering shield. “I know the code for those masks by heart.” He tapped away at his keyboard as he hummed a tune, the sort of tune that would be a perfect accompaniment for strangling someone.
What was his name? He’d owned the costume shop for years and used to come to the high school often, delivering uniforms. We girls called him something that was both cruel and funny. Creepy Jeepers. We called him Creepy Jeepers because his long-fingered hands moved like spiders, and his real name was something similar.
I set the mask on the counter, glad to have the counter between us, though with the height of him, he could have easily reached those long arms across to strangle me. What was his name? And what had possessed me to go barging around town looking for leads on a murder case? Unlike the police, I had nothing for self-protection snapped to my belt, and the scariest thing inside my purse was an unflattering orange shade of lipstick.
“I’m glad the snow’s let up,” he said. “It’s a balmy day out there. Perfect for building a snowman.”
“A snowman?” My mouth got sticky, but the opening was too good for me not to press on with my original goal. “Funny you should mention a snowman. I was just outside admiring your window display. Do you arrange that yourself, or is there someone you hire, and if so, do they use your materials or supply their own?”
His tongue darted out between his thin lips, wetting them. “You ought to know all about that, Miss Day.”
Miss Day? The way he pronounced my name, it sounded as though he was saying “mistake.” The thought occurred to me that perhaps he was right, and coming into the store seeking clues had been a mistake. The woman shopping with her daughters called out a polite goodbye and left the store, leaving me alone with Creepy Jeepers. At least his real name finally came to me.
“Leo Jenkins,” I said. “Remind me. Why would I know all about your window displays?”
He pulled off his rectangular eyeglasses, leaving scarlet indentations on the bridge of his fine nose. He started cleaning the lenses with a handkerchief.
“Pam Bochenek does my window displays,” he said. “She’s a crafty woman, that Pam. She’s living with your father, isn’t she?”
“Oh, of course. Yes, she’s living with him, temporarily, I think.”
“You think?” Eyebrows in the shape of two flattened bugs rode up, bunching the waxy skin of his forehead. “I hope she gives you a discount on her work.”
“She offered,” I said vaguely. My father’s girlfriend had been hounding me to let her create the displays for my gift shop, but I’d done everything myself, claiming I needed the practice. Pam had a strong work ethic, but her taste was a bit off. She couldn’t tell the difference between things that were so unusual they were cute, like certain breeds of wrinkly pets, and things that were just ugly, like the orange lipstick she’d gifted me with the week before.
Leo Jenkins said, “In fact, Pam was by here earlier this morning to say hello and chat about this and that.” He tilted his rectangular head to the side and donned his equally rectangular glasses. “If you ask me, your new haircut is charming. It really suits your features. You’ve grown up so much since your cheerleader days.”
“Thank you.” I ruffled the hair at the back of my head. It would take a while longer to get used to small-town life and everyone knowing everyone else’s business, not to mention being around people who remembered me as a cheerleader. Those had been busy days, between my studies and after-school activities. I’d also been in the school band, so I’d seen a lot of Leo Jenkins for the uniforms.
“How long has it been?” I asked. “You’ve had this store forever, it seems. The last time I saw you must have been fifteen years ago.”
He leaned forward in a formal bow, nodding his head down to show me the gleaming, fleshy top of his head. “Back when I had hair up here. The good ol’ days, as they say.”
“But you’re so tall, nobody sees the top of your head, anyway.”
He straightened and beamed a wide, skeletal grin at my compliment as he rang up my purchase. I handed over my credit card and became the owner of a purple and green feathered masquerade mask I didn’t need.
He asked, “How are things at the gift shop since you took over? I got a postcard from Rhonda. She’s enjoying her world tour on that big cruise ship.”
“Good for her,” I said. “The store must have been a lot of work when she ran it herself. It couldn’t have been easy running the place with no computerized inventory system whatsoever.”
Jenkins widened his eyes, eager for me to spill juicy details about the former owner of Glorious Gifts, a chatty woman named Rhonda Kennedy—no relation to the famous family. As he waited, I felt a tug of emotion, the compulsion to bond. We had twenty years between us, but now we were the same, both of us store owners. Part of me wanted to befriend Creepy Jeepers, buying gossip credit by sharing Rhonda Kennedy’s creative methods for cooking the books to avoid the tax collector, but I bit my tongue. The town already had plenty to talk about when it came to me.
Jenkins tucked my purchase into a bag. He pointed one long thumb in the direction of a corkboard on the back wall behind the counter.
“There’s the postcard Rhonda sent me,” he said. “Alaska.”
The store’s whale-belly lighting was brighter near the counter, but I still had to lean in to get a good look. The corkboard contained more than one layer of paper memories, from postcards and business cards to printed-out emails with photos of smiling customers in costumes and formal wear.
Rhonda Kennedy’s postcard from Alaska featured icebergs under a full moon. Below the postcard, in the lower right corner of the corkboard, was a straight row of photos of individuals, posed for what appeared to be mug shots. The image on the far right was a picture of Mr. Murray Michaels, chin up in defiance, eyes glowering at something unseen, off to the side of the photographer.
I asked innocently, “What event are those photos from? Gosh. They look like mug shots.”
Jenkins shifted a calendar down to cover the row of photos. “I’m afraid that’s not for customers to see.”
“But I’m not just a customer. I’m a local business owner. That’s your Wall of Dishonor, isn’t it? Shoplifters?”
“Yes, I’m sorry to say that’s exactly what it is.” With a robotic stiffness, he turned back toward the corkboard. His long fingers scuttled like the legs of a spider as he lifted the calendar back up to let me have a look. “Keep an eye on these ones if they start spending a suspicious amount of time inside your store.”
“The lady with the platinum hair is married into the Koenig family, isn’t she? That woman could buy the whole block and have money left over. What’s she doing shoplifting?” I pointed to her shame-faced image while keeping my eyes on Mr. Michaels.
“Some do it for the thrill,” Jenkins said. “This one’s husband always pays for what she takes. I suppose I could let her come and go, but lately she hasn’t even been trying to hide what she’s doing. I can’t let people carry on like that without doing something, without any punishment. It’s the principle of the thing.”
“I’ll keep an eye out for her.” I leaned in, squinting theatrically. “I think that’s my dad’s neighbor over there on the end. What did he steal?”
“This and that.”
“Men’s clothes? Maybe a hat?”
Eli Jenkins brought his spider fingers to his face and stroked his sharp chin. “He may have helped himself to one of my top hats, but I can’t be sure.”
“A top hat is kind of a large item to shoplift. Did he simply put it on and walk out? I don’t suppose you have cameras in here, do you?”
“No cameras. The hat disappeared on a day I was trying out a new employee, and the girl might not have recognized him from the board.” His long fingers curled into a fist, which he shook emphatically. “That was an expensive hat, too. I’ve half a mind to hold Murray upside down by the ankles and shake him until everything comes loose. He’s gone too far.”
“Did you report him to the police?”
“Not worth their time,” he said. “Have no fear, though. Karma will catch up to the bugger. One of these days he’ll snap up something he shouldn’t, and he’ll be sorry.”
I made a non-verbal noise of sympathy. Taking my response as a cue to expand on the theme of vengeance, he let out a torrent of noise, some of it colorful, about shoplifters and the difficulties of maintaining a retail business. I listened, nodding. It wasn’t difficult to feel pity for Leo Jenkins, who, from appearances alone, seemed to be going through a rough patch. He’d always been skinny, but fifteen years ago he could have been described as lanky, or even athletic. At my high school, some of the oddball girls seemed to be fond of the costume supplier, especially the girls with the experimental hairstyles and piercings. They also called him Creepy Jeepers but in an affectionate way, and a few cried in disappointment when he got married.
While he ranted, I checked the spider fingers of his left hand to see if the marriage had lasted. His ring finger bore no wedding band, but an indentation sat where one would have been. I noted that a marital breakdown could have caused his bitter mood, while living as a bachelor and cooking for himself could have caused his weight loss.
He finally stopped ranting about shoplifters and removed his glasses again so he could rub the creases around his deep-set eyes. “I apologize for my outburst,” he said softly. “I’ve been under a lot of stress lately.”
“Winter is tough,” I said with matching softness. “The days are short and cold, but spring will come.”
“Spring. Yes. When everything melts.” He got a faraway look. “I need to do some spring cleaning.”
“You could have a garage sale,” I offered. “It always makes my father so happy to see the signs up for garage sales because he enjoys commenting about how people spell the signs wrong and forget the letter B.”
Jenkins emitted something akin to a laugh. “How is your father?”
“Exactly the same.”
“Good health?” he asked.
“Along with a brand new hip, yes.”
“Good,” he said with a weak smile. “Too many things change these days. People are under the delusion that all change is an improvement. But what’s the word for a change that isn’t an improvement?”
“In the corporate world, they say restructuring instead of layoffs.”
“Life is full of restructuring.” He shook his head ruefully. “The things they shove down our throats these days.”
My gaze flitted from his bare ring finger to a pile of paperwork, most likely waybills and invoices.
“True,” I said with a sympathetic note as I picked up the little shopping bag and tucked it into my purse along with my wallet. “See you around,” I said, hoping otherwise.
He forced out another toothy smile. “Always a pleasure, Stormy Day.”
“You, too,” I said, finishing with a silent Creepy Jeepers.
He gave me a limp wave as he turned to busy himself with his computer.
I turned to leave, making my way out of the bejeweled whale’s belly and back onto the sidewalk, where the plainness of the cloudy sky stretched out overhead like an endless scroll of paper for my thoughts. I glanced around until my eyes stopped at one of the town’s landmarks, a circular mirror situated at the corner of Broad Avenue and Bergamot Street. Watching my reflection grow larger, I walked toward the round mirror.
A top hat was nothing to kill someone over. Stealing someone’s wife, however, was another story. Because of the ring indentation on his bare finger, I imagined the restructuring Leo Jenkins was having shoved down his throat had something to do with his marriage. Had Mrs. Jenkins been seeing someone new? I wanted to dig deeper for a connection between Leo’s wife and Murray Michaels. An affair would explain some of Leo Jenkins’ agitation. Then again, if he’d actually killed someone, ranting about the victim to anyone who dropped into the costume store was not the smartest way to let off steam, unless, of course, he was doing so as a smoke screen, to make himself appear innocent by looking too guilty.
The possibilities were endless and utterly, breathlessly exciting. I could barely wait for my father to call so I could tell him everything. In the meantime, I would seek more information by stopping in to see the person who kept her thumb on the pulse of the town. She was on the other side of the round mirror, and I couldn’t shake the eerie feeling she’d be expecting me.
Chapter 10
Every small town has a person whose job makes them an expert on everyone’s love life. In Misty Falls, that expert was Ruby Sparkes, the owner of Ruby’s Treasure Trove, located at the corner of Broad Avenue and Bergamot Street.
Before entering the store, I checked myself in the building’s round mirror, where I couldn’t help but smile, despite the day I’d been having. The mirror had that effect on people, and not just because the natural outdoor light was universally flattering. The mirror’s circular surface was surrounded by a decorative mosaic made from colored bits of broken tile, dishes, marbles, doll figurines, toy robots, and even a few sturdy firetrucks. Amidst the swirling toys and colors were letters spelling out positive words and phrases, including JOY and LOVE and YOU LOOK SUPER TODAY!
Still smiling at the wall’s compliments, I turned the corner onto Bergamot Street, stamped the snow off my boots, opened the glass door, and stepped into Ruby’s Treasure Trove.
The store interior was brightly lit by a multitude of spotlights, overhead and within the glass-enclosed cases. A fortune in precious metals a
nd stones stretched out upon sand-colored cloth and pale brown risers, as though a pirate’s chest of treasure had busted open at sea and washed up on velvet shores.
Ruby stood behind a jewelry counter with a young blond woman I guessed was her employee, since Ruby had no children. They both greeted me, though no sound came out of the young worker’s mouth.
Cheerily, I asked, “How’s the delightful Ruby Sparkes today?”
She held one hand to her heart and fluttered her eyelashes. “You remember me!”
“Who could forget the most fun lady in all of Misty Falls?”
Ruby Sparkes tipped back her head and let out a big laugh, not denying my label. Ruby was an energetic woman of sixty-something, with curly hair colored a purple-red shade between auburn and grape soda. She had a friendly voice, a warm smile, and the kind of bosom you want your face crushed into if you’re feeling blue. She always wore purple, unless she wore leopard print. Today was a leopard print day, and she looked as fun as ever in a brown-spotted blouse paired with purple slacks.
Ruby came out from behind the counter, beaming and looking as if she might hug me. “Stormy Lou-Anne Day! You’ve become such an elegant young woman.”
“Elegant?” I looked down at my utilitarian ski jacket, casual jeans, and old boots.
“You also look like you need a hug.” She grabbed me and pulled my face down to the top of her leopard-spotted bosom. Her hug felt every bit as good as it had when I was a kid. It was a shame my father had no interest in women his own age, let alone older women, or Ruby might have played a bigger role in my life.
She cooed, “I love your short hair. It’s so spunky. Let me look at you.”
From her chest, I said, “You’ll have to let me go first.”
With a burst of laughter, she released me and took a good look at me, from head to toe.
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