A Disguise to Die For (2 page)

“Octavius can't accommodate me. Roman Gardens had a flood in its kitchen and canceled. My birthday is this weekend and the entire plan is out the window.”

“That's too bad,” Ebony said. Her fingers rubbed the gold of the medallion pendant she always wore. She let go of the
necklace and leaned back against the counter on one elbow, holding her other hand in front of her as if she was inspecting her manicure. “This town has come to expect an extravaganza from you. It's going to be hard to find someone to plan a full-blown party in less than a week.”

The blond man scowled. “Why do you think I tracked you down here? Nobody else will even consider it.”

“Who says I will?” Ebony said.

“I have money. Lots of it.”

“I don't want your money,” Ebony said.

“You were more than happy to take my dad's money twenty years ago. Are you going to pretend things are all that different now?”

Ebony stiffened. Ivory bared his teeth and growled at Blitz. I moved my eyes back and forth between Ebony and Blitz, gauging the number from one to ten that would best correspond with Ebony's reaction. I didn't know who this guy was, but I didn't like what he was implying about her past.

“We haven't met yet,” I said. I stepped forward and held out my hand. “I'm Margo Tamblyn.”

“Blitz Manners,” he replied. He clamped his hand onto mine pretty hard, squishing my fingertips together. I squeezed back a second too late to block the pain, but soon enough to make it look like everything was fine.

“If I understand the situation correctly, you were planning to have a party at Roman Gardens but they're no longer available because of a flood in their kitchen. You'd like Ebony to put together a new party plan on short notice. Is that correct?” I asked. I used the voice Magic Maynard had taught me to use to divert the crowd's attention from his act. Soft and steady, and pay no attention to the man behind the curtain. Blitz took a couple of extra seconds to reply, but when he did, I nodded and stepped him away from Ebony.
I picked up the pad of paper my dad had been taking inventory on and flipped to a blank page.

“How many guests?”

“Forty.”

“That's a pretty big party.”

“I'm known for my parties, sweetheart. Are you new around here? Better make it forty-one.”

I bit back a laugh at the expense of his come-on and stayed professional. “Do you have a caterer? Music? Theme?”

“Roman Gardens was going to supply everything.”

“They must still have the music and theme arranged, even if their location is out. So really, you need a location. That shouldn't be so hard—”

“I canceled everything Octavius had planned and took back my deposit. He's not getting a dime out of me. I need a new plan and I need it fast. The works.”

It had been a while since I'd worked at the store, but I knew what he was asking for was borderline impossible. “I'm sorry, but I don't think that's doable.”

“Sure it is. That's your business, isn't it?”

“Our business is costumes.” I held a hand up and made a sweeping gesture toward the rows of clothing hanging on racks over our heads. “If you have a theme, we can suggest costumes, and you can either rent them or buy them. We do custom costumes too, but that takes time. There's a considerable price break if you rent instead of buy, but the deposit is nonrefundable. If you don't have a theme, we can show you around the store and maybe something will inspire you.”

“That skit you were doing when I walked in. What was that for?”

“Skit? We weren't performing a skit.” I turned around and looked at my dad. He still wore the deerstalker, but had set the pipe on the counter. “Sherlock Holmes?” I said.

“He's a mystery guy, right? That could be cool. Intellectual. Nobody's done anything like that around here. It'll be highbrow, literary. Yep, I like it. Everybody comes as their favorite detective. Bring out all the famous ones. Perry Mason, Sherlock Holmes, the works. Just remember, keep it young. I'm turning twenty-six, not eighty-six.”

“I don't think you understood me. We do costumes, not party planning—”

“But I do,” Ebony interjected. She stepped between Blitz and me. “Give me the night to secure the location, entertainment, and catering. Come to my shop tomorrow and we'll work out details.”

“There aren't any details to work out.” He pulled an envelope out from inside his jacket and tossed it on a table. “Twenty thou should get you started. I'll pay the rest when it's done.”

WE ALL STARED
at the thick envelope on the table, but none of us made a move to pick it up.

Blitz turned to me. “You work with the costumes?”

“Yes.”

“You're going to turn me into the hottest detective Proper City has ever seen. I'll come back tomorrow to pick up my costume. Better have the rest done by then too, so I can figure out who'll wear what.”

“Tomorrow? I can't have forty custom costumes ready in twenty-four hours!”

“Sure you can, toots. Your store's reputation depends on it.” He pulled a brown leather billfold out of the back pocket of his shorts and extracted a piece of paper. “My measurements. Make sure it fits in all the right places.” He winked.

I didn't take the paper. “I'm sorry. Like I said, I can't hit that deadline.”

“I don't think you understand. I just paid you twenty
grand for this gig, and that means I own you. So if I want to pick up costumes tomorrow, then you'll have them ready. Got it, babe?”

He put on a pair of black Ray-Ban sunglasses and flashed teeth that were whiter than my boots. He shut the door behind him, and Ebony threw a pair of fuzzy dice at the door after it closed. I shook my arms to get rid of the heebie-jeebies. Blitz Manners might be used to flashing his smile and getting what he wanted, but I didn't care how much money he threw at us. As far as clientele went, he left much to be desired.

“Who was that guy again?” I asked.

“That guy was trouble,” Ebony answered.

I waited for more. My dad wheeled himself to the front of the store and scooped the fuzzy dice from the floor. He wheeled back to the counter and set them on top of the case. “Blitz Manners. Local trust fund baby. His family lives in the mansion at the end of Winnie Lane.”

“Winnie Lane. Isn't that part of the new big development? Christopher Robin Crossing?” I asked.

“Yes. When the money moved into Proper, that's where they built.”

Ebony spoke up. “There's all sorts of mansions out that direction, like they're afraid to let their property get too close to the rest of us. Pretty silly, all those rich people living in a development named after Winnie-the-Pooh.” My dad shot her a look. “Well, it is. Ten years ago one of 'em tried to petition the city council to rename the streets. I guess Piglet Lane doesn't look so fancy even when it's engraved on an invitation.”

My dad shook his head at Ebony's insights.

“Those houses were there when I lived here. Why don't I know the name?”

“Those kids went to private schools and then out-of-state colleges. Most of the families that live out that way have their own social circles.” He rolled his wheelchair back a few inches and then forward, trying—and failing—to change direction. He rolled the chair back into the same position where he'd been. “As far as I can tell, nobody's said no to Blitz since his father died. He started collecting his inheritance when he turned eighteen. His mother remarried Jack Cannon, but he never had any luck controlling the boy either. Blitz was too far along as a spoiled rich kid. His solution to everything is to throw money at it.”

I glanced at the bulging envelope. “What's with the party?”

Ebony spoke up. “There's a competition between the rich kids to outdo each other with their birthday parties. It's been going on for about five years now, I think. Blitz and his friends are currently controlling the game. Grady O'Toole had a hustle party a few months ago. He hired me to provide the catering. I would have loved to design the entire thing, but he gave the job to Candy Girls.”

Candy Girls was an operation of women who organized events in Proper. They were started as a postcollege nonprofit by a group of sorority sisters, but when the founders realized the income potential, they were quick to turn their backs on their initial charitable impulses. You could hire Candy Girls to cater, decorate, or simply show up to guarantee a crowd and a decent girl-to-boy ratio at your event.

Even though Candy Girls employed a lot of the women who chose to stay in Proper City, I had never considered working there. Candy Girls were blond, giggly, and popular. They were the kind of women who kept the local salons in business with their highlights and blowouts. I kept my hair in a dark-brown-from-a-box '60s flip with bangs that I trimmed with
sewing scissors. It was the way my mom wore her hair for her yearbook photo in 1968. That was my favorite way to remember her. The style worked with just about any costume-inspired outfit I wore. Especially the ones with the go-go boots.

“Why do you think Blitz didn't go to Candy Girls for his party problem?” I asked.

“Rumor is that Blitz's current girlfriend is Grady's ex,” Ebony said. “That makes things messy. Besides, Blitz is the kind of person who wants to outdo everybody. If Grady O'Toole's party was the talk of the town and it was done by Candy Girls, then Blitz isn't going to go with Candy Girls. He once threw a casbah party and flew in ten guys from Morocco to put it together.”

“Sounds like the competition to outdo each other is pretty steep. What about the kids who don't have trust funds?”

“These parties are a big deal. Most are happy just to get invited.” Ebony pulled her sunglasses from a hip pocket and slid them into place. “What am I standing around here talking to you two for? I have a party to plan.” She picked up the envelope and thumbed through the bills inside. “Twenty thousand dollars to throw a party in Proper City. Who'da thunk.” She set the envelope down, picked up Ivory, and left.

Ebony walked down the sidewalk to a coffee-colored Cadillac Coupe de Ville. She hopped in and drove away, leaving a parking space big enough for three smart cars. I turned back to my dad and asked the question I couldn't shake.

“Dad, what do you think Blitz meant by that comment about Ebony and his dad's money?”

“People like to start rumors. Ignore him.”

“But if he's so eager to throw the party of the century, why go with Ebony? Why come to us? Aren't we a little too small-town for him?”

“Just because we live in a small town doesn't mean we
are
small-town,” he said. There was a proud determination to the set of his jaw. “We have five thousand costumes in our inventory, acquired or created over the past forty years. In that time we've gotten bigger than the local costume party circuit. We're known all over Nevada. Some people even tack an extra day onto their Vegas vacations so they can come and see us.”

“You know what I meant. Ebony said Blitz flew people in from Morocco last year. You're kind of talking apples and oranges.”

“We've been providing costumes for the parties in Proper City for a very long time now and we do it better than anybody. This wheelchair is only temporary and it's not going to change the way we run the store.”

He pulled the deerstalker off his head and set it on the glass case. He wheeled over to a circular rack of capes and trench coats. “Blitz wants forty detective costumes. Let's make a list. We can do Sherlock Holmes, Perry Mason, Mike Hammer.” He paused. “Who else?”

“What about Trixie Belden, Nancy Drew, and Miss Marple?” I added. “Shaft. Veronica Mars. And Encyclopedia Brown!”

The pencil flew across the paper as he wrote the names down. His expression had changed from determination to enthusiasm. “What do you think? Are you up for this?” he asked.

“Sure am. It'll be like one of those murder mystery parties, only times a hundred. But what about you?”

“I can't do it by myself. It's going to be a lot of work and because of this chair, the brunt of it is going to fall on you.”

I pulled on a tweed cape, pulled the deerstalker down over my hair, and caught my reflection. My flip curled up just above my shoulders. My eyes were wide and brown and framed with fake eyelashes. I'd gotten so used to wearing
them in Vegas that I felt naked without them. I pulled the hat off and set it next to the register.

“Margo, this is a big opportunity for the store. Candy Girls has expanded from catering to party planning, and I heard they're starting to sell prepackaged costumes. This party would give us a chance to show off what makes us special. Custom costumes. And the money is good. It'll help cover some of my medical bills.”

“Don't you have insurance?”

He looked away. “Yes, but there are deductibles to meet.”

“Is the shop in trouble?” I lowered myself onto an orange beanbag chair and looked up at him. He spun his wedding ring with the fingers on his right hand like I'd watched him do my whole life.

“If you weren't here, I wouldn't even consider taking this job,” he said.

“Then it's settled,” I said. I stood up and straightened my dress. “We'd better get to work if we're going to have costumes to show Blitz Manners by tomorrow.”

*   *   *

WE
spent the next two hours sorting through the inventory for mystery-themed costumes and related accessories. Since my dad was temporarily confined to the wheelchair, he was in charge of props and concepts. I moved around the shop and collected elements that we could modify: trench coats, plaid wool suits, capes, deerstalkers, and fedoras. I assembled Columbo from the suit and tie that went with our traveling salesman costume, a beat-up trench coat that went with our hobo, and a plastic cigar. Rockford was also easy: jeans, plaid shirt, and stick-on sideburns. I designed two Nancy Drews: a '30s one with cloche hat, capelet, and below-the-knee-length skirt, and a '50s one with an argyle sweater, plaid kilt, knee
socks, and loafers. I had to flip through most of the skirts in our schoolgirl section to find one that was long enough to be appropriate for a girl detective—not that I believed the woman who wore it would have chosen the modest length. Tom Swift came from our steampunk section, and Cherry Ames, school nurse, came from the medical corner.

I checked in with my dad after the first hour and found him sorting hats, monocles, pipes, and magnifying glasses into piles. “Do you think it's okay to have more than one Sherlock?”

“Why not? Who's to say if he wants to be BBC Sherlock or CBS Sherlock or Robert Downey Jr. Sherlock?”

“What about regular old Sherlock? Tweed cape, tweed hat, gloves, ascot. You know, the classic image of him.”

“You heard what Blitz said about keeping things modern.”

“That's too bad. If he wants to be Sherlock Holmes, there's pretty much only one way to go so everybody knows who he's supposed to be. I mean, what's he going to do, dress like that guy on the TV show? His Watson isn't even a man!”

“You convinced me.” He stroked an imaginary beard and looked up at the ceiling. “Go to the back room and bring me the houndstooth fabric that we used for the
My Fair Lady
costume. The taupe one with the navy, burgundy, and forest green pattern. Better yet, wheel me back there. The sewing shop is set up and I can knock out a cape and trousers while you're working in here.”

I stood behind the wheelchair and rolled him backward and then forward, past the cases of colorful makeup, paste jewelry, and other accessories that we didn't hang on the shelves. I stopped next to the bald caps and pulled one out. “Kojak,” I said. He nodded, and we continued until we reached the back room.

Behind the interior of the shop was a long, narrow room
set up with various sewing machines and a table for cutting out fabric. Two forms stood like sentries at the end of the room: a male and a female. Large, round metal trash bins held bolts of fabric that protruded out like giant flower stems without blooms.

I didn't know when my dad had first taught himself to sew. I imagined that my mother had been the one to make most of the costumes while he watched the shop and fabricated what needed to be made from wood or sheet metal, but as far as I remembered, our costume assortment had been limited only by what he could create. At an early age I learned how to adapt already-made clothing into costumes by shortening hems, narrowing pants, and hand-sewing patches on secondhand castoffs. We shopped the local thrift stores for items that we could use and, with dye and imagination, created wizards, princesses, hobos, animals, and a whole lot more. By the time I'd graduated high school, I was a pro at turning flea market finds into high-ticket costumes. My
Chicago
collection had been rented by seventeen different groups by the time I moved to Vegas.

It was close to eight when we finished our list. I'd collected items from throughout the shop and had a list of the few remaining props we needed.

“Dad, you look exhausted. Let me wrap things up here and we can finish tomorrow.”

“Fine. I'll start dinner. Spaghetti and meatballs sound okay to you?”

“Sounds perfect. Give me fifteen minutes to get things organized and I'll be up to set the table.”

The doctors had recommended the wheelchair, and I knew my dad hated it. I watched him wheel himself to the back stairs, lift himself out of the chair, and slowly ascend the staircase. It wouldn't have mattered if we did have a
ramp or an elevator. In his mind, the chair was temporary, and he wouldn't allow himself to get used to it.