A Disguise to Die For (7 page)

I'd been away from Proper for seven years except for holidays when I came home, and it seemed each time I returned, a fresh crop of coffee shops and cupcake stores had moved in along with a batch of theme restaurants that played with the fairy-tale aspects of town. But drive to the town's edge and you'd be met with miles upon miles of desert, bisected only by a narrow two-lane road. Prairie dogs and rattlesnakes were the residents out that way.

“Have you chosen a college yet?” I asked Kirby.

“Nope. If I don't get a swimming scholarship, I'm going to the Proper City Community College. In my spare time, I'll have to work to make the money for tuition.”

I could tell from the look on Kirby's face that he knew college was more important than the dune buggy he'd been saving for. I wasn't in a position to offer him anything more than the limited part-time hours my dad already had him working, and twenty hours a week in a costume shop wasn't going to buy much in the way of higher education.

*   *   *

FOR
the next two hours, Kirby and I sorted through bins of costume accessories that had been amassed into a large pile in the back corner of the shop. We were two months away from Halloween, which was to us what tax season was to accountants, but our shop didn't exist by Halloween alone.

Going hand in hand with Proper being census designed was the fact that, aside from what Pete Proper—or Proper Pete
as he'd been nicknamed after giving up all of his vices—had established back in 1892, there was no history of important battles being fought here or of celebrities having once dined here—although Clark Gable had been waiting for Carole Lombard at a bar in nearby Goodsprings when her plane went down—so what we were left with was a void. We weren't known for gambling or shopping or drinking or prospecting. We were a town without an identity.

Nobody really knew who to credit with the costume party craze, but the oldest of the photos that were now featured on the Proper City website were from the early '60s. Once the parties started, the identity stuck. Backyard barbecues, sweet sixteen parties, promotions, and holidays all became an opportunity to pick a theme and dress accordingly. The Proper City Chamber of Commerce accepted photos from anybody who submitted them, and our quirky love of costume parties became what we were known for in our small corner of the state. Newcomers to our town must have wondered about our sanity.

Disguise DeLimit was born out of that trend. The store became the go-to destination for the clothes to match whatever someone dreamed up. Some towns have a Macy's. Our town didn't need one. We had five thousand costumes in our inventory, and if you didn't like them, we could make you what you wanted. Assuming you weren't looking for long-term quality. It wasn't about the clothes themselves, it was about the character you could be for a couple of hours.

Kirby and I organized pieces of costumes that had been cast into go-back boxes behind the register. Somewhere between the fourth box and the fifth, it became clear that he could handle the shop on his own. He practically knew the layout better than I did. Besides, my mind was still caught in a loop about Blitz in the costume Grady had said he was going to wear, and though I knew there could be a simple explanation—like Grady
letting Blitz wear what he wanted since it was his party—I couldn't shake off my questions without getting the facts.

“Kirby, can you watch the store while I go out and run a few errands?”

“Sure. Do your errands have to do with what happened yesterday?”

I sighed. “I can't help think about how Grady must be feeling today. He and Blitz were best friends, but they ribbed each other constantly. Today, his best friend is gone. I know I just met him, but I need to offer my condolences.”

“That whole friendship is funny, considering what Blitz did to Grady in high school.” While he spoke, Kirby sorted a wad of neckties into piles by color. “I don't know if I'd be so quick to look the other way if I were Grady.”

I picked up a tie and smoothed out the wrinkled silk. “What happened?”

“Somebody snuck booze into Grady's eighteenth birthday party. Probably Blitz. But then he thought it would be funny to call the cops. Grady spent the night in prison and was suspended from high school.”

“I guess that would be pretty hard to forgive.” I set the ties down on the counter.

“That's not all. Because of the suspension, Grady didn't graduate that year.”

I thought back to being eighteen. Graduating high school was just about the biggest thing to happen at that age. “I can see why you say their friendship is funny.”

“Yeah, and it actually gets worse. Blitz's prank cost Grady admission into the college he wanted. Plus, the whole incident is on his permanent record.”

“HOW LONG AGO
was this?” I asked Kirby.

He stopped sorting ties for a moment and rolled his eyes up while he thought. “Must have been eight years ago, I think. For a while, it was all anybody talked about. Our coach made everybody over fourteen sit out of practice so a drug and alcohol counselor could talk to them about the dangers of drinking. Coach never let anybody out of practice, so even though I was only ten, I knew it was a big deal. Blitz graduated but Grady didn't get his diploma until the following year.”

“If something like that happened to you, how would you feel?”

He misunderstood. “Something like that wouldn't happen to me. I'm an athlete.” He puffed himself up and tapped his chest. “I keep poisons out of my body.”

“I don't mean that. I mean, how would you feel if your best friend did something that destructive to you?”

“My best friend wouldn't do that. But Blitz and Grady and all those guys, they're in a whole different league. When Blitz turned eighteen, he inherited twenty-five million dollars and his new dad
gave
him a dune buggy. Not that he even appreciated it. There's not a lot you can't buy with that kind of money,” he said, looking wistfully at his magazine.

“Kirby, you'll appreciate your dune buggy a thousand times more than if it had been handed to you,” I said.

“I know,” he said. His dejected body language suggested that I was not the first person to point this out.

I pushed myself up until I was standing and adjusted the beaded Indian headband on my forehead. “I'll be back later to close up.”

“Don't worry about the store. Jerry lets me work by myself all the time.”

My Vespa was still inside where I'd rolled it after Tak had unpacked it from his SUV. I unlocked the steering and walked it out the front door, pulled my helmet on, and took off.

The city planners of Proper City had zoned out areas for residencies, businesses, and entertainment, and I liked to think that an aerial view of our town was a little like a series of crop circles on our western and eastern sides connected by a long straight line. Creative planners that they were, they'd actually named the street that ran end to end “Line Road.” Since then, more roads that connected the various end-to-end businesses had been put in, so, as a nod to the original planners, the name of the main road became that: Main Line Road.

Today I drove down Main Line Road, past Baby Cakes, the local cupcake store, and Packin' Pistils, the local florist. A stretch of car dealerships lit up like casinos filled the last quarter mile, and after that the road dead-ended. A right turn would have led me to the highway access and eventually to the heart of Las Vegas. A left turn took me to Christopher Robin Crossing.

My dad had said that Blitz Manners lived in the mansion at the end of Winnie Lane, but it turned out he was slightly mistaken. The large white mansion sat at the intersection of Winnie Lane and Pooh Bear Drive, making it the house at Pooh Corner. I wondered how
that
looked on an engraved invitation!

I pulled over to the side of the road and flipped my visor up. The house stood majestically on its plot. Although it was surrounded by equally impressive architecture, it was by far the most grand of the development. A shiny black town car sat in the driveway. I could tell from the way the tall blades of grass behind the car bent backward that the engine was running and the exhaust, though invisible, was present. A well-appointed blond woman in a lightweight black suit came out of the house and gingerly descended the stairs that led to the driveway. She looked as though a team of professionals had been tasked with her hair and makeup. The driver stepped out of the car, came around to the side, and held the door open for the woman. I guessed her to be Blitz's mom.

“Thanks for coming on such short notice, Claude,” she said. “I thought my husband was going to be able to drive me, but he had to go to the dealership.”

“It's no trouble, Mrs. Manners,” the driver said. “I'm awfully sorry about your son.”

“Please,” she said, holding her hand up. “I have to hold it together for a town council meeting and it's taking all of my energy not to break down.”

“Of course,” the driver said.

Blitz's mom sat in the back of the shiny car and the driver closed the door. He walked around the front and backed it out of the driveway.

I flipped my visor back into place and pulled away from the curb. The town car passed me just before I reached the
stop sign at Tigger Trail. I turned right and circled around the rest of the streets of the development until I realized I'd gotten myself lost somewhere in the Hundred Acre Woods. I parked along a curb and climbed off the scooter, taking to foot so I wouldn't burn up more gas. The thin suede soles of my moccasins provided little in the way of support, and after only a few blocks, my arches were tired and I was no closer to finding the way out. In the distance, a street sign announced Winnie Lane. Sure enough, when I turned at the intersection, I was back at Pooh Corner. Now the only trick would be to figure out where I'd left my scooter.

“Hey!” a voice called out. I looked to my left and right, finally spotting Grady hanging out the window of a silver sports car. He pulled up alongside of me. “Margo, right? What are you doing in my neck of the woods?”

“Truth?” I said, knowing I was about to deliver a lie. “I took my scooter out for a ride and got a little turned around. My tank is low so I started walking to find the way out of this development.”

“Is your scooter that little white thing with the red seat?”

“Yes. Do you know where it is?”

“You don't?”

“Directions aren't my strongest suit.”

“Hop in, m'lady, or should I say, hop in, Indian princess?”

The lock popped open and Grady reached across from the driver's side and pushed the door open. I climbed in.

“Thank you. I don't think these boots were made for walking,” I said. I rubbed at the ball of my foot through the suede.

“You're something of a mystery aren't you?” he asked. “Mod, Western, Indian. How do I know which is the real Margo Tamblyn?”

“As soon as I figure it out, I'll let you know.”

“Are you saying this is the result of an identity crisis?”

“This”—I gestured to my outfit—“is the result of growing up in a costume shop. How about you?”

“Me? No identity crisis here. This”—he tapped the dash of his car—“is the result of growing up in a casino. I like to gamble, and I like to win.”

“You won your car gambling?” I asked, feeling my eyes grow wide.

“Nah, my dad owns a casino.” He laughed. “Gotcha, though. You should have seen your face.”

Grady pulled the car away from the curb and drove to the end of the road. He turned left—I would have put money on the fact that we needed to go right, which explained both why I didn't gamble and how I'd gotten so absolutely lost—and drove a couple of blocks before turning right and then right again.

“So how does your dad owning a casino get you a car like this?” I asked.

“Dad's got favors all over town,” he said. “The car came from Black Jack's place. Black Jack Cannon gave dad the car in exchange for a seat at his penthouse poker game.”

“Black Jack Cannon,” I repeated. “He's Blitz's dad, isn't he?”

Grady made two more rights and pulled his car up behind my scooter. “New dad. He married Blitz's mom after his real dad died.”

The mood in the car went from light to sober in a snap. I regretted the playfulness that I'd exhibited and searched for the right words to convey my condolences. Grady beat me to the punch.

“I can't believe he's gone,” he said. He stared straight ahead as though focusing on a dead bug on the windshield. “We've been friends for as long as I can remember.”

I bit back the rumors that Kirby had told me. Grady didn't seem like he held a grudge against Blitz for sabotaging his high school graduation and plans for college. Even if he had, asking him about it felt too awkward.

“Grady, I'm sorry for your loss.” The more I repeated the line, the more impersonal it sounded.

“Yeah, well, you win some, you lose some.” His whole demeanor changed, like he remembered he was late for an appointment and I was holding him up. He hit the unlock button on the door and released the emergency break. “See you around sometime,” he said.

“Sure. Thanks for helping me find my ride,” I said. I got out of his car and he pulled away before I had a chance to close the door.

*   *   *

AFTER
riding along with Grady, I had a better understanding of how the roads of his development were laid out, and I ended up back on Main Line Road in a matter of minutes. It was getting close to five and I wanted to get back to the shop before Kirby left. I pulled into a gas station and started filling the small tank. Across the street, a giant playing card rotated on a pole in front of an auto dealer. The name
BLACK JACK
was below the playing card in large black letters that were illuminated by little round bulbs. The entire thing had a Vegas quality about it—out of place in our otherwise local, costume party–themed community.

As I watched, a dark gray RAV4 pulled into the parking lot. Tak Hoshiyama got out and went inside the dealership. I became so distracted by the scene that I forgot about the gasoline. It splashed out of the tank and onto the hem of my pants and my suede shoes. I jumped back, too late.

“Shi-oot,” I said, changing the instinctive curse word into
something more PG-13. I'd been trying to convince Magic Maynard to drop his curse words when he was practicing his routine, and now my knee-jerk reaction was to self-edit.

“Shi-oot?” asked a tall man in a cowboy hat.

“I splashed gasoline on myself,” I said, “and I was trying not to swear.”

“Well, then shi-oot is right. Your costume is all messed up now. You are going to a costume party, aren'tcha?” He tore a length of brown paper towel off a roll that sat by the windshield wiper station and handed it to me. I blotted my hands dry and dabbed at the smelly liquid on my pants and shoes.

I could have asked him the same thing. He had on mirrored sunglasses that kept his eyes hidden. His shirt had mother-of-pearl snaps as buttons and was secured at the neck with a bolo tie shaped like a cow skull. A camel blazer, jeans, and lizard-skin boots finished off the outfit. If it wasn't a hundred degrees, it was close. How he'd managed to not sweat through a few of his layers, I didn't know.

“I always dress like this,” I said. “How about you?”

He laughed. “Me too. Cowboys and Indians. We should have somebody take our picture.” He held out a hand. “I'm Black Jack Cannon. Couldn't help notice you staring at my dealership over there. See something you like?”

“You're Black Jack?” I stammered. “What are you doing over here?”

“This here gas station is mine too. Buy a car, get a year's worth of free gas. Nice incentive, don'tcha think?” He pulled a business card from his wallet and handed it to me. The back of his card was the same image as the playing card that was rotating on the pole.

“You're Blitz's dad, aren't you?” I blurted out. Immediately, I backpedaled. “I mean, I'm so sorry for your loss,” I tacked on.

“Blitz was my wife's son,” he said. “Tragedy, what happened yesterday. I hope they catch the killer soon or people are going to start thinking Proper City is like all those other desert towns around here.”

“We are a desert town,” I said.

“Not like the others. The people who pay the taxes around here make sure our money goes back into our own community. We pay the salary of the police who are supposed to keep us safe at night. We don't need outside elements coming in here trying to change the way we live.”

For a moment, I saw a ray of light in Black Jack Cannon's point of view. If he suspected that an opportunistic vagrant had killed Blitz—and he put public pressure on the police force to find said vagrant—then the police couldn't spend time chasing Ebony for a crime she didn't commit. It wasn't much, but as far as theories went, I was willing to accept it.

“So you think somebody was passing through Proper City and saw the party? Maybe saw an opportunity to get something to eat or even rob a bunch of people, and was able to get in because everybody was in costume? Nobody would have noticed that there was a stranger among the rest of the partygoers.”

“Could be. We love our costume parties around here, but it sure does make it easy for a stranger to infiltrate our world.”

“I hadn't thought about that before, but I guess it does.” I threw the wadded-up paper towel into the trash and screwed the gas cap back onto my scooter.

“You're Jerry Tamblyn's girl, aren't you?” he asked.

I nodded. “I'm Margo.”