Who Killed the Pinup Queen?

by Kelner, Toni, L. P.

  Tilda calmly thanked Smiley for all her efforts, and promised a complimentary yearlong subscription to Entertain Me! for the library. But as soon as she was off the phone, she started stomping through the house, suggesting profane and geometrically impossible uses for household furnishings and looking for something to kick. Though she found a couple of possibilities, she was afraid Colleen would squawk if she noticed boot prints on her favorite chair or that really ugly chest of drawers. Then she considered breaking out the rum, the frozen strawberries, and the blender to see how many daiquiris she could guzzle.

  Finally Tilda remembered she was supposed to be an adult, and that she still had two interviews to write up. She finished before Colleen got home, and was reasonably satisfied with the result. She had definitely surpassed “decent,” and while she may not have made it to “damned fine,” she was sure that she’d achieved “wicked good.”

  However, professional satisfaction was not enough to inure her to an evening with Colleen and the never-ending rounds of twenty questions, so she thanked all the gods in all the pantheons when Colleen announced she had a dinner date, even managing to look interested as her roomie told her more about the man than Tilda had ever learned about any interviewee. By the time Colleen left, Tilda was wondering if she should let her take the job at Entertain Me!.

  Being alone for the evening could have led to brooding, but before Tilda had a chance to begin the process, Quentin called, full of apologies for not having had time to spend with her earlier in the day. He offered to make it up to her by bringing over takeout, and Tilda happily accepted. While waiting for him, she hid her fund-raiser costume in the back of her closet, just in case he went in the bedroom to snoop. She also changed her sheets, just in case he went into the bedroom for a different reason.

  Quentin soon arrived, bearing cheesesteak subs and fries. He was so excited about the next night’s fund-raiser that it was all he could talk about, but since Tilda was delighted to have something to think about that didn’t include murder, she was more than willing to let him babble.

  He also tried his best to find out what she was going to be wearing, but she wouldn’t give him so much as a hint, even when he tried to bribe her with his favors. Then he expressed his willingness to demonstrate those favors to see if he could change her mind, and she agreed that it couldn’t hurt to try. Afterward, she noted that she could have saved the clean sheets—they never made it out of the living room.

  Quentin couldn’t stay the night, which was an odd kind of relief. She could kiss him good night and not be worried that she was going to wake him with bad dreams again. Unfortunately, Colleen wasn’t so lucky—Tilda woke her up at two thirty. But she didn’t complain too much, either because she knew she’d be able to sleep in the next day or because her own date had gone so well.

  Tilda woke about midmorning, ran a few errands, and then putzed around until time to get ready for the fund-raiser. Getting all the components of the costume on in the right order took a little bit of doing, because—as Colleen said with uncharacteristic understatement—it wasn’t Tilda’s usual style.

  Chapter 30

  Wear a hat with a brim wide enough to shed sun and rain, fan a campfire, and whip a fightin’ cow in the face.

  —DON’T SQUAT WITH YER SPURS ON! BY TEXAS BIX BENDER

  SINCE Tilda was covering the Stickler Syndrome fund-r aiser for Entertain Me!, she arrived at the Hillside Steakhouse early. It had been a while since she’d been there, but she still remembered the way to the section known as Dodge City. At least it was normally Dodge City. Now a banner hung over the doorway proclaiming it the Cowtown Saloon.

  Shannon was on duty at the door, dressed in a bright red satin saloon girl ensemble, complete with fishnet stockings and a plastic derringer in her garter.

  “Hi, Tilda,” Shannon said, crossing her name off a list.

  “You look great,” Tilda said, “but aren’t you cold?”

  “A little,” Shannon admitted, “but how often do we get a chance to dress up? Didn’t you wear a costume?” Shannon asked, since Tilda’s coat wasn’t particularly appropriate for the Wild West.

  “Absolutely. Just need to put a few finishing touches on. See you later.”

  The function room was just as Tilda remembered from a family wedding she’d once attended there. It was modeled on a Western saloon writ exceedingly large. There was a stage at the back end of the room, with a good-sized dance floor in front of it. To the left was the bar, lovingly paneled in wood, with spittoons that she hoped were for decoration only. To the right was a wide staircase that led to rooms that would have been for encounters with saloon gals in a real saloon, but these doors led to storage closets and private areas currently being used as green rooms for the Cowtown celebrities. A balcony deep enough for a row of tables ran the length of that wall and about halfway across both sides of the front and back walls. At the family wedding, Tilda had found a corner up there to hide in when the groom called for the chicken dance, and had stayed hidden when the bride stood at the top of the stairs to toss her bouquet.

  Tilda stopped at the coatroom to leave her outerwear, then stepped into a nearby ladies’ room to put on her hat and make sure everything was straight before stepping proudly into Cowtown.

  She hadn’t gone ten feet before Cooper appeared in front of her. He was dressed head to toe in doe-colored suede, or a reasonable facsimile thereof. His open-neck shirt was held together with thongs, and he was wearing a star-shaped badge.

  “Howdy, Sheriff,” Tilda said. “Blazing Saddles?”

  “Got it in one. Sheriff Bart, at your service.” He politely tipped his hat.

  “Very nice.”

  “But you . . . That outfit is amazing.”

  “Thank you, Sheriff.” She twirled, and the fringe on the hem of her aqua blue skirt twirled, too. So did the fringe on the white leatherette vest, the white boots, the matching bag where she’d stowed her camera and pad, and the ends of the string tie worn around the collar of her aqua satin Western-style blouse. The cowgirl hat, blue with white trim, was fringe-free, but the beaded band brightened it.

  “Truly you are the Queen of Kitsch, the Empress of Irony.” He paused. “You are being ironic, aren’t you?”

  “Well, I started out that way, but I think it’s growing on me. I have an inexplicable urge to square dance.”

  “Stop that. You’re scaring me.”

  “Where’s Jean-Paul?”

  “Setting up.”

  “Does he even have any cowboy music?”

  “Jean-Paul is a professional. He has access to all kinds of music.”

  “iTunes?”

  “You bet. Want a drink?”

  “A sarsaparilla would go down mighty good right now.”

  “Stop it!”

  The ersatz sheriff offered his arm, and they made their way through the thickening crowd to the bar. Though not everybody was in costume, enough were to make it a people-watcher’s delight. Tilda was impressed by the elaborate getups people had found in the wilds of Massachusetts. She spotted flirty dance-hall girls and hardy pioneer women, honest cowpunchers and black-hatted cattle rustlers, shifty-eyed gamblers and steely-eyed sheriffs. There were Clint Eastwood clones, at least two Lone Rangers, plus a hefty Bonanza buff wearing a ten-gallon hat Hoss Cartwright would have been proud to own. One impressive specimen wore an Indian costume that was apparently inspired by the Village People.

  Tilda said, “He’s brave to wear that. Get it? Brave?” “Har! But if you think he’s brave, wait until you see Nicole.”

  They spotted her by the bar, and Tilda blinked. Twice. She’d thought Shannon was dressed inappropriately for winter, but Nicole’s saloon girl ensemble was cut two inches lower in front than Shannon’s, and the pitiful excuse for a skirt was six inches shorter. Perhaps she thought she’d made up for the loss of inches with the heels on her boots.

  “That’s our girl. Putting the ’ho in hoedown,” Tilda said.

  Cooper snickered.


  Nicole saw them, and frowned. “Tilda, if you’re going to be representing Entertain Me!, you’re going to have to start choosing your outfit with more care.”

  “I know, I know,” she said. “I forgot I was supposed to wear a costume.”

  Nicole ignored her. “Cooper, you’ve got the right idea, but I’m surprised you didn’t go for something more butch. Surely you have a pair of leather chaps in your closet?”

  “Honey, all of the leather chaps I know are way out of the closet.”

  Now it was Tilda’s turn to snicker.

  “Might I remind you both that we are here to work. Cooper, have you—”

  “I know my job, Nicole,” Cooper said. “Worry about your own, which does not include giving me instructions.”

  Nicole’s eyes narrowed, but she backed down. “Sorry. I just want to make sure that everything runs smoothly. Maybe you two are just here to party, but this fund-raiser is very important—people with Stickler’s Syndrome really need support, and the foundation is doing vital work.”

  Tilda would have been more impressed had she not been looking in the mirror behind Nicole, which showed that Quentin was standing right behind her and Cooper, plenty close enough to have heard the impassioned speech. Though Tilda was willing to believe Nicole was passionate, what she passionately wanted was to share some passion with Quentin.

  The good doctor spoke up. “Howdy, ladies, Sheriff.”

  Tilda checked out his outfit: a black frock coat and hat, and a clearly artificial bushy mustache. She was at a loss until she saw the dental mirror sticking out of his vest pocket.

  “Doc Holliday?”

  Quentin grinned. “I knew you’d get it.”

  “It’s thematic, but a dentist?”

  “It was either that or Doc from Gunsmoke, and I thought Holliday was sexier.”

  “I would have to agree.” She leaned forward to give him a quick kiss. “What about Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman?”

  “I thought about her, but I do a terrible British accent. As for you . . .” He looked over her ensemble. “You did say that you wanted to be a cowgirl when you were little.”

  “All except for that riding the open range alone part—I prefer to ride with a friend.”

  “Then I’ll be your huckleberry.”

  Another kiss was the only appropriate response, mustache or no mustache.

  When they broke it off, Cooper was smiling and Nicole was fuming, so all was right with the world. Tilda was tempted to continue smooching, just to see how riled she could get Nicole, but that wouldn’t have been fair to Quentin. Besides, his mustache tickled.

  Jillian joined them, wearing a divided riding skirt and a flat-brimmed hat, a picture of Western elegance that reminded Tilda of Barbara Stanwyck in The Big Valley. “Quentin, glad you’re here. You know the schedule, right? We’ll give people a chance to mingle and eat, then Miss Barth is going to give an introduction. Next you give your slide show, and the other celebrities will do their speeches. After that, Jean-Paul will get the dancing started, and the celebrities will go to their stations for meeting, greeting, and autograph signing. The silent auction and the photo booth are already getting business, so it’s looking good. Why don’t you get your dinner now, while you’ve got a chance?”

  Quentin nodded, which was about all there was time for before Jillian continued.

  “Tilda, I want you to get atmosphere and quotes. I’ve got a couple of photographers wandering around, so you don’t have to worry about pics—if you see something worthwhile, point one of the photographers in the right direction. Good outfit, by the way.”

  “Got it. And thank you.”

  “Cooper, you know what to do?”

  “Keep Jean-Paul happy, get people dancing, keep an eye out for trouble.”

  “Nicole—”

  “I’ll be supervising the silent auction and liaising with the catering staff,” she said importantly.

  “Good. But first find something to put on over your outfit. Miss Barth says you’re not in keeping with the Cowtown Code, whatever the hell that is. And everybody, smile. This is a party, so look as if you’re having fun.”

  Knowing that she’d be working the crowd, Tilda had assumed she wouldn’t have a chance to get to the buffet until later, if ever, and she’d grabbed a bite at home. So she told Quentin she’d be there for his speech, and went looking for people to talk to.

  She was happy to see that the place was filling up nicely. There hadn’t been much time for the advance ticket sales, so they’d been hoping for plenty of walk-ins, and it looked as if they’d gotten them. She made a note to herself to check later to see how many tickets had sold. If it was a big number, Jillian would want her to include it in her article, and if not, it would be easy enough to keep it vague.

  Though there were plenty of attendees in costume, many of those who weren’t had gotten into the spirit with straw cowboy hats, Cowtown T-shirts, and Red Sox jerseys that said, “Cowboy up.”

  Up on the stage, Jean-Paul produced an actual triangle to strike and announced, “Chow time!” to let people know that the buffet was open for business. A reasonably polite stampede in that direction ensued, followed by people taking seats at the tables scattered all through the room. Having folks sitting down made it easier for Tilda—it was harder for a seated subject to blow her off.

  Her first target was a family group dressed in Western wear, and Tilda got enthusiastic quotes from both of the parents and all three kids. Next she tracked down the barely dressed Indian she’d spotted earlier, purely for journalistic integrity. He had a nice take on the portrayal of Native Americans in Cowtown. Then she talked to a trio of women in T-shirts that said, “We’re Sticklers!” They were all mothers of children with Stickler’s Syndrome—or Sticky children, as they called them—and were delighted by the attention the foundation was getting, not to mention the money.

  After them, she took a break long enough to get a Coke from the bar and a cookie from the dessert table, and checked her watch. The program was supposed to start in a few minutes, so once she finished her snack, she took the opportunity to visit the ladies’ room. She did her business, and was checking hair and makeup in the mirror when Miss Barth emerged from a stall and started doing the same.

  Tilda had a particular distaste for paparazzi who staked out bathrooms in order to get face time with celebrities, so she just smiled and said hello, meaning to leave the woman in peace. But Miss Barth said, “Hello, Tilda. You look lovely.”

  “Just trying to get into the proper spirit, though I think the getup is more Dale Evans than Arabella Newman.”

  “It suits you.”

  “Thank you,” Tilda said, reasonably sure it had been meant as a compliment. “You look wonderful.”

  All the outfits Tilda had seen Miss Barth wear had had some sort of Western flavor, like a modern cowgirl, but this time, Miss Barth had adopted the bustle, lace, and ruffles of the formal wear of the Cowtown era, complete with gloves and a fan. The full-length dress was a dusty pink, and her pure white hair was pinned up with just the right number of tendrils hanging loose.

  “I never got to wear a dress like this on Cowtown. It’s what a society woman back East would have worn, not the kind of thing Arabella would have worn to the saloon.”

  “If the Ambrose brothers had realized how gorgeous you’d have looked, I bet they’d have written a special script just to give you an excuse to dress this way.”

  Miss Barth smiled with obvious pride.

  Tilda turned to go, but Miss Barth stopped her again. “Tilda, I meant to ask if you ever identified that photo, the one you thought was of a Cowtown guest star.” The woman was ostensibly looking in the mirror, but Tilda could see she was actually watching her.

  Deliberately keeping her voice casual, Tilda said, “Oh, the guy with the camera? No, but at least I figured out where the picture came from. I think I mentioned that I’d interviewed a former pinup model last week, and that was one of the pictures sh
e was going to put up on her Website. But I can’t ask her who he is because . . . well, she was murdered that same day.”

  “How terrible,” Miss Barth said, with a completely convincing portrayal of someone hearing about a tragedy for the first time. “Was it something to do with her previous life?”

  “Nobody knows. The police have no suspects. Though . . .” She let her voice trail off.

  “Yes?”

  “Well, I have a source who says that some pictures disappeared from Sandra’s apartment. They may not be connected of course, but I wonder if I should give them that one I found, now that I think about it.”

  “What good would that do if you can’t identify the man?”

  “They might be able to track him down—if he’s involved, that is.”

  “I suppose so. Well, I need to get out to the stage. The show will be starting in a moment.”

  “I’ll be right there. I just want to fix my hair.” She pulled out a brush but put it back in her bag once Miss Barth was gone. What Tilda really wanted was a moment to think. Though she’d known Miss Barth was a good actress, she’d never realized just how good. The woman had maintained her mask of polite interest perfectly, with just a touch of morbid curiosity for the human touch. Had Tilda not seen her at Sandra’s funeral, it never would have occurred to her that Miss Barth had even heard of Sandra, let alone shared a career with her.

  Why had she asked about the mystery man’s photo? If she could hide her emotions that well, she could certainly have hidden knowledge of that man’s identity. But Tilda didn’t know how she’d ever be able to pry that knowledge out of her.

  Chapter 31

  When a neighbor is in need, no real cowboy can turn his back.