The summer before I moved out of Proper, I bought a box of patterns from the ’60s at a yard sale and made myself this dress. The bandleader at the local high school stopped me one day and asked where I got it. They were planning a Beatles tribute concert and thought dresses like mine would be perfect for the choir. He came to the store and placed an order, and I spent the next two weeks knocking out dresses just like it. One by one the girls came in and bought up our inventory of white patent leather boots, plastic hoop earrings, and colorful fishnet stockings. I didn’t always dress like a go-go dancer, but when I got the call from Nurse Number Three that my dad was trying to inventory the costume shop against her direction, there hadn’t been time to change. So here I was in the white patent leather go-go boots he’d bought me before I moved to Las Vegas seven years ago—the perfect complement for my mod minidress but not so practical for balancing on a ladder while your father glares at you—reaching for a rubber knife that someone had hung on the Western wall by the fake pistols and plastic holsters. Everybody knows you don’t bring a knife to a gunfight.
I extended my reach the way I’d been taught in the ballet class I took last year and nudged the peg until the knife fell. It dropped—the peg, not the knife—and landed by my dad’s brown shoe. The knife landed by his black one. I picked up both and set them on the counter.
“Dad, I don’t get why this is so important. Inventory can wait until you’re better.”
“We’re heading into spring. Remember what that means? Outdoor birthday parties and the Sagebrush Festival. I have to know what props we already have stocked so I can start planning concepts.”
“You can’t expect to carry on business as usual while you’re recovering. It’s too much.”
“That’s right. I can’t, but you can. You grew up here. You know as much about the costume business as I do.”
He was right. While other children were playing on backyard jungle gyms, I was playing in the store. My birthday presents had come from costume suppliers and my clothes had come from our inventory. By the time I’d turned sixteen, it was natural for me to work part-time hours after high school.
After graduation, I took the occasional night course but most of my time had been inside these four walls. I’d been responsible for painting the walls around the gangster clothes black with white chalk stripes and also the psychedelic flower-power mural by our ’60s section. It was my dad who encouraged me to move away—he wanted to make sure I knew there was a whole world out there before I accepted Proper City as my home base—and kicked me out on my twenty-fifth birthday. I moved to Las Vegas—which was only about forty miles from Proper but might as well have been the moon for how different it was—and experienced independence for the first time. It was far enough to feel as though I was on my own but close enough to come home for major holidays. I’d been in Vegas ever since.
“I can’t stay indefinitely. You know that. I think you have to sit this season out.”
“Nobody’s sitting anything out. You got that, sister?” asked a black woman from the doorway. She held a small, white bichon frise under one arm. His fur was brushed out in the same manner as her natural Afro.
I rushed forward and flung my arms around her. “Ebony!”
The small dog yipped from inside the hug. I backed away and patted his puffy head. “Hello to you too, Ivory,” I said.
The woman assessed me from head to toe. “Margo Tamblyn, as I live and breathe. You’ve grown into a fine young lady. I bet this old man wants to take the credit for that, doesn’t he?” She winked at me.
“I think we all know you had a little something to do with it.”
Ebony Welles was a fifty-six-year-old woman who had lived in Proper City her whole life. College had been out of her financial reach after high school, so instead she started Shindig, her own party planning business, when she graduated. She’d expanded from birthdays to all of the major holidays and a few minor ones too. She wore her hair in a brushed-out Afro and dressed in a largely ’70s vibe. She bragged that she could still fit into the clothes she owned in high school, and four out of five days a week she proved it. Considering my wardrobe came from bits and pieces from the costume shop, I didn’t think it was all that strange.
Ebony had become a part of my life when I was five. She’d been hired to plan an anniversary party for the local dachshund society. At a loss for inspiration, she’d headed out to clear her mind. My dad had recently redone the windows of Disguise DeLimit in a Wizard of Oz theme. Ebony thought it was brilliant. She reserved the six costumes he had on display and ordered flying-monkey costumes for all seventeen dogs. She asked me to help put the wings on the dachshunds and she even let me dress like a Munchkin. The pictures from the party had circulated far and wide, and I hadn’t been the same since.
“How long do we have you for?” Ebony asked.
I cut my eyes to my dad before answering. “My boss gave me through the weekend.”
“Where are you working?” she asked, her eyes darting to my outfit.
I tugged at the hem of my skirt. “I’m a magician’s assistant. I asked a friend to fill in for me while I came here.”
“I have an idea. Tell the magician you can’t go back to work because we accidentally made you disappear.” She slapped my dad’s knee and laughed so loud I suspected they could hear her in the pet shop across the street.
Ebony and my dad sometimes acted like they didn’t get along, but deep down I knew they were close friends. My dad had never gotten over the death of my mother, and judging from how often people told me I looked like her, I knew the constant reminder must have been hard for him. He’d done the best he could, even if my school clothes had mostly come from Disguise DeLimit. Some days I dressed like a flapper, others, a cowgirl. My wardrobe was more costume than couture, a fashion quirk I attributed to his influence. By the time I started shopping for myself, I found the latest trends lacking a certain spark of individuality. To this day I accessorized with props from our inventory rather than jewelry or scarves from the local department store: a holster with cap guns when I went Western, white patent leather go-go boots when I felt mod, a top hat and cane when I wore a tuxedo. Getting a job in Las Vegas had been a natural, because everybody in Vegas was in some kind of a costume.
My job history had been spotty at first: receptionist for a real estate agent, vintage clothing store clerk, concession stand clerk for a theater. The big money was as a showgirl, but the fact that I preferred to wear clothes at work kept me at a certain income level. Hey, a girl’s gotta have standards.
Eventually I met a fledgling magician who wanted an assistant. I provided my own costume—a black cutaway tuxedo jacket over a red-sequined bodysuit, fishnets, and pumps—and we hit the circuit. He paid me 20 percent of the take from the door, which paid for my half of the rent and bills. On a good night, I bought steak from the grocery store. On a bad night, I ate ramen noodles.
Ebony was the closest thing I had to a mother. She taught me about makeup, clothing, and men. When I headed off to Vegas for a job, I caught her crying. She said she had something in her eye and I pretended I believed her.
“Listen up, Jerry,” she said. “Margo came here because of you, so don’t go getting better too fast. She and I have a lot of catching up to do.” She put her arm around me and turned me away from him. “How’s your love life? Anybody on the horizon?”
“The quality of men in Vegas isn’t what you’d think. How about you?”
“Honey, I like my life just the way it is. Can’t imagine turning my world upside down for a man.”
“How’d you know I was here?” I asked.
“Elementary, my dear Watson,” she said in a poorly affected English accent. “I saw the white scooter out front and took a guess. We don’t have many scooter riders around here.”
“She’s lying!” my dad cried out. We both turned to him. He had pulled on a deers
talker hat and held a pipe in his hands. “She made no such deduction. I told her you were on your way.”
Not one to let the fun pass me by, I pulled a tweed cape from a circular rack and draped it over my shoulders. “So the evidence points to a conspiracy,” I said, brows furrowed. “Number one: information about my arrival was discussed behind my back. Number two: a suspicious white scooter is parked in front of the store. Number three: I smell sugar cookies, and you know they’re my favorite. The mystery isn’t how you knew, but what you plan to do about it.”
A slow clap filled the air. All three of us turned our heads toward the door. It had been propped open since Ebony arrived, and a young blond man now filled the entrance. He wore a short-sleeved green polo shirt, madras plaid shorts, and navy blue canvas deck shoes. His glowing tan set off blue eyes and white teeth. I got the feeling he spent a lot of time on a golf course or a boat—or both.
“Cheesy, but charming,” he said. “Not what I had in mind, though.” He entered the store and ran his hand over a rack of colorful feather boas that hung inside the entrance. When the orange boa fell through his fingertips, he turned his attention back to us.
My dad rolled his wheelchair out from behind the counter. “Hello, Blitz,” he said. “Octavius Roman says you rented out his facility space for your birthday party. You must be busy with all of the last-minute details. What brings you to Disguise DeLimit?”
“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.”
Diane Vallere is the national bestselling author of the Lefty-nominated Material Witness Mysteries, which include Crushed Velvet and Suede to Rest, and the Costume Shop Mysteries, which began with A Disguise to Die For. She is the daughter of a seamstress and a scientist, which makes her feel like the love child of Edith Head and Mr. Spock. After twenty years in the fashion industry, she now writes full time, trading fashion accessories for accessories to murder. She launched her own detective agency at ten years old and has maintained a passion for shoes, clues, and clothes ever since. Visit her at dianevallere.com.
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