“I guess that explains it,” he said. “But still, you should be careful. Whoever did this might come back, and the next time they might do more than vandalize a car.”
Tak drove off. I propped the front door open, wheeled a rack of fringed ponchos onto the sidewalk, and went back inside to open the register. A petite woman in tennis clothes followed me. A canvas tote, weighed down by something bulky, hung over her shoulder.
“Are you open yet?” she asked.
I glanced at the clock. “Close enough,” I said.
“Oh good. I wanted to get here before I hit the courts.” She went to the counter and pulled a bunched-up garment bag from the tote. “I want to have this appraised.”
I stepped around the back of the counter. “What is it?”
“It’s a costume,” she said. She studied me out of the corner of her eyes. “You do buy costumes, don’t you? You don’t make everything yourself, right?”
“Right.” I hung the garment bag on an empty hook that was mounted to the wall. I’d watched my dad inspect potential costumes hundreds of times, and I’d learned how to back into an offer based on how much we could rent the costume for. I unzipped the garment bag and looked inside.
It was the sweater vest, shirt, and pants from one of the Charlie’s Angels costumes at Blitz’s party. Judging from the shoulder-length brown wig that was clipped to the hanger and the large pinkish glasses, I guessed it was Kate Jackson.
“You and your friends did a great job with the Charlie’s Angels costumes,” I said. “Do the other women plan to bring theirs in too?”
“We didn’t talk about it. After what happened, we haven’t talked about much.” She pulled her bobbed brown hair off her face. A sparkling diamond on her left hand caught the light and glittered. It was bigger than any engagement ring I’d ever seen.
“That’s a beautiful ring,” I said. “Looks heirloom.”
She dropped her left hand and closed her right hand over it. “It was Blitz’s mom’s ring. I—I can’t bring myself to take it off, even though”—she tucked her head, and fat droplets of tears fell onto the front of her tennis whites—“even though we can’t go through with our plans anymore.”
“I didn’t know Blitz was engaged,” I said. I studied the woman in front of me. She clearly knew what had happened to Blitz. So why was she trying to pawn her costume the day after he was killed? The timing—if nothing else—was strange, at best. “I’m sorry for your loss,” I added. It was an expression that I’d heard my whole life, from the earliest memories I had of people expressing their condolences to my dad over the passing of my mother. The words felt empty, because I knew they couldn’t change what had happened.
The woman wiped her eyes and kept her head down. I waited for her to say more, but she didn’t.
I turned my attention back to the costume. The wig was a standard, store-bought brown. The glasses were vintage ’70s and had their share of scratches. The long-sleeved blouse was made from stretchy polyester. I took the shirt off the hanger and studied the plaid pants. Aside from the style, they could have passed for brand-new. There were no pills, no stains, no missing buttons. They were in just about perfect condition.
Except for the tear on the back of the leg that roughly matched the size of the fabric I’d pulled from the window of Ebony’s car.
Chapter 6
“I’LL TAKE IT,” I said. I made her an offer, low enough that I’d have wiggle room, but high enough that it sounded respectable. She agreed to it. “How would you like me to pay you? Store credit?”
“Can you do cash?”
I knew I could. But I also knew the cash was locked up in the safe, and besides, if I gave her cash, I’d have no way of knowing her identity.
“How about a check?”
She seemed less happy with this option. “Sure, okay. Can you make it out to ‘Cash’?”
“I’m sorry, I need a name. I have to have a record of the sale, and part of that record is getting your name and contact information. It’s our regular policy.”
“I didn’t realize that,” she said.
“It’ll only take a second.”
She reached up for the outfit on the hook. “I changed my mind. I think I’ll keep it anyway.” She threw the clothes and garment bag over her arm and left.
The only explanation I had for her behavior was that she was guilty of something. Could that something be murder? Lover’s quarrel or jealous rage? Add in that she was planning on a morning of tennis the day after her fiancé had been murdered, and something was definitely rotten in the state of Denmark—or Nevada, as the case may be.