Growing up in the store, I’d had ample opportunity to play dress-up. Even after my dad stopped providing my school wardrobe from Disguise DeLimit’s inventory, I turned to our shelves for my accessories. When I was a teenager searching for my own identity, I found it in the characters who I dressed up as: cowgirl, tomboy, artist, mechanic. There was a costume to suit my every mood, and dressing up in character helped me identify myself and got me through the day.
Maybe that’s why I hadn’t paid attention to the people in the costumes at Blitz’s party. What I remembered were clusters of people talking among themselves. Columbo talking to Veronica Mars. The Bob-Whites talking to Cherry Ames. Rockford flirting with Nancy Drew, who kept her eyes on Kojak. Tom Swift and Miss Marple. Too bad I hadn’t paid more attention to the people under each disguise. The only person I remembered was Octavius Roman, who hadn’t bothered with a costume. I wondered briefly if that was significant.
By twelve forty-five, I couldn’t stand the idea that I was trapped behind the counter for the next five hours. I found Kirby Grizwitz’s number where my dad said it was and called.
“Kirby, this is Margo Tamblyn,” I said.
“Hey, Margo. How’s Jerry?”
“He’s recovering faster than anybody expected.”
“Did he take off to go see those alien costumes?” he asked.
“How’d you know about them?”
“He’s been wanting to go check them out for months. He keeps asking me to take on full-time hours so he could get away.”
“He and his friend Don took off Thursday morning. I don’t know when they’re coming back.”
“That sounds like Jerry,” he said.
“Are you calling with my schedule for the week?” Kirby asked.
“Sort of. I know this is short notice, but can you work today?”
“Sure.”
“Great. Come over as soon as you’re ready. I’ll be waiting for you.”
*
KIRBY arrived at the store a little after one. He went straight to the register and signed in on a time card.
Kirby Grizwitz was a freckle-faced teenager who worked part-time at the shop. He was captain of the Proper City Prawns, the local high school swim team. He maintained a year-round tan from early-morning practices and lived in T-shirts from swim meets around the country. He had a typical male swimmer’s build: broad shoulders and lean muscles, which made him popular with the girls in his class, despite his obvious prioritizing of sports over dating.
“Sure is crazy what happened to Blitz Manners yesterday,” he said.
“How did you hear?” Kirby wasn’t known for being up on current events since he spent most of his time in a swimming pool.
“After practice this morning, I went to the gym. Grady O’Toole was bench-pressing without a spotter. He was struggling with the barbell and I jumped into place just in time.”
“That’s unusual, right? Isn’t it standard to bench with a partner?”
“Yeah. I don’t think Grady was too happy to hear me say that, but he could have hurt himself. He stormed off afterward. I said something at the registration desk, and they told me what happened to Blitz. Guess Grady was working off some steam.”
I thought about the turmoil of emotions that Grady must be feeling in the wake of his friend’s murder and wondered if the steam he was working off had come from residual anger or frustration.
I took the empty hair spray can I’d rescued from the back of Ebony’s car and went upstairs, where I set the can on the dining room table next to the torn square of plaid fabric. My own little evidence collection. Evidence of what, I still wasn’t sure.
I sat down at the table and stared at the two items. I might never have connected the vandalism to Blitz’s murder if not for the word Murderer that had been sprayed on the hood of Ebony’s Caddy. Someone was either convinced that she was guilty, or was trying to influence the tide of public opinion against her.
I set the hair spray can and the torn fabric on two separate sheets of paper and labeled each individually: HAIR SPRAY, CANDY GIRLS and CHARLIE’S ANGELS COSTUME? I turned the piece of fabric over in my fingers. Maybe it hadn’t come from the Charlie’s Angels costume. There had been a lot of plaid at the party: Nancy Drew’s skirt, Sherlock’s cape, the deerstalker worn by Roquefort, the mouse from The Aristocats. I had a list of all of the costumes downstairs by the register. Again, I wished I’d paid more attention to who wore what.
But there was one thing I did know that, until now, I’d overlooked: Grady O’Toole had said he was keeping the classic Sherlock costume for himself. So why had Blitz been wearing it when he was found murdered? Had Blitz been the intended victim, or had this been a case of mistaken identity gone horribly wrong?
Downstairs, I found Kirby at ease behind the register, reading a copy of Dune Buggies and Hot VWs magazine. Ever since I’d known him, he’d talked about getting a dune buggy, and it appeared that the fantasy remained unfulfilled.
“Are you any closer to getting one?” I asked, gesturing toward the magazine.
“Not allowed until after Nationals,” he said. “Can’t risk injury this late in the season. If I’m lucky, I’ll have enough money by graduation.”