“You can think all night if you want, but it’s late and I’m tired,” Ebony said. “How about we unpack the contents of the trailer so I can take off?”
Ebony wasn’t the only one who was tired. The emotional drain of the day, combined with the particular stiffness that comes from spending extended amounts of time on a road trip, were setting in. I unlocked the store and picked up the assortment of colorful flyers that had been shoved underneath the door. Soot ran inside. I changed out of my mom’s dress and into the tracksuit I’d worn when I went to Hoshiyama’s with Tak. The scent of fried rice clung to the stretchy fabric, making me both hungry from and annoyed at the memory at the same time.
Ebony and I didn’t talk much while we unloaded the costumes. I sensed we both wanted to get the job done. I would have left it for the next day, but after everything my dad and Don had gone through to acquire the costumes, it didn’t seem like a good idea to leave them sitting in the trailer out front.
We took turns loading dollies of boxes and rolling them into the already-full stockroom. Until now, I’d largely ignored the massive disorganization in the back room, but tonight I wished that I hadn’t. Our only choice was to put the boxes wherever we found space, and most of that space was in the center of the room. At least now I’d have a project for the morning. We brought in boxes labeled ALIEN HEAD, ALIEN TORSO, and ALIEN AUTOPSY and stacked them floor to ceiling. A quick calculation determined that there were approximately seventy-five boxes in all. Maybe instead of the tracksuit, I should have dressed in the sailor costume and downed a can of spinach first.
When we were done, I said good night to Ebony and went upstairs, changed into pj’s, and climbed into bed. I’d hoped that exhaustion would make the transition from awake to asleep seamless, but it didn’t. Without any other distraction, my mind opened up the floodgates of the concerns I’d been able to hold at bay. My dad’s heart attack, Ebony’s history with Blitz’s dad, Tak Hoshiyama’s relationship with Detective Nichols, the robbery at the Manners house . . . It was a never-ending loop that kept me wide awake.
It was like the whole town of Proper was cut out of cardboard and someone had gotten it wet. Everything—and everybody—was either crumbling or falling apart. I was having a hard time keeping the faith.
After two hours of staring at the bedroom ceiling, I got up in search of a distraction. I poured a glass of half orange juice and half sparkling water and flipped through the mail, tossing piece after piece into the trash.
And then, there it was. An oversized, full-color postcard with a photo of Blitz Manners in the center. I flipped the postcard over. It was an announcement of a memorial service hosted by Candy Girls. Below their name was the tagline: Look to us for costumes, catering, and condolences. If it wasn’t so atrociously inappropriate, it would have been laughable. General activities were listed on the card: informal reminiscences and mingling. Food and beverage service courtesy of Roman Gardens.
Roman Gardens—the location where Blitz had been planning to throw his party. To hear Blitz tell it, when the pipe burst and Octavius told Blitz the party would have to be rescheduled, Blitz canceled everything and redirected his attention—and his money—to Shindig and Disguise DeLimit. You would think Octavius would be angry at the loss of income.
So why was Octavius Roman involved in Blitz’s memorial service?
The first reason that sprung to mind involved the kind of grand illusion Magic Maynard liked to attempt. Diversion, he’d said. Get people to believe you’re doing one thing and then you can pull the wool over their eyes. Was Octavius playing the generosity card in order to make the whole town think he was one of the good guys while behind the scenes he hid his involvement in a homicide?
I leaned back in the chair and thought about Blitz. The more I learned about him, the more of a conundrum I found him to be. So much of his public persona—the brash person who had come to the costume shop and set a ridiculous timetable, the spoiled man-child who threw around $20,000 and insulted Ebony’s integrity, the disgruntled drunk who tossed the custom-made Sherlock Holmes costume on the floor because it wasn’t to his liking—those actions fit one person. But then there was the person Ebony described tonight, a young man who felt alone in his own crowd. That person fit with what Bobbie had said: he donated his money freely to her charity without expecting any sort of return. In fact, he’d asked her to keep it quiet. He resented being popular for his money and he’d never gotten over the death of his dad.