CHAPTER 5
After hanging up with Belle, I grabbed the Fey Train to Easter Village and the first mysterious number called from the pay phone. The number to a clothes store, Belle had said. When I arrived I wasn’t so sure. A group of well-endowed mannequins dressed as wicked witches and slutty princesses sat in the window. Either I’d found the latest drag queen hot spot or a costume shop.
One could never be too sure in the Village.
I opened the door, stifling a sneeze as a year’s worth of stale air filled my nostrils. Not a drag queen shop, then; too much dust, not enough glitter.
“Welcome to Barry’s Costume Shop. How can I help you?” asked a small man with furry, catlike ears affixed to his bald head with what looked like electrical tape.
Beat staples, I supposed.
I shrugged, doing my best impression of an unassuming and nonthreatening guy with bright blue hair and a matching goatee. Not too surprisingly, the cat man backed up a step, but his shopkeeper smile stayed firmly in place. Guess the costume business wasn’t much better than the PI one.
I squinted at the name tag on his lapel. “Barry, a friend of mine . . . Isabella . . . she called you two days ago, around eight at night. She might’ve rented a costume. . . .”
His once warm smile slipped a few degrees. “No refunds.”
I grinned, reaching in my jacket pocket for my wallet. “Of course not. I just need a little information. That’s all.” I pulled out a wad of bills fortified mostly with lint. Thankfully, I’d stopped at an ATM on the way here, pulling enough cash for a small bribe. A very small bribe. “Can you help me with that, Barry?”
He nodded slowly, his eyes on the cash.
Sometimes bribery was an art, a game of wits versus greed. Other times it was easier than flagging down a passing pumpkin coach. Barry apparently fell into the latter half, and after palming nineteen dollars and seventy-five cents, he was eager to please. “Yes, of course I remember her.”
“Good. Good.” I smiled. “What can you tell me about her call?”
He rubbed his bald head. “Well, she had quite a voice. Husky, with a hint of vulnerability.”
I rolled my eyes. “Why did she call you?”
“Oh,” he pursed his lips. “She needed a costume, of course.”
I swallowed back a sharp retort. “Of course. What kind of costume did she want?”
“I don’t recall offhand, but she needed it right away.” He ran his finger over his lip. “For a party, I think.”
I tilted my head. “A party?”
“That’s what she said.” He smiled. “She even gave me an extra twenty to deliver it by five yesterday afternoon.”
“Wait,” I said, bubbling with electricity. “She gave you her address?”
He frowned. “How else would I have delivered it to her?”
Good point. “So you saw her yesterday? When you delivered the outfit?” which meant up until five o’clock yesterday Isabella Davis was safe and sound and the blood at the pay phone wasn’t hers. Relief filled me.
He shook his head. “She told me to leave it on the stoop.”
I frowned. “And you did? Weren’t you worried it would get stolen?”
“Of course not.” He grinned. “No one steals from a church.”
“A church? She asked you to leave the costume at a church? Don’t you find that a little strange?”
“Not in my business.”
I glanced around the shop, noting the large selection of whips and fairy wings. “Guess not. Do you remember what church you delivered it to?”
“I wrote the address down on her receipt. Let me look for it,” he said as he crossed the shop and vanished into a back office.
An array of colorful wings, hats, and at the very back of the store, rows and rows of fake fairy wings filled the aisles. One pair in particular caught my eyes. They were bright pink with silver and gold glitter, like something a kid might make during arts and crafts.
“Beautiful, aren’t they?” Barry asked, appearing at my side, a piece of paper in his hand. He waved it at the pink wings hanging on the wall. “Those are our top sellers during Pride Week.”
“I’ll bet.” I shot him a small smile. “Did you find what I need?”
“Oh yes.” He shoved the paper into my gloved palm. “My records are impeccable, unlike my memory.”
My fingers curled around it as my eyes scanned the receipt, taking special note of the type of costume Isabella had ordered. I smiled. “Thanks.”
“Anytime,” he said, bowing low. “And if you’re ever in need of a costume, please think Barry first.”
“You can count on it.” I glanced down at the paper again. A quiver of heat rushed through me, the same kind of electricity I always felt when I was about to solve a major case.