Chapter Thirteen

As I walked the short distance to The Masked Shoppe, I fervently prayed everyone was as exhausted as I was after the long night and would not be waiting in front of the store to return their costumes. It was Sunday, after all, and the shop would stay open until seven tonight to accommodate everyone.

Of course my life did not run in that kind of nice logical line. So, instead of the empty stoop I was hoping for, I came upon a crowd of people. In the center of that crowd was Kitty, and she, of course, was talking.

“Well, folks, really, I expect Ivy at any moment. I know she’ll remember to come and open the store for all of you. Surely she didn’t get so drunk last night she would forget everyone was bringing back their costumes today. I wish I could do it for her, but she’s the boss and has the only key.”

I couldn’t decide whether to call her a dirty name or throw her out in the street and tell her never to darken my frickin’ door again. I absolutely did not need this right now.

But the old Ivy rose from deep inside and I kept my mouth shut. It was better to smile and get the job done instead of calling Kitty out before I even had a decent cup of coffee.

I made a production of looking at the sign on the door and then at the watch on my wrist. “Hi folks, sorry I’m on time.” That got a laugh from a couple of people, though not from Kitty, who quickly transformed her scowl into the pleasant smile I was used to seeing on her narrow face. I’d always thought it was fake, and now I knew she could whip it out anytime she wanted to and it would look the same as when she genuinely smiled. If she’d ever actually genuinely smiled.

The whole group of people trailed in after me and formed a line in front of the counter. I was thankful I hadn’t taken a chunk out of Kitty earlier. How on earth would I have survived this on my own? Also, a lot of the customers still only went to Kitty. I might have been anonymous last night and so everyone was nice to me, but in the cold light of morning, without my mask and flapper costume, it was business as usual, and that included several very dirty looks. It seemed people were not soon going to welcome me into their little town as I’d originally thought. I guess between being from California and the grumblings from locals that I didn’t deserve the shop since I’d never come to visit my aunt (Bella’s information), I continued as persona non grata. I still hoped that would change but was getting the distinct feeling I was tilting at windmills.

Two hours and about sixty costumes later, I wasn’t sure how I had even survived with the help. We’d checked in so many costumes they were a blur of fur and masks and cloth. But, I thought, when I checked the sales for this, our busiest season, I would be pleasantly surprised by the amount of money we had pulled in.

The bell rang and another customer walked in, this one with a pair of jet-black silk pants and a two-toned cape. He also had a genie costume in vibrant purple. I pulled Mr. Jorgensen’s receipt from the box on the counter and checked his rental agreement against his return. “Looks like everything is here, sir. Thank you to you and Doris for renting from us. If you could sign the bottom of the receipt, here at the X, you can be on your way.”

Mr. Jorgensen was a farmer from the outskirts of town, and a wonderfully funny guy. He and his wife were in their fifties, and Doris sometimes came in to take advantage of my little back room.

“Thank you, Ivy. The party was a good time until that poor woman was found. Did you hear any more about what happened?” His big hand held my pumpkin-topped pen like it was a fragile piece of china as he scrawled his signature across the bottom of the page.

“Actually, that’s what almost everyone has been asking today. I don’t know anything more than what we saw last night.”

“Yep, I hear the police force is keeping things pretty close to the vest. We haven’t had a murder in Martha’s Point in about ten years, and it has sure shook up the people around here. Did you hear how she died?”

“Can’t say that I have, Mr. Jorgensen. You?” I couldn’t tell him I was actually the one who had found her. I’d been asked to keep the information close to my own vest, or rather the kicking jade green shirt I’d put on this morning, one of Bella’s hand-me-downs.

“Nope. But I did hear they found blood on her top from a stab wound. They figure that’s what got her.” Tidbit passed on to the next grape on the vine, he left with a backhanded wave.

I put Mr. Jorgensen’s costume on the rack behind the counter. Kitty stood next to me, helping another costumer, and I felt bone tired all of a sudden. She could handle things for a few moments. There was only one other person in line, and no one else in the shop.

“I’m going to take some of these costumes to the back, Kitty. Holler if you need me.”

“Oh, I’ll be fine, Ivy. Nothing I can’t handle on my own. You run along and have your break, and I’ll stay right here.”

Take a deep breath and let it roll off your back, I counseled myself. I thought maybe I was too sensitive to her and this only proved it further. I needed to stop listening to her, and I also needed to remember who the owner was—me. No amount of her mouth was going to change that.

So, ignoring Kitty and her catty attitude, I took the six outfits from the rack behind us, including Mr. Jorgensen’s recent returns, and walked into the back room. I sat down and spread the garments out before me. The genie costume and the pirate were in perfect condition. A little stitching on the hem would fix the princess outfit. Some kind of oil spotted the pumpkin costume, from the looks of the shiny spots on the green satin leaves around the throat. The werewolf looked okay, if a little matted. And the black pants from Mr. Jorgensen would need dry cleaning, as all the fabric outfits did.

Then I picked up the cape. It was silky black on the outside and had a deep red lining. I inspected it as I did all the other costumes and almost missed the fist-sized stain on the tall collar. It was dry, and a deeper color than the red lining. It wasn’t greasy like the oil, or fruity smelling like the wine stain I’d found on another cape earlier. This stain was like a splatter of paint, but crusty. In fact, the only thing I’d ever seen like it was when I pricked my finger with a needle trying to fix a sleeve on one of the costumes and ended up bleeding on the damn thing.

The thought stopped me cold. Blood? The image of Janice, dead in a back room of the Barn, jumped into my head, and I remembered the blood I’d seen coating Janice’s chest. I shuddered as I remembered Mr. Jorgensen’s comment about the blood on her body.

A scary idea entered my head and I wondered what exactly I was thinking by even entertaining it for more than a single moment. Mr. Jorgensen couldn’t have killed Janice, could he? I had no idea if they even knew each other. And why would he have mentioned the blood if he was the one who had killed her and in the process had splattered some blood on his collar?

He was an honest and good farmer, from what I’d heard and seen for myself, and I knew he wasn’t dumb. When he came in, he always talked with me and he seemed so nice. Could it be possible he was capable of murder? Then again, maybe my imagination was going wild and this wasn’t really blood. Or was it?