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engagement ring I’d ever seen.
    â€œThat’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.”
    â€œI 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 nopills, 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

    â€œI’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?”
    â€œCan 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.
    â€œHow about a check?”
    She seemed less happy with this option. “Sure, okay. Can you make it out to ‘Cash’?”
    â€œI’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.”
    â€œI didn’t realize that,” she said.
    â€œIt’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.
    I regretted not trying to match the square of torn fabric from Ebony’s car with the pants when I had them all in front of me. I pulled the fabric from my fringed pouch and looked at it. It was a nondescript plaid in shades of khaki, plum, navy blue, and brown, the same shades of her pants.
    In her haste to leave, she’d left the wig and glasses to the costume on the counter. I grabbed them and raced to the front door. A red Prius pulled away from the curb just as I reached the sidewalk. If she saw me waving the props at her, she ignored them. Her little red car turned right at the intersection on the corner, passing the bus that was letting off passengers.
    Proper City had established a public transportation route called the Zip. There were four buses in total, going by the simple names of the One, the Two, the Three, and the Four. They circled around the city between the hours of seven a.m. and seven p.m. and were driven by