Page 71 of Murder By the Millions
Taking her cue, I moved toward a nearby freestanding rack that held a variety of 1920s-style clothing—everything from flapper dresses to gorgeous ball gowns. Where had Lillian procured them all? She must have raided more costume departments than merely the community theater’s.
“Check out all the green-toned beauties in the mix,” Lillian said. “Have fun.” She faced Iggie, clutched the lapels of his jacket, and gave a firm tug. “I like it, but I want to check the inseam and hem, handsome.”
Handsome?I had to hand it to my friend. She was acting up a storm.
“Fits pretty good,” Iggie said, “as far as I’m concerned.”
“Yes, well, we might want to loosen it a tad,” she said judiciously. “We don’t want any of those buttons to pop off and hit someone in the eye. It could cause a lawsuit.” She thwacked him playfully on the arm and steered him toward the riser.
“Lillian.” Candace emerged from the dressing room and held up two frocks. “May I take both of these home and see which one Quinby likes?” In her monotone clothing, Candace looked nerdy and in need of a makeover. Perhaps Lillian would take her under her wing. In addition to knowing which styles customers should wear, Lillian had an eye for which makeup to apply to render even the ugliest swan prettier. Candace wasn’t ugly. She simply lacked confidence.
“Yes, of course.”
A month ago Lillian might have questioned her decision to let Candace walk out with not one but two dresses. Afterall, the Canfields had been struggling financially, but recently, Stella Burberry had given them strategic financial advice, and Quinby, like his wife with her career, was turning his flagging landscaping business around.
Candace beamed and strode to the sales counter to wait while the clerk finished up with Finette.
“Iggie, you sing, don’t you?” Lillian said, loudly enough for all to hear.
“I was a choirboy,” he admitted.
“In his dreams,” Finette said under her breath.
I bit back a laugh.
“I started out as a tenor,” he said. “Now I’m a baritone.”
Lillian crouched to insert straight pins into the hem of the trousers. “I wish you had auditioned for the upcoming musical at the theater. You have such a melodic voice.”
“Which show are you doing?” he asked.
“Miss Saigon.”
Iggie grunted. “I saw it. There isn’t a part for me.”
“The engineer,” Lillian cooed. “He’s the owner of Dreamland.”
“He’s half Vietnamese and half French.”
Lillian trilled out a fake laugh. “Silly man. You don’t think we can cast perfectly in a town the size of Bramblewood, do you? No, it’s all about the costumes and makeup.” She rose and, using a stick of tailor’s chalk, marked the vest near the buttonholes. “I think we’ll let it out this much. Okay?”
“Yeah, might be comfier.”
“Auditions were held Monday night. Would you have been able to make it?”
“No. I was at a poker game with my buddies.”
Did his lack of hesitation mean it was the truth?
“Which buddies are those?” Lillian asked.
“My golfing guys.”
“Are any of them single?” she said in a flirtatious manner. “I might be interested.”
He guffawed. “Not a one. All happily married. And way too old for you.”
Finette signed for her purchase and said sotto voce to me, “She’s incorrigible.”
