“I hope so, because I regret calling.”
Larkin ignored the dig and asked, “Did you know if Esther’s burlesque costumes were significant to her in some way. We’ve come into ownership of what we suspect are the remains of a veil—” Larkin pointed to the Polaroids still sitting on the tabletop, “—like that one, and believe it belonged to Esther. My partner says the material actually originates from the nineteenth century.”
“Well, yeah. Essie made all her own costumes,” Phyllis replied, in a tone like,You didn’t know that?“I still have them… did you want to see?”
Chapter Sixteen
Phyllis’s bedroom was a continuation of the same outrageous color scheme seen in the front room: walls an almost orange—a not-quite-pink, really—with neon art décor over the headboard that instead of saying something generic likegood vibes only, was a glowing purple cat that appeared to be flipping the double bird. The bedspread was a matching lavender, and the dozen pillows piled high were bright and mismatching floral patterns. The throw rug on the floor was white shag and an orange tabby was stretched out on it, seemingly ignoring their presence on principle.
Larkin appreciated the wife’s clear understanding and usage of complementary colors, but the home had simply too much aggressive visual noise for him to feel comfortable. He lingered in the open doorway as Doyle followed Phyllis to the closet on the left side.
“Burlesque dancers usually design their own costumes,” Phyllis was saying as she opened the door, stared at the top shelf, then asked Doyle, “Can you reach—yeah, that vacuum-sealed bag right there.”
Doyle removed a large, clear bag from overhead and handed it over.
“I kept everything at first because I thought she’d come home.” Phyllis set the bag on the bed, unzipped it, and reached inside as air rushed in. “The dresses all belonged to her great-grandmother? Great-great-grandmother, maybe? Essie said she wanted to respect the clothing by upcycling it—because what else could you do with all that crap?” Phyllis removed a short black skirt and offered it to Doyle. “See what a talented seamstress she was? These used to be some god-awful, ugly-as-sin shit they forced women to wear back then. Not a single piece of color in the whole lot.”
Doyle handled the clothing with the obvious love and care of a museum curator. Tactfully, he said, “Women’s clothing in nineteenth century America was quite colorful. It looks like Esther actually made her costumes out of mourning attire, which was a very specific set of clothing worn only when a family member passed. There were degrees of mourning that did allow for the introduction of certain colors, but when in the initial and deepest period, you wore only black.”
“How do you know?” Phyllis asked incredulously.
Doyle set the skirt aside, reached into the bag himself, and removed a skimpy leotard that looked to have been pieced together from another veil, if Larkin was any judge of the semitransparent material. Doyle gently rubbed the fabric between his thumb and forefinger. “Crape material was specific to death culture.”
“How did Ms. Haycox come into possession of these,” Larkin asked.
Phyllis shrugged. “Family heirloom? I have no idea.”
Larkin asked, as Doyle rummaged through the contents of the storage bag, “Is this all of her costumes.”
“There’s some missing.”
“Where’d they get to.”
Phyllis took her glasses off and busied herself by rubbing the lenses on the corner of her T-shirt. “Essie was still carrying a gym bag to work—she kept a few different costume changes inside. I don’t know if she wore them at the Kitten as part of her bullshit lesbian schtick, or if she’d just gotten into the habit of bringing them, before I knew she’d left Frills. Either way, that bag never resurfaced after whatever happened to her.”
Doyle took out a folded corset. His brows were knitted together as he gently patted the front, before reaching inside and drawing out a palm-sized, black velvet purse. It had an ornate silver clasp, lightly tarnished, and a short, matching chain from which to carry it by.
Larkin stepped into the bedroom and joined Doyle’s side as he unsnapped the top. “Is the handbag period.”
“Yeah. Late nineteenth century would be my guess.”
Phyllis leaned closer. “What’s in there?”
Doyle took out a piece of paper folded over multiple times and passed it to Larkin.
Larkin was careful to handle it as little as possible as he smoothed it out to read. “Certified copy of Esther Haycox’s birth certificate.”
“They always say to keep that stuff in a safe place,” Phyllis commented.
Doyle showed Larkin a driver’s license next.
Larkin took the card, holding it by the top and bottom. “Was Esther from Idaho,” he asked, looking toward Phyllis.
“Idaho? She was a New Yorker.”
“You’re certain.”
“She’d say, ‘Let’s get a cup of coffee,’” Phyllis said, by way of answer, but she’d put emphasis on “coffee,” shifting theoto the New Yorkawso it was more like “cawfee.”
