They made their way to the costume closet, which wasn’t a closet at all, but a classroom with racks of clothing in the middle, dressing room mirrors to one side, Jonesy’s desk on another, and copious amounts of cupboard-style storage (which were actual closets in Embry’s estimation) bolted into every inch of wall space in between.
“Let’s see if we find anything out of place,” Rye whispered as they stepped inside. “Obviously Oakley’s original clothing would be a boon, but let’s not hold our breath.”
The room was all sepia gloom of general shapes they knew from the many, many times they’d been in this room, set up exactly like this, over the past several weeks. They stepped together to the rack that had held her costume, as their starting point.
“Wait,” Embry snapped as Rye reached toward the clothing rack.
Embry rustled around in her belt bag. Producing two disposablegloves, she offered one to Rye. “This might be a little small, but it’ll still cover your fingerprints as well as it will mine.”
She probably should’ve pulled these out before he’d opened the backstage door. But given he had a key, his fingerprints were probably already on the handle. Still, rookie mistake. At least she’d remembered she’d had the gloves when they’d separated to get changed.
Rye accepted it but then blinked at her. “Good idea but why do you have rubber gloves?”
Embry shrugged. “I like to wear them when I prepare Daddy’s ninety-nine percent lean turkey meatballs.”
Rye raised an eyebrow. “The ones he picks out of your pre-portioned chickpea pasta dinners, smothers in mozzarella and red sauce, and stuffs inside a baguette as long as my arm in the name of a Sunday football sandwich?”
Embry smacked him with the back of the hand holding her glove. “Are you trying to stress me out further? I thought you were helping.”
“So you don’t know about the sandwiches?”
“Now I do.” She harrumphed, though now she knew she should at least give the spaghetti squash a go instead of continuing with the chickpea product. “Anyway, put out your light and slip it on your dominant hand, and then light it for me, and I’ll do the same. I figure if we keep the light going in our opposite hands, we won’t be tempted to touch anything without the glove.”
Rye did so, his smile dissolving as they got to work.
“What color was it?” Rye asked after a moment.
“Hmm?” Embry wasn’t sure what he’d meant.
“Her dress?”
Despite everything, Embry chuckled. “Rye, Oakley was literally wearing bloodred. How on earth did you miss that?”
She caught his eye, trying to give him one-tenth the shade he continually gave her at every turn.
Rye cleared his throat and yanked at the hem of his Henley. “Honestly, the only gown I remember is yours.”
A flush of warmth shot into Embry’s cheeks at the thought of their little photoshoot before the presentation of the court. Of the intensity in his eyes as he’d devoured her like a work of art. Of his thumb on her chin, his fingers grazing her cheekbone as they perfected her hair. For some reason, perspiration began to gather at her temples.
Clearing her throat, Embry sank down to search through the costume trunk directly beneath the mobile clothes hanger. It’d be cooler toward the floor. Heat rises, of course.
“I just now remembered you took not only my picture but the court’s,” she said, trying to push past the distracting warmth. She didn’t look up at him, for fear he’d catch sight of her surely bright pink cheeks. “Any chance we could inspect that film later?”
“You bet.”
After several long minutes and two more racks and trunks, Embry’s body temperature had evened out enough that she could risk him looking at her again.
“So, a question,” Embry whispered. “If this person is framing me, what possible motive do they think I could have to so very obviously put Oakley in my costume? Like, do the investigators think I’m a narcissist? That I’m trying to tell on myself? What?”
Rye was silent for enough time that Embry glanced up to where he was thumbing through each piece of clothing with his gloved hand. He was biting his lip, brows knitted.
Finally, he stopped moving altogether. Embry stood and tried to read his expression in the light held in her palm. “What is it, Shaggy? You look like you’re about to exclaimZoinks!”
Rye scoffed. “Very nice callback, Daphne, but I’m not going to develop a catchphrase during this investigation. This is serious.” He matched his words with a very serious expression that bordered on broody. “I think the killer has hopes that the investigators will key in on your relationship up to her death. Yes, we have your argument on tape, but like we surmised earlier, the killer likely displayed her for maximum attention. They probably didn’t know about the video, but what they did know about was other tension you had during the semester.”
“We were friends, Rye. There was no tension. You saw us.”
“I did see you. And you were friends, that much is clear. But you didn’t always agree, not even on the first day I saw you together.”
