Oliver Twisted (An Ivy Meadows Mystery Book 3) by Cindy Brown Page B

reverentially entered a room that shimmered with light reflected off silken ball gowns. Beaded bodices sparkled and velvet capes whispered of walks through manicured gardens. Neatly pressed men’s suits in black and gray and brown looked proud and pompous, even on the rack. A few brightly colored waistcoats winked from among them. Bowlers and boaters and top hats perched on a shelf above the men’s clothes, while a half dozen free-standing hat racks held confections for women made of feathers and lace and ribbons. Nearly hidden among all this finery were worn-looking cotton and wool costumes like the one I wore, and behind the shop’s counter was a rack filled entirely with what looked like black robes. As I peeked over the counter to get a better look, a short elegant man emerged from a back room. “How may I help you?”
    Once I told him what I needed, he brought out several gowns. I tried on a scarlet velvet dress (a little too low-cut for dinner), a gold silk-looking one (did nothing for my complexion), and a brocade gown in a soft sage green that set off my eyes. Perfect. Its off-the-shoulder neckline dripped with tea-dyed lace and its full skirt (hoop skirt included) emphasized my small waist. Or so I thought.
    I came out of the dressing room to look at myself in the larger mirror in the shop.
    “Hmm,” said the costumer shop manager. “Do you want to try a corset?”
    “Uh…Sure.”
    He sized me up with his eyes and handed me a front-lacing corset from a drawer behind the counter. I went back into the dressing room with the contraption. Once I was laced up tight, I slipped the gown back over my head and checked my reflection. Oh, that’s why he suggested it. My waist looked tiny, which made the skirt look fuller. Plus I stood up straighter, probably because I couldn’t bend in the middle.
    “What do you think?” he asked from outside the door.
    “I’ll take it,” I said, somewhat breathlessly. “Maybe it’ll help me to eat less at dinner.”
    As the manager helped me pick out a blonde wig (neither my one-and-a half-inch orange hair nor my Nancy wig were going to fly), I gazed at the beautiful clothes in the shop. “Are all these costumes historically accurate?”
    “They’re of the time period,” he said. “Though maybe not very Dickensian.” He handed me a wig, an elaborate style with swept-up blonde hair and a few long curls spilling down the back. “Most customers want to dress like the upper classes, even though most of Dickens’s major characters were low or middle class.” He settled the wig on my head. “And our most popular costume doesn’t fit into any of those categories.”
    “What do you mean?” I said, admiring the way the short curls on the wig framed my face.
    He gestured at the rack of black robes behind the counter. “Our biggest seller, so to speak.” I must have looked confused, because he said, “Bestseller is a bit of a misnomer. Costumes are free to all guests for the duration of the costume ball. Or when they’re invited to sit at the captain’s table.”
    “But what is that costume?”
    “The Ghost of Christmas Future.”
    “The scary faceless ghost who points at Scrooge’s grave? That’s your most popular costume? Why would anyone want to wear a black robe when they had all this to choose from?” I waved at the finery that surrounded us.
    “I know.” The manager put my wig in a hatbox and handed it across the counter. “I think some people wear it because it hides absolutely everything. Allows the shy ones to still dress up, you see.”
    “You said some people wear it because they’re shy. What about the others?”
    “I think the others are just plain creepy,” he said. “Do you want to see my absolute creepiest costume?”
    “Of course.”
    He turned to the rack behind him and pulled out an innocent green velvet robe from among the black ones. “A Ghost of Christmas Present costume,” he said. “But a special one given to us by a theater