A Killing in Costumes Page 2

  “He read about the store in the paper. He wanted to wish us luck, maybe see if there might be an opportunity to work together. Oh, and he happens to be in Palm Springs this week. We can go meet with him at his hotel after we find out what Yana has to offer us.”

  “I wonder what his angle is,” Cindy said, finally moving the Explorer forward again.

  “Why does everyone have to have an angle?” Jay asked.

  Cindy smiled. “This is business, Jay. Everybody is working a scheme. It’s not all about art and joy and jazz hands and leg kicks like Las Vegas.”

  Jay sighed, remembering how little joy there had been in his last few months in Sin City. He’d been in Vegas for nearly two decades after he and Cindy had split up, playing in cocktail lounges, using his hammy, showy piano skills and Elvis impersonations to eke out a living. It had been fun. Then, a year ago, it had become very not fun when his boyfriend of five years had dumped him, saying he needed to be alone. A few weeks later, Jay had found out he’d moved in with Jay’s bass player and then hired the bass player to start a competing act, using the savings he’d stolen from Jay as his start-up capital. Jay had barely been able to listen to a bass line since, let alone hire a new player to keep his own act going. Cindy’s call with the idea of opening a movie store had been a lifeline. He straightened his red-and-white-tablecloth-patterned bow tie, a nervous habit. “Well, I’m not sure the Cypress guy had an angle. He seemed nice.”

  Now Cindy was speeding along, leaning over the steering wheel like a racehorse jockey. “No one is nice,” she said. “Nice people don’t go into the collectibles business.”

  “What about us?” Jay said. “We’re nice.”

  Cindy smiled. “We are the exception,” she said. “And I can be cutthroat when I need to be. But you’re nice. That’s why you’re handling the collectibles, and I’m handling the business.” She patted him gently on the leg, just to make sure he knew she was joking. Mostly joking, Jay thought.

  Ten minutes later, they arrived at Yana Tosh’s house, right on time. It was the kind of Palm Springs getaway Jay would have expected from Barbra Streisand, not a second-tier character actress. A short driveway led to a large, flat-roofed ranch, its sprawl making up for the lack of a second floor. Jay had read that Palm Springs had ordinances that mostly banned two-floor homes, and the result was a flat paradise that didn’t look quite like any other city. The modernist style reeked of martinis and mood music. Jay could almost hear the din of the half century of pool parties Yana must have hosted in the backyard.

  The sun was sweltering as they walked to the door.

  Cindy reached for the doorbell, but Jay stopped her. He hated doorbells—they made him feel like he was summoning someone. He rapped gently against the uber-chic, mid-century teal door. Just touching it made Jay feel like a member of the Rat Pack.

  “Coming,” came a man’s voice. A few seconds later, the same voice said, “Who is it?” The tone was pleasant, but the door remained closed.

  “Jay Allan and Cindy Cooper,” Jay said. “With Hooray for Hollywood Movie Memorabilia.” He smiled to himself, feeling very professional. What had been a dream for twenty years was now so very, very real.

  “What are you looking for?” The voice sounded less friendly now.

  “Ben Sinclair came into our store yesterday,” Cindy said. “We have an appointment to look at the, uh—collection.”

  Just then, there was another voice, clearly a woman’s, from inside, deep and husky and full of power. “Let them in, Warren, for goodness sake.”

  The door opened, and Jay saw an elderly woman, somehow still with ramrod straight posture, perfectly made up, with a sparkly pink top over black leggings and a full head of fluffy, coiffed white hair. It took Jay a second to realize it was a wig, and then only an instant more to know that this was Yana Tosh: the picture of Hollywood elegance, even if she hadn’t been near a major movie set in half a century.

  The man, half hidden by the door, younger and about six feet tall, had none of Yana’s presence. He was dressed in unseasonably warm jeans and an untucked black button-down with the sleeves rolled up. It wasn’t quite long enough to hide his beer gut. “You didn’t tell me you were expecting visitors, Mother.”

  “I don’t have to tell you anything,” she snapped, like a cat playing with a toy—no real bite. She gazed at Jay and Cindy as if taking their measure, clearly used to sorting out who belonged and who didn’t. “My apologies,” she said finally, extending a hand to each of them. Apparently they’d passed that first test. “I’m Yana Tosh. And this is my son, Warren Limon.” Cindy opened her mouth, but Yana cut her off. “I know who you two are,” she said. “And Jay, I remember your act from Las Vegas—saw it a few times. Wonderful stuff, simply marvelous!”

  “Thank you,” Jay said. “You’ve made my day by remembering it.” And it was true: she had. Playing to lounge crowds of loud-talking drunk tourists had taken its toll on his ego as a performer, and it was exciting to meet someone who actually remembered his show.

  The former star waved her hand, which was thin and slightly shaky, with almost as many gemstone rings as liver spots. “Oh, the false modesty,” she said. “It’s quite endearing. When I read about your store in the paper, I sent Ben over right away, to see if we should meet. He was impressed, and so here we are.”

  “It’s really a joy to meet you, Ms. Tosh,” Cindy said.

  “Yana,” the former star said. “Please call me Yana.”

  Cindy smiled. “Yana, it is. And I’m so glad you saw the newspaper piece. Jay really hustled to get us that coverage. I’ve been such a fan—for decades. I mean, no one played evil the way you did. No one. The way you played that temptress who seduced married police officers for her mob boss lover? Iconic.”

  Yana batted her eyes. Still charismatic and arresting—and loving the attention. “Yes,” she agreed. “It was a wonderful little run I had, wasn’t it? God, it’s been so long. But when I’m reminded of those days, sometimes it feels like I was just on a set with Omar Sharif, or battling it out with Janet Leigh for a part in the next Hitchcock picture.” She fluffed the wig. Another mannerism of a woman who’d come of age under the lighting of a soundstage, Jay thought. He was getting serious Eartha Kitt vibes—fabulous, but more than a little scary.

  “Please come in and let me show you some things,” Yana continued. “Ben will be back in a few minutes. He ran out to get a bottle of champagne.”

  “Champagne?” Her son’s expression was disapproving.

  “Yes, Warren,” Yana said, her voice dripping with contempt—her moods seemed to swing from flirtatious to bullying, with little in between. “Champagne. In case we make a deal here and have something to celebrate. We could toast, even. Like people do when they’re happy.”

  Jay exchanged a knowing glance with Cindy—a look that had been developed over their decades-long relationship. What have we gotten ourselves into?

  Yana looked back at them. “May I show you the collection?”

  “It would be an honor,” Jay said. “But first, we’d like to present you with a small gift—a little token of what we hope will be a long friendship.” With a flourish, he pulled out the Columbo statue he’d been hiding in his vintage plaid summer jacket and presented it to her. He used the line he’d planned about the Academy Award.

  Sure enough, Yana laughed. “I adore this,” she said. “Thank you so much! And I can’t believe you remember my Columbo episode. It was one of my favorite TV shows.” She paused. “One of the last things I did before I retired. What a gem Peter Falk was—exactly like you’d hope. Brilliant and warm, and what a terrific character he created. I do wonder, if I’d stayed in the business, whether I could’ve done my own mystery show.” She paused, as if lost in a memory. “God, you get to be my age and everything reminds you of a regret.” She brightened, mercurial as the sun emerging from behind a cloud. “But what fun is that? I must be cheerful! I have a new trophy, and it’s a beautiful one.”

  “Will you keep it with your other trophies?” Cindy asked.

  Yana smiled. “Oh, I sold all of those decades ago.”

  “Sold them?” Jay asked, unable to disguise his shock.

  Yana nodded. “I don’t care about my own accolades and trophies—those are just gifts. But I wanted to have a connection to the movies themselves. So, before I was married, I sold the trophies and bought more costumes, and I’ve never once regretted it. Helped to have a husband as rich as Rockefeller. I don’t need trophies to remember the ceremonies.” She tapped her head. “I was there! But the costumes—those are part of the great art form that was mid-century cinema. Now, come, let me show you the collection.”

  “Smart plan,” Cindy said.

  With Warren trailing behind, Jay and Cindy followed Yana back through the house, which was sparsely furnished in modernist style. There were large abstract paintings on the walls, a baby grand piano in the living room, and a deep, gray, plush carpet. It was, Jay thought, the epitome of tasteful, upper-class senior citizen—no hints of the danger he associated with the characters Yana had played.

  They made their way into Yana’s bedroom, which was similarly tasteful, if more grandmotherly. A large seascape portrait hung over the bed, which was covered with a baby-blue comforter and floral throw pillows. A soap opera was playing on a large flat screen television.

  “Days of Our Lives,” Cindy said, nodding toward the TV. “You’re a lady with taste.”

  “They’ll cancel it one of these days,” Yana said.

  “Really?” Cindy said.

  “Oh, sure. It’s still popular, but I’m at the younger end of their viewership, and advertisers are wasting their time because old folks don’t buy anything. We’re in selling mode. They’ll replace it with some cheap, u
nscripted dreck that kids like—probably a dating show where the people never meet or even talk to each other. And speaking of selling mode, may I introduce you to my walk-in closet?”

  She pointed toward a pair of French doors. Jay watched as Cindy pushed them open and the average-sized bedroom opened into a closet the size of four bedrooms.

  Cindy’s eyes widened, and Yana laughed. “Years ago,” she said, “I had the closet expanded. One only needs one bed, but one can never have too many costumes.”

  “I’m writing that down,” Cindy said. “It will be a perfect line to give the press when we’re promoting your sale.”

  “And perfect for the promotional video we’ll make,” Jay agreed. One of Cindy’s sales tactics, she’d told him, was to always talk as though the deal were a foregone conclusion. Rather than saying if we make a deal to handle your collection, discuss details of how it will work.

  The four of them walked in, and Jay imagined that it was like entering a storage area at MGM in the 1950s. That made sense because most of the collection probably had been in MGM storage in the 1950s. A gold-framed, full-length mirror and multiple large movie posters lined the walls. There were a few classics, like The Caine Mutiny and Meet Me in St. Louis, but many of the movies were so obscure even Jay hadn’t heard of them.

  “I chose posters I liked”—Yana shrugged, as if reading his mind—“and that were particularly interesting to me. The most famous movies, the posters were everywhere for years, so I got bored with them. But a flop with beautiful art? That’s what I want in my sanctuary.”

  “Sanctuary is exactly the way I’d describe this room,” Jay agreed. “As Goethe said, ‘Collectors are happy people.’”

  Yana looked impressed. “Very true.”

  “There’s a sense of purpose that comes from accumulating and curating objects you love,” Jay went on. “Looking at them always has a way of making your troubles go away, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, most definitely.” Yana’s tone seemed softer now, and Jay was surprised to see Cindy glaring at him.

  Oops. If he wasn’t careful, he might talk their prospective seller out of selling. He quickly shut up and listened in rapt attention as Yana spent the next hour showing them highlights from her collection: one-of-a-kind, six-figure costumes from some of the most important movies of all time. There was a green beret worn by John Wayne in The Green Berets, a cape worn by Elizabeth Taylor in Cleopatra, Vivien Leigh’s straw hat from Gone with the Wind, and dozens of other pieces. Best of all, there was a filing cabinet that contained impeccable documentation for the history of each piece: photos of it in the film, a letter of authenticity from the previous owner—usually a star or studio employee—and detailed notes describing its history, from its life on the film set until the time it entered Yana’s sanctuary. That filing cabinet made the collection much more valuable because it removed all doubts about authenticity.

  “How did you find all these pieces?” Jay asked.

  Yana laughed. “I got a reputation. I started seeking them out—buying them at estate sales, calling on lawyers when people died, that kind of thing. This was back when nobody else was buying the stuff, of course.”

  “Nobody wanted it?” Jay asked.

  Yana shook her head. “Classic film wasn’t yet a thing. It was popular entertainment—meant to be shown in a theater and enjoyed and never thought about again. They weren’t special to anyone at the time—it was just used clothing. But to me, they were like Michelangelo paintings or first drafts of a Hemingway novel. When people found out I was buying pieces, word spread. People called me, and I bought everything they had. Didn’t even spend much on it in the beginning. The closet renovation cost more than I’d spent on the whole collection, until the ’80s. That’s when prices started rising. And I kept buying.”

  She walked over to a dresser and pulled out a plastic bag with a pair of what looked to be boxer shorts with American flags on them. “Sylvester Stallone wore these in Rocky,” she said. “I paid twenty-five thousand dollars for them.”

  “Still a bargain,” Cindy said.

  Yana nodded. “That’s what I’m hoping.”

  “What has you deciding to sell now?” Jay asked.

  Warren, quiet and seemingly uninterested until now, looked up. “I’m not necessarily opposed to getting rid of this stuff, but—”

  “It is not stuff,” Yana snapped, bristling. “It is treasure.”

  Warren shrugged guiltily. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just know how much joy it gives you.”

  Why was her son trying to talk her out of selling? Usually, they dealt with the opposite dynamic.

  “I am ninety years old,” Yana said, cutting him off.

  “Happy birthday, by the way” Jay said. He hadn’t wanted to bring up a lady’s birthday but since she’d already gone there, he decided it was okay.

  “Who told you?” Her eyes were piercing.

  “I—we—I was reading about you on the internet.”

  She softened. “Of course,” she said. “I always forget how easily people can find things out now. It’s a shame my son couldn’t have looked it up! He could’ve gotten me a gift or at least a card, or even just extended a kind greeting.”

  “I’m sorry, Mother,” Warren stammered. “I’ve just been distracted. I can’t believe I forgot.”

  Cindy looked at Yana, trying to smooth past the hiccup. “You were saying? About why you want to sell?”

  Yana’s face was serious. “My health is good right now, but who knows how long that will last? Such things can deteriorate quickly, and I want all decisions made while I’m around and capable of making them. I want to know how much each piece sells for, and to meet with the people who buy them. I want to tell them how much these things meant to me, and find out how these movies have touched their lives. I need to make sure they know that those of us who hoard history aren’t just collectors. We’re caretakers, preserving cultural heritage for eternity. It’s a sacred thing, don’t you think?”

  “I’ve never heard it expressed so well,” Jay said.

  Yana smiled. “I’ve thought about it a lot. And given that speech a few times. I’m good at delivering lines.”

  “I can assure you,” Cindy said, “that Jay and I, and Hooray for Hollywood, feel the same way. Handling the sale of your collection would be the honor of a lifetime, and I know that we’ll do you proud.”

  “Well,” Yana said, suddenly less wistful, “Cypress Auctions was just here. They had a whole presentation. A mock catalog, complete with photos of me from my old movies—looking evil and alluring, with that long flowing hair I had back then. They had a—what did they call it?” She paused, searching for the word, and her face lit up with obvious pride when she remembered it. “A PowerPoint presentation! Some kind of new technology, I guess.”

  Jay felt his heart pound in his chest. Cindy had been right all along: The nice man from Cypress who’d called did have an agenda. Clearly, he was in Palm Springs competing with them for the Yana Tosh collection. His mind was still scrambling for a response when he heard Cindy say smoothly, “We didn’t have time for a presentation, I’m afraid. We just found out about this yesterday. But if you need one, we can get you something quick.”

  Yana dismissed the offer with a wave. “Oh, it wasn’t just that they’d done a presentation,” she said. “It was the content. Cypress has an email list of forty thousand people who’ve bought costumes from them in the past. How many do you have?”

  Neither Jay nor Cindy said anything. Jay had never been so conscious of silence in his life, how it could eat up the space in a room.

  After a few seconds, Cindy spoke up. “We don’t have that many email addresses,” she admitted. “We’re just starting out. But we have something more valuable: we care. Cypress Auctions is a public company, and that means they care about only one thing—their shareholders. Their CEO spends all his time on a private jet, meeting with investors and billionaire contemporary art buyers. You give them your collection to sell, and they’ll send a bunch of interns to put it in boxes.”

  “They sent over a vice president to meet with me,” Yana said.

  “Cypress has four thousand vice presidents,” Cindy said. “They’ll have one meet with you a couple of times to get the sale, and then you’ll never hear from them again. You work with us, and you’ll be getting everything we have to offer—because it will be the most important moment of our lives. No one’s life at Cypress will change based on selling your collection. Ours will. So the question you have to ask yourself is this: Do you want someone who doesn’t care about you and whose strategy is to spam an email list? Or do you want Jay and Cindy, two diehard movie buffs and big fans of yours, who consider getting your collection into the right hands a sacred calling?”