Gaudy gowns.

Foot-mangling stilettos.

Glitter.

Badly punned names.

And hairspray. Lots of hairspray.

These, it seemed, were the things that one needed to know about being a "true queen." Tim was dragged about the club—Abby not far behind—as Big Momma showed him off while simultaneously teaching him the way of the drag queen. He was introduced to women with names like Anita Mann, Jenny Talia, Cleo Toris, and even one named Titty McGee. Tim was grateful Tony couldn't hear about that last one.

All of the women had donned glitzy, glittery, gaudy gowns of every color from magenta to turquoise to gold. Said gowns were generally decorated with sequins, diamonds, or some form of baubles that would gleam beneath the lights. They also all wore the tightest and highest of heels, sometimes with rhinestones which would scratch their skin with every step they took.

Oh, and every time one of them hugged him, he had a hairspray-soaked wig shoved in his face.

"Now, Shy," Big Momma said after all of the introductions had been made, "I think you've got a good, basic look going for you, but I want to mold you into the queen I know is inside of you."

"Oh, you don't have to do that," Tim mumbled. "Really."

"Now I won't take 'no' for an answer! You've got great potential, babycakes!"

Tim knew he needed to get to work on the case. He wasn't getting paid to hob-nob with a bunch of queens. "How about I take a, uh, twirl around the dance floor and take a few pointers from the other girls?" he suggested. He wanted to talk to the other patrons about Miss Clara Bow and find out if they knew more than Big Momma and Marilyn had.

Big Momma clapped her hands together. "That's my baby! Taking initiative!"

He took that as a yes. Tim pushed himself up to his still wobbly feet and gently made his way back to the dance floor. Abby slipped an arm through his and shot him a big smile.

"I thought Big Momma was never going to let you leave."

"She says I have potential," he told her glumly.

"Isn't that a good thing?"

"Not when it's potential as a drag queen."

A perfectly manicured hand—complete with French tips and dusty rose polish—fell on his shoulder and halted Tim in his tracks. "You're Big Momma's pet project?"

Tim found himself face to face with a neon pink queen. Her gown matched her pink wig, and each had a black ribbon wrapped around it. She also had pink gloves, pink eye shadow, and pink lipstick. In short, she was a walking stick of cotton candy.

"I guess I am," Tim said with a sheepish smile. "I'm…I'm Shy. Uh, that's my name, not an adjective which, uh, describes my personality."

The neon pink lips swirled into a sly smirk. "I think it's both." When Tim blushed, Miss Pink laughed. Something about her laugh was unsettling. "So tell me about yourself, Miss Shy."

"Uh, about me or about me as a drag queen?"

"About you."

"Well, I'm in the Navy…"

Miss Pink raised an eyebrow. "The Navy? A guy here the other night was in the Navy, too."

Tim almost sighed in relief. Maybe Miss Pink knew a little something about their dead man. "Yeah, he was a friend of mine. He's actually the one who told me about this place."

"So do all Navy men enjoy wearing women's clothing, or just you two?"

"We're the only two I know of."

Miss Pink's hand crept along Tim's leg and gave his thigh a little squeeze. He jumped and stumbled back. "Sorry," Pink said with a smile that indicated she wasn't sorry in the least, "I have trouble keeping my hands to myself."

The lights flashed as a fast-paced song began to blare over the speakers. Pink grabbed Tim's hand tightly and pulled him along, calling out, "Let's dance, darling!"

He turned back, looking in fear toward Abby who stood there while the giant, glittery, walking bottle of Pepto-Bismol dragged him off to the dance floor.

"So did you know…uh…Clara well?" Tim asked as he and Pink danced to "Lady Marmalade."

"Not really. I met her a couple of times," the woman said. "She had great gams."

"Know why someone might kill her?"

Pink stopped and looked at Tim suspiciously. "You certainly ask a lot of questions."

He ducked his head down, mentally kicking himself. He was obviously coming on too strong. He needed to play it a bit cooler. "Well, he was a friend and I just don't get why anyone would want to kill him."

The woman shrugged. "He probably ran into the wrong kind of person. Maybe some guy tried to pick him up and then, when he realized Paul wasn't a natural woman, got mad and attacked him."

"You think someone would kill him over that?"

"Honey, you'd be surprised what people would kill over."

Miss Pink did another step, shaking her body in time to the music. Out of all the pink came a glint of something silver. It looked like a piece of jewelry which had been clasped around her neck. The pendent had been tucked in to her fake breasts, but now, with her rigorous dancing, had become exposed. The shape looked very familiar to Tim.

"Is that a dog tag?" he asked, grabbing the item for a closer inspection. "It's P.O. Paul Foreman's," he muttered as he read it. "I thought you said you didn't really know him…her."

When he looked back at Miss Pink, her flamingo-colored ensemble had a new accessory: a black gun.