Page 40 of The Mystery of the Curiosities
“Fuck me,” I whispered.
No panicking this time!
I swallowed and got closer still. Her dress was tight and looked like something you’d wear to a club, not a museum. And I especially couldn’t imagine walking around this massive building in four-inch heels. So I came to the logical conclusion that she had not been here to patronize the museum.
She appeared a bit older than me. Maybe early forties, but she looked fit and well-built, like a frequent flyer at a gym. Her hair was long and pale—I guessed it was what I assume blonde was. I quickly set the newspaper clipping down on the floor and pulled my jacket sleeve over one hand before reaching into the display and lifting her hand.
It was rigid and difficult to move. Rigor had been set for a while—perhaps she had been killed last night? I held up my magnifying glass and examined her hand. She had long, shimmering nails that matched the rest of her attire. I tugged the hand over and looked under the nails, but I didn’t see anything suspicious. I dropped it and moved the magnifying glass up to see the dark spot in the middle of her chest.
“Shit.”
Same wound as my intruder. Shot point-blank? In a public space, no less! And then shoved into a display to not be seen by anyone yet, likely only because it was in a dark corner and there were more interesting exhibits elsewhere.
I gave her purse a glance.
Don’t touch, I told myself.
So naturally, I touched it.
It was a dumb little thing, not big enough to hold anything important. It had a snap on top, but it was already undone, so I simply tugged it open. Three tampons, a wad of cash, and what looked like a few business cards. I carefully pulled one free, holding it by the corner and turning it around to read.
Ricky’s Private Parties.
Ah-ha.
Exotic dancer, isn’t that what they’re called these days?
It explained the clothing she must have been freezing in. And the abundance of glitter.
1-800-GET-LAPS
Jesus, how classy.
I pulled out my cell and dialed the atrocious number, then listened to the ring.
“Ricky’s Private Parties,” said a less-than-interested-sounding girl upon answering.
“Uh, hi,” I stated.
“Sorry, sir. Ricky’s is closed right now. You can book a private event on our website. Otherwise call back this evening at—”
“Wait, I’m not trying to—I just have a question. It’s about one of your dancers.”
“You can see our dancers’ bios on the website.”
“Hold on,” I said more firmly. “I wanted to ask about a—er, blonde woman.” I glanced at the lady, and against the queasiness in my stomach, I leaned in to press my hand against her neck and chest.
Cold.
But definitely stiff.
She’d been dead a while, then. At least twelve hours, if not more, to account for the fact that the museum closes just before six and she would have had to have been brought here. So maybe she never went to work last night.
“I, uh—came to see her perform yesterday, but she never showed up and I was worried.”
“Meredith—I mean, Crystal?” she asked suddenly.
Score. Dancer name, Crystal; real name, Meredith.
