The Mystery of the Curiosities Page 8

  I needed to take a moment and step back from the clusterfuck of a situation I was in. The past two days had been such a whirlwind of insanity, I was now knee-deep in shit on Thursday morning, at the Museum of Natural History, with next to no understanding as to why.

  The kiosk spit my ticket out.

  I looked down, grabbed it, and left the fairly empty lobby to step into the next hall. I moved to the display on the wall that featured photos of each exhibit and where they were located—after all, the museum was multiple floors and you had to plan your visit because there was no way you’d see it all in one day. I tapped the picture of the whale.

  I made my way toward the Hall of Biodiversity, which I had to walk through to reach the marine life. And with each step, I laid out my clues.

  Start with the obvious. What were the facts so far?

  Tuesday morning someone threw an antique brick into my shop. The message was direct and definitely written for me. Someone knew I had a compulsion to solve mysteries. Wednesday someone broke into my shop and filled it full of the same bricks. The second note had solidified my interest in what was happening, egging me on to begin subtle investigations of my own.

  And then there was the body. I didn’t know who he was or why he was presented in such a manner, but it was a glaringly obvious clue I wasn’t quite putting into place. And the message.

  It started with a fire.

  But that didn’t imply my fire, did it? I felt like it was a message about a past event. And this newest one now—I had been handed more clues than I knew how to process.

  He lost whales. In… a fire? And Jefferson Davis?

  I shook my head and waved the clutter away from my mind.

  The fact that someone gave me a clue this morning was really the reason I should have called Calvin. No one knew I was going to the scene of my former home. Pop knew I went to the precinct, Calvin thought I was going home, and I didn’t tell Max where I had been when he rang. So had someone followed me? From the precinct? From Pop’s?

  That didn’t sit well.

  At least I knew he was out for the day at his shelters, and Maggie was a good guard dog who wouldn’t let anyone she didn’t trust near my dad.

  I couldn’t shake the idea that whoever this was could be someone I was familiar with. It had to be. Knowing what made me tick, where I lived, where to find me…. I’m not on all of the hip social media sites that kids are on. I don’t advertise myself to creeps online. So it had to be someone in my life.

  But who did that leave? If I gathered up all the folks who knew me well enough into a drawing room to name the culprit, I’d be left with Pop, Calvin, Max, Beth, and I guess Neil. Yeah. All real serious suspects.

  I know you like mysteries.

  Uh-huh. And this one was a stumper.

  The Hall of Biodiversity was much dimmer than the lobby and a relief for my eyes. I had to resist the natural urge to stop and look at displays or watch videos, instead making a direct line for the next hall. And there was the great whale, greeting me as I walked in. The behemoth towered over the two-story room, looking down at visitors and displays with all of its twenty-one thousand pounds.

  All right. So here was the whale. I looked left and right.

  No dead bodies. A plus, I supposed.

  I took the stairs down to the ground floor, walking under the whale and looking up in awe like every kid and adult always does. There were few people in the room with me, since it was just after opening at the museum and I hadn’t been sidetracked by the other halls first. I walked along the wall, taking a brief moment to study the displays of dolphins, walruses, fish, and all other crazy forms of sea life.

  I found myself also looking over my shoulder—because so far my clues were usually thrown at me. I not only wanted to see who was doing this and tackle the motherfucker to the ground, but I didn’t want to get beaned in the head with a brick either. But there was no one. Two people were watching the video on deep-sea submersibles while standing under the whale. A few more lingered on the floor above, making a slow circuit around the room.

  No one was following me. No one was watching me.

  Had I made a mistake?

  I didn’t feel like it.

  I huffed and walked back to stand under the whale, staring up at it. Maybe it had implied a different whale display, although for the life of me, I couldn’t think of where else in this museum that would be. And there weren’t any special, limited exhibitions going on that had anything to do with either whales or mermaids.

  And really, what the hell was the mermaid comment supposed to mean? This was a museum of science. Mermaids were folklore. Myths, art, scams—

  My thoughts came to an abrupt stop as I looked toward the far left. The corner was darker, and I’d definitely forgotten about the display, but there it was. The squid and the sperm whale. Or rather, the squid and the head of the sperm whale, because the model was huge.

  I immediately walked in that direction, approaching it head-on. The squid was caught in the whale’s mouth, fighting valiantly. And there, on the stand with information on the exhibit, was a newspaper clipping.

  It was in a plastic sheet and taped over the sperm whale description. I looked around once more, but there was no one watching me. Pulling out my magnifying glass again, I pried the sheet free and held it up close.

  The newspaper was dated January 1843. Charleston Courier. It featured a bare-breasted mermaid and advertised a most wonderful curiosity! Only fifty cents to view the mermaid, which with inflation was somewhere around fifteen dollars these days. That was a hell of a lot of money to see a dried-out, dead monkey sewn to a fish tail.

  Wait.

  I was thinking of the Feejee Mermaid.

  But that’s what this was, wasn’t it? This was one of the original ads for the mermaid that P.T. Barnum had boasted as part of his collection of curiosities. In fact, if memory served me right, it was one of his best business hoaxes. A naturalist from England, who was actually not a naturalist at all but hired by Barnum to pretend, had brought to America a most interesting oddity found in the South Pacific. Barnum had orchestrated “Dr. Griffin’s” arrival, excited the newspapers with false advertising of seductive mermaids, and borrowed a very fake, gross-looking thing that crowds believed to be a hideous mermaid.

  And whether spectators accepted it as truth or not wasn’t the point. Barnum had so successfully played on human curiosity that everyone wanted to see the creature for themselves. I believe I read somewhere that ticket sales to his museum skyrocketed while the mermaid was “on loan” from Dr. Griffin.

  So, was this my clue? An old newspaper clipping?

  I turned it around, and there was a note taped to the back of the plastic sheet.

  Prove the murder, win a mermaid!

  What. The. Fuck.

  My hands were sweaty and my gut churned uncomfortably. This was like some macabre carnival, where instead of popping the balloons and winning a teddy bear, I had to solve gruesome deaths to win a mummified animal. But what murder was the note referring to? Jefferson Davis 2.0?

  “Kind of hard to solve when you fucking blew him up,” I growled at the note.

  I had nearly turned away from the display, angry and frustrated and kind of scared, before I noticed something from the corner of my eye. It was in the exhibit with the whale head and squid. I took a few steps closer and leaned in, looking into the dimness.

  Sparkly stiletto shoes.

  A glittery purse and shimmering dress.

  There was a dead woman lying on the floor.

  “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 fi
t 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.

  “Will she be in today?” I asked lamely. I’d never even been interested in watching male strippers, let alone women. Not my style.

  “Oh, maybe. Umm, I think she may be sick,” the girl said, clearly not sure and doing her best to hide concern. “Try calling tonight.”

  “Okay, thank you.” I hung up, then chose Calvin in my contacts. “Before you get all Bad Cop, sexy alpha on me,” I said just as Calvin said hello, “just know that this shit follows me. I did not seek it out…. Not really, anyway.”

  “What are you talking about?” Calvin asked.

  I glanced down at Meredith. “I found another murder.”

  I’M THE first person to understand that murder isn’t great for business.

  So the fact that, before I knew it, museum security had ushered patrons out, suspicious old me had been forbidden to leave, and the director had escorted Calvin and Quinn across the massive room, more or less imploring the NYPD to make it quick and get the hell out, was not any surprise to me.

  No one wants a dead exotic dancer to outshine the newest dinosaur exhibit.

  Bad for donations, I imagine.

  Calvin stopped several feet away from me, put a hand on his hip, and ushered me over with one snap of his wrist.

  I stepped away from the nearby display I had been planted at while waiting. “I only found her,” I said, reaching his side.

  Calvin set both hands on his hips. “What did I tell you?” he whispered. “I told you to go to your father’s. This is not there. What the hell are you doing here?”

  “I got another note after leaving the precinct,” I whispered back, rather loudly. “It had this address, so I decided to come. It’s a public place—what was going to happen to me?”

  “The same thing that happened to this woman,” Calvin said.

  “Well, it didn’t,” I answered stupidly, crossing my arms. “I’m fine.”

  Calvin pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sebastian, how did you not learn the first time? How many different ways do I have to tell you how suspicious you look in these situations?”

  “Oh, please,” I hissed. “She’s been dead at least twelve hours. I’ve got alibis for days.”

  “And if you keep popping up every time a dead person does, sooner or later you will be seen as a convenient suspect.”

  “I don’t even know these people. I have no motive,” I argued.

  Calvin raised a finger to silence me. “Motive isn’t important. One person’s reason to kill may not be understood, but it was sound enough for them in the moment.”

  I groaned and dropped my head down. “For fuck’s sake, Calvin. Fine. My bad, okay?”

  “My bad?” he echoed, voice deep and very much not amused.

  “Not the time or the place, gentlemen,” Quinn finally said. “Calvin caught me up on all this shit,” she continued, looking up at me. “What was this new note?”

  I reached into my pocket and removed the paper. “I stopped on my street to see—everything. Someone threw a brick at me. And no, I didn’t see who.”

  Quinn took the paper, and Calvin read it over her shoulder.

  “With this address and the mention of the whale, I thought it must have been talking about that guy.” I motioned above us. “But obviously I got here and there was nothing. I almost left until I remembered this display here. It’s a sperm whale.”

  “Yes, fascinating,” Quinn remarked.

  “Sort of. Squids and sperm whales are—”

  “Focus, Seb,” Calvin muttered.

  I huffed and turned to point at the display. “So I came over here and found a newspaper clipping.” I held it up next. “It’s an original, I think. It’s one of P.T. Barnum’s ads for his Feejee Mermaid.”

  “That’s the second time you’ve mentioned Barnum,” Quinn said.

  “Uh, I guess that’s true,” I said when I recalled my mention of the bricks and the story of Barnum’s unique advertising. “There’s another note on the back.” I turned it around for both detectives to see. “That’s when I saw Meredith.”

  Calvin glanced up from the note, narrowing his eyes. “Meredith?”

  “She goes by Crystal. A dancer, I think. I called the number on the business card in her purse.”

  Calvin took a breath and raised his hands, sort of like he wanted to strangle me, but Quinn took his jacket sleeve and tugged him away to look at the body.

  I pulled my phone out once I was alone again. I was supposed to solve the murder. Not that I wanted to win a prize, but anything learned could bring us one step closer to catching a mistake this maniac made and taking them down before another person could be hurt. I pulled up the web browser and briefly checked out Ricky’s online presence. Lots of scantily clad ladies and dubious use of Photoshop. It didn’t look like anything particularly special—one gentlemen’s club is like all the others.

  I tried searching for any news related to the club. Maybe there was some dirt on the owner, or bad blood between rival businesses. If I lived anywhere else, I’d say that was ridiculous, that this poor woman just got jumped and the tragedy was that there was no reason for her death, but I live in New York City and last Christmas I was stalked
by a guy who planted a heart under the floorboards of my store.

  Anything is possible.

  Nothing of any particular interest was showing up in Google’s news feed for Ricky’s, other than some sizzling winter ball they’d had in January.

  I looked over at the group of police and a few museum personnel. Calvin had climbed into the display and was looking down at Meredith. I squinted—it was hard to see his expression from where I was. But Calvin had certain tics I had begun picking up on in his posture that helped me understand his mood when it was difficult to read his face. And I think he was surprised just then, because he had a hand over his mouth, rubbing his jaw.

  That was interesting to me.

  Did Calvin know her?

  Not personally, of course. He may have been in the closet until recently, but I knew Calvin wasn’t one for lap dances from ladies either. Now I would certainly sit on his lap and show him a good time, but I drew the line at putting on glitter.

  “Fuck,” I murmured to myself, because now I had the image in my head of me naked, riding Calvin’s cock, and having the greatest of times, and that was so not what I should be thinking about at a murder scene. “Get it together,” I muttered.

  I caught a uniformed officer glancing at me in confusion.

  I squared my shoulders and took an extra second to look at Calvin as a professional, and not my unbelievably gorgeous boyfriend, which was admittedly a little hard to do. He was saying something to Quinn, who appeared to agree with him. Maybe Meredith had been on the wrong side of the law before. But if Calvin knew her, it had definitely been serious. A suspect in a murder case?

  I looked down at my phone again and tried a few keywords that included Meredith, Ricky’s, and murder. I found exactly what I was hoping for, third link down on the list. NYC Exotic Dancer Suspect in Daughter’s Death. That didn’t paint Meredith in a particularly good light. I clicked the link and expanded the page to better read the text. It was a case from two years ago, led by the recently promoted Detective Calvin Winter. DNA evidence had been incorrectly handled at the scene and was unusable in laboratory testing. Meredith’s alibis had apparently been suspicious, but her boss had backed her statement, and Calvin had ultimately ended up with no legal way to prove she had bludgeoned her teen daughter to death.