Page 53 of Dead Serious: Case 3 Mr Bruce Reyes

Suddenly, the door bangs open and when I look up, I’m surprised to find Chan sailing through the doorway like she’s on a catwalk.

I’ve never seen anyone stomp so gracefully, but she stalks into the room in a cloud of Miss Dior and attitude.

As elegant as ever, her ankle boots have tall skinny heels that I seriously don’t know how she walks in, especially in this weather. Skinny jeans that look like they’ve been painted on cover her long legs, and she’s wearing a sheer black chiffon blouse with a bow that ties at the collar as well as a slim-fitting blazer.

Her long, gorgeous hair is slicked back from her face so tightly that on anyone else it would look like a Croydon facelift. But on Chan, the otherwise severe ponytail merely highlights her stunning face and immaculate makeup.

“Holy mother of drag, why does it smell like Woodstock in here?” Her eyes drop to Ian’s body. “And what in the name of fuck happened to him?”

“Death by lava lamp, apparently,” I say, surprised I can keep a straight face.

She pulls a face and reaches into the bag hooked over her forearm—another Michael Kors, but this time it’s a bright vibrant lime green as opposed to the mute nude tone of the one she carried the other day.

She pulls out a bottle of perfume and gives the air around her a spritz. “It smells like 1996 in here. You might as well play some Nirvana while you’re at it.” She wrinkles her nose.

“Chan,” I murmur as I resume my task, “always a pleasure, but you’re not supposed to be in here.”

Chan huffs loudly, and even though I’m concentrating on what I’m doing and not looking at her, I’m fairly certain she’s rolling her eyes.

“Your little brightly coloured friend Henrietta let me in. I must say that purple is a bold choice for someone with red hair.” I glance up to find Chan fisting one hand on her cocked hip while the other is raised, her bag hanging from that forearm and making her look like a teapot with an attitude.

“Why are you here, Chan?” I ask suspiciously. “You’re one of the last people I ever expected to step foot in here. You’ve never come to the mortuary before.”

“I’m having an emergency.”

“An emergency?” I raise my brow.

“Yes,” she says dramatically. “Someone is trying to kill me.”

“What?” Dusty hisses and jumps down from the counter. How she doesn’t fall flat on her face from the height of her heels, I do not know. She stalks over to Chan and circles her anxiously as if checking for injuries.

“Trying to kill you?” I pause with the tweezers still in my gloved hand and glance back in her direction.

“Yes.”

I sigh in resignation as I straighten up and turn toward her. “What happened?”

“Well, I was at The Rainbow Room, and when I went into my dressing room”—she rummages in her bag and honestly, it must be like the bloody Tardis in there—“I found this on my dressing table.”

She lifts a large Ziploc bag that holds some kind of rag doll.

“What the fuck is that?” Dusty mutters.

I beckon Chan and she obliges, clipping closer across the tiled floor until she’s standing at the end of the table. I lean in, my eyes squinting as I study it.

“It’s a Voodoo doll,” Chan states, outraged. “It doesn’t even look like me. There’s no way I have hips that wide. It looks like the Stay-Puft marshmallow man fromGhostbusters.”

She’s right. It doesn’t look anything like her, except for the long dark strands of hair attached to its head. I study it curiously. The material used for the body looks old. It also looks like it would smell musty, but I really can’t tell from over here since I’ve only just got my sense of smell back and it’s being currently overpowered by the heavy scent of weed coming from Ian’s corpse. I wonder if it’s stuffed with herbs, which would confirm my suspicions as to what it actually is.

“It’s not a Voodoo doll.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it’s not.”