Page 1 of Dead Serious Case 4 Professor Prometheus Plume

1

“You’re turning into a complete workaholic, you know. You never have any time for me anymore.”

I look up to find Dusty pouting. Snorting softly, I turn my attention back to the corpse on the table and complete the Y incision.

“What are you wearing, Dusty?” I drop the scalpel onto the tray beside me and reach for another tool to cut through the layers of muscle.

“What?” She glances down at herself. “What’s wrong with it?”

“You look like Effie Trinket fromThe Hunger Games. I feel as if I should be volunteering as tribute.”

She rolls her eyes and fists her hand on her cocked hip. Her wig is an enormous mass of curls sprinkled liberally with glitter and piled high enough that her head resembles a sparkly pine cone. The eyelashes she’s batting in my direction are so long and feathery I’m worried she might trip over them in her five-inch gold platforms. Huge Christmas tree baubles that I think are meant to be earrings dangle from her ears, but it’s the actual outfit…

Holy glitter balls, as Chan is so fond of saying, the outfit.

It’s… well, it’s more a leotard rather than a full outfit. A very loud, glittery explosion of red, gold, and green sequins. It has long sleeves and the biggest, most ostentatious gold epaulettes at the shoulders which are edged with a sparkly fringe. The leotard is cut high on the hips, revealing ridiculously long legs encased in sheer tights decorated with crystals, and at the back is a huge rouched bustle which falls to the floor and drags behind her.

“I don’t think that’s appropriate workplace attire,” I remark mildly.

“It’s lucky I don’t work here, then. You work enough for both of us. You’re never home, and you barely pay any attention to me. It’s like you don’t even see me.” She sighs dramatically. “Are you getting tired of me? Am I looking old? And fat? You don’t love me anymore, do you?”

I sigh loudly and roll my eyes. “You know full well there’s not an inch of fat on you, as if it even matters to me. In fact, there’s not an inch of flesh on you, on account of being incorporeal and all. And you also know full well I do love you.”

“Tris, comeon,” she whines.

I pick up the rib spreader and glance up, quirking a brow. “You’re bored, aren’t you?”

“It’s Christmas Eve, for fuck’s sake. We should be throwing a party and getting drunk with all our friends, singing karaoke while in the bathtub fully clothed, trying to sail to Australia.”

“I sense there’s a story there. You or Chan?”

“The point is,” she says with a huff, “that you should be halfway through a bottle of Bailey’s right now, doing bad, bad things to your sexy fella under the mistletoe, not carving up a dead body like you’re H.H. Holmes.”

“Your knowledge of serial killers is improving.” I hum.

“That’s only because Danny keeps insisting on watching those crime documentaries on the History Channel.”

“Yeah.” I snort, highly amused. “Ever since he found out about one of my ancestors and hisclose lifelong friendwho happened to be a detective in Whitechapel around the time of the Ripper murders, Danny’s become obsessed with Victorian crime. It’s kind of cute, really. For my birthday, he bought me a vintage medical instrument set which was used for autopsies in the late 1800s.”

“There is something seriously wrong with the two of you,” she says as she shakes her head slowly.

I smile as I continue to work. “The longer you stand there distracting me, the longer this will take.”

“But why do you have to do it now? It’s not like he’s going to get any deader.” She glances down at the decedent on the table as if it’s entirely his fault we’re short-staffed.

“Because it’s my job, Dusty.” I sigh. “You know, it’s not as if I wouldn’t like some time with my boyfriend. But they still haven’t found anyone to replace Alan, so I’ve had to cover.” She huffs again and crosses her arms. “Why don’t you go and see Bruce?” I murmur absently as I remove the heart and turn it over in my hands, looking for signs of damage.

She sulks. “He’s busy.”

“Just like I am,” I point out.

“I get that, but you’ve been working so much. You’d think they’d at least let you out of here early. It’s Christmas Eve!”

“Believe it or not, I am aware of that fact,” I mutter. “And if I wasn’t, the fact that what waits for me upstairs once I’m done here is an office full of my coworkers, a few plates of burned sausage rolls, some cheap Buck’s Fizz, Mariah Carey on an endless loop, and—the most disturbing of all—a naughty version of Secret Santa? That would confirm it is indeed Christmas.”

Dusty’s eyes widen. “What exactly does the naughty version of Secret Santa entail? Sounds like it’s right up my alley.”

I grimace. “It was Hen’s idea. The problem is, other than me and her, all the others are well over sixty and heading towards seventy.”