Page 24 of Dead Serious Case 5 Madame Vivienne

“The crown?” Chan turns to look at the crown hooked carelessly over the back corner of the crimson and gold throne. “Oh, honey, please tell me that’s not the actual crown of King Charles?”

Death gives Chan a baffled look. “You said, and I quote,I want a real crown.”

“I probably meant one that was not plastic, not the actual fucking Crown Jewels from the Tower of London!” Chan presses his fingers to his eyes as if the pressure will suddenly make the priceless British treasure disappear. Then he gives a deep sigh and opens his eyes to look at Death, his expression filled withexasperated affection. “Please put it back before MI6 bust in here to kill us.”

Death scoffs. “Like I’d let anyone hurt you.”

“And that is your most redeeming quality,” Dusty tells him. “Sometimes I wonder if you’d give Chan the moon if he asked you to.”

“It’s not really advisable. The gravitational forces do rely on–”

Chan chuckles. “It was a hypothetical question, honey.”

“That’s an interesting… addition to your art collection,” Harrison murmurs and I follow his gaze to the wall opposite me.

“How the fuck did I miss that?” I say in utter disbelief.

Hung on the wall beside the painting Brandy did of her ex-lover Paolo—the very naked portrait of her ex-lover Paolo whose massive tool is currently covered in many Post-It notes so as not to startle visitors or young, impressionable eyes—is a new portrait.

It’s like one of the ones you can order online of your pet’s head on a historically costumed human body, only this one isn’t of a pet. It’s of Viv—well, her face anyway. The rest of the portrait resembles Queen Elizabeth the First, with a huge Tudor-style gown complete with strings of pearls and a neck ruffle. Beside the oil painting is a rather elaborate plaque which, if I squint hard enough, I think reads:In Memory of Lady Madame Vivienne Wilson Crawshanks.

“You said it was a fitting memorial to the human you call Madame Vivienne,” Death muses.

“Why do you keep indulging our weird requests?” Chan asks.

“Why do you keep asking for them and then getting mad at me?” He frowns. “I was only doing what you asked.”

Chan unfolds himself from the sofa, wobbling slightly as he gets his balance and then crosses the room to Death.

“I’m sorry, baby. You’re right, thank you.” He leans in, ignoring the peacock in Death’s arms who’s still eating from the seemingly inexhaustible supply of raisins, and kisses Death lovingly.

“I still can’t believe you actually kiss the Grim Reaper,” Dusty mutters.

“It’s not just kissing,” Death says candidly as Chan pulls back. “He does this thing with his tongue and my scrot–”

“TMI, honey.” Chan places his hand over Death’s mouth to stop the flow of words, seeing as Death does not have a filter.

“Okay.” I blow out a breath. “We’ve got priceless stolen artefacts, illegally obtained peafowl, a pair of celebrity wedding thrones, and a weird death portrait of Madame Viv. I’m almost afraid to ask but can this day get any worse?”

“Did you know there’s a tank outside your building?” Harrison says conversationally.

“A tank of what?”

“No, an actual tank.” He sighs when he sees how lost I am. He holds up his hands and mimics turning a steering wheel. “An army tank. You know, like one you drive.”

We stare at him blankly for a moment, then all of us scramble for the window that overlooks the street outside. Sure enough, there’s a huge dark green army tank parked half on the pavement and half in the bushes and surrounded by a mob of baffled onlookers.

We all turn back to Death, who gives us an unconcerned shrug. “I didn’t do it. Sam was the one driving it.”

We all shift our collective gazes to Sam, whose eyes have widened in surprise. “But I don’t know how to drive a tank.”

“That explains the lamppost then,” Harrison mutters.

I look back out the window and see that the tank is butted up against a lamppost, which leans at an alarming angle.

“And your neighbours’ cars,” Harrison adds.

As we smoosh our faces against the glass and turn our heads to the right to look up the road, I wince at the line of flattened and destroyed Fiats, Fords, and Volkswagens.