Page 54 of My Killer Blind Date

But no time to celebrate my newfound skill – I quickly step inside and shut the door. Within seconds, I’m at Elsie’s computer. At a quick glance, everything is organized into meticulous folders. I open the one marked Coroner Forms, and quickly find one called ‘Request for Testing.’ I print it out and check ‘DNA testing,’ adding a quick scrawl in the Comments: Need to know if this meat is human or animal. I check the surcharge box for expedited forty-eight-hour testing, only slightly cringing at the extra $300 which hopefully no one will notice when the bill hits – but that doesn’t matter. Finally, I write in my email address to receive results. My hand is shaking; I hope it’s legible.

Time to package it up. I pull the baggie out of my purse with a full-body shudder. Even though I froze the meat again as soon as I got home last night, it seems to have defrosted again on the way here, and pinkish liquid has accumulated in the corners. It probably smells at this point. I’ll be mouth breathing until further notice.

That’s when I hear footsteps outside the door. Form in one hand, baggie in the other, I dive under the desk.

The door opens. I quiet my breathing. Whoever is there doesn’t seem to move for a minute. Then, I hear a voice.

‘Where is she …’ It’s unmistakably Bill. Looking for Elsie, obviously. Shit. If he looks for her in the basement, the jig is up. He closes the door behind him, and I hear his steps getting further away.

I’ve never moved faster in my life. I stuff the meat baggie in a FedEx envelope along with the testing form, praying it won’t leak on the way. Should’ve double bagged it. Then, it’s back to the computer. Thankfully Elsie’s username and password are saved on the FedEx account. With trembling fingers, I hit ‘Create Shipment,’ pound in the recipient address, then pick overnight delivery and hit print.

The label spits out of the printer, and I cram it into the plastic pouch on the envelope, which is lumpy with the squish of its contents. Thankfully, there’s a pile of FedEx packages and envelopes going out. I bury my envelope at the bottom of the pile and pray for the best.

I’ve just shut the door to the office behind me when I see Devin walking toward me. He saw me coming out of her office …

‘Ready to roll?’ he says, seemingly unbothered by my rapid exit from Elsie’s space.

‘Roll?’ I say with a weak laugh.

‘You haven’t checked your schedule yet? We have another in-home pickup.’

I smile bigger than what is probably appropriate for someone about to go pick up a corpse. Because this is actually perfect. By the time Elsie comes back up, I’ll be gone. Possibly fired, too, but I can’t worry about that now. I guess Future Margot has her work cut out for her.

Then, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out. Simon! Perfect. I scan the message.

Hello, Margot! I’m happy to open up the gallery to any friend of Arjun’s. Can you stop by tonight around 6pm? The artist you mention is familiar to me. And the timing of your text is also very interesting, since a painting of hers just showed up. Let me know if 6 works for you.

What? I re-read the text just to be sure I understood it.

A painting of Zoe’s just showed up. How? Her studio space was ransacked – are the thieves trying to sell her work?

I type out a quick confirmation to say I’ll be there, but have to backspace a few times, because my hands are shaking.

‘Everything OK?’ says Devin.

‘Yes. No.’ I finally shoot off the text and look up. I’m not sure what to think. I’m not sure what to feel. All I know is, this could be the first big breakthrough in the case. ‘One of Zoe’s paintings just showed up at a gallery out of the blue.’

‘Holy shit,’ breathes Devin, running a hand through his hair.

For once, we both agree. Holy shit is right.

Chapter Eighteen

By the time I’m approaching the art gallery, on a hopping stretch of Lincoln Avenue near the Old Town School of Folk Music, the tension of the day is catching up with me. My shoulders are tight and my poor jaw has practically fused itself shut.

Elsie did find me between the two morgue pickups I had in the afternoon.

‘There is no record of a Beatrice Miller in our files.’

‘Oh,’ I said, scrunching my forehead. ‘Well let me double check the files before you say anything to Bill, just in case I can find it.’

Later, I coincided with Bill by the water cooler. This is it. If Elsie ratted me out, I might get fired right here right now, I thought. But all he said was,

‘Cloudy day,’ to which I responded, ‘Might rain.’

Looks like I still have a job – for now. At least until the coroner’s bill comes.

As I come to a stop in front of the bright gallery, heat lightning pulses in the sky and a humid, hot little breeze teases my hair. There’s an energy in the air filled with possibility – and danger. Am I about to find the clue that solves this case?