I’m settin’ up the lights for the opening, she’s the first act on the hour-we been practicin’ for the last week.

Miranda said slowly: “You sure you didn’t see anyone? They’ll ask you. Rubbed his face into his blue work shirt, mouth contorted, tears on weathered skin. Don’t know no family for her, but-God almighty, seems like she needs somebody.” Patched and stained dungarees, worn, covered in dirt, electrical wire hanging from his pocket. A little taller than her, about five eight. She waited, quick inhale, dropped the Chesterfield, crushing it in the sawdust. Tom stepped out of Artists and Models across the midway strip, his long body jerking itself in different directions. Whiff of fresh scones from Threlkeld’s, fog peeling off Ripley’s Odditorium. Girls in line at the hot dog stand tittered. Some genius in the PR department figured bombs were news in Europe, why not drop them on San Francisco? Miranda folded the newspaper over the B-western fence post outside Sally’s and flicked the Chesterfield in the dirt, waiting for the bulls to make an appearance, waiting for someone official to show up and tell her to go away.Īnother explosion shook the Gayway, drowning out the Hawaiian and Spanish music from the turnstiles. Opening Day at the Fair to End All Fairs.ĩ:06 A.M. Miranda took a deep breath and lit a cigarette, staring at the dead girl. Signal for opening time, second Golden Gate International Exposition, step right up, folks, and welcome to Treasure Island. A word in blood.īombs exploded from the Elephant Towers, rattling the wooden platform. Under the swell, under the small, slow trickle crossing her chest and oozing from the stab wound. Said carefully: “You know how this got here?” She pointed to Pandora’s right breast, the one without a hole in it. Miranda took the pack of Chesterfields out of her purse. I saw her, might’ve shook her some.” Tom’s eyes came back to the dead girl, West Virginia accent thicker. Miranda stood up from where she was crouched by the dead woman’s face. A calliope started playing from the merry-go-round. He turned his back to her, faced the shadows again. Tom finds her like this-she ain’t supposed to be here, she was always late, but you know, it don’t take much time to take off your clothes, and she-she never had to wear much makeup.” “Somebody threaten her? Try to get too close?” “Ain’t you better-ain’t you better do somethin’, Miss Corbie? Whoever did this to Pandora.” She really is-dead?”įred choked, his large brown fedora crumpled with sweat from where he was squeezing it. “I-I figure you know wh-what to do, Miss Corbie, bein’ a detective an’ all. Tom skittered around Miranda, keeping up a monologue. Perfect artist’s model, except for the blood dripping.įred was standing in the stage shadows, hat in his hands. Stretched across the platform, breasts firm, nipples plump, pubic hair shaved.

City of Secrets by Kelli Stanley