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“Is today ‘Win a Free Skeleton Day’ at the museum?” Henry joked.
“Hey. There’s Woody,” Evie said, spying her friend and occasional nemesis, T. S. Woodhouse of the New York Daily News, in the scrum. “He’ll know the business.”
Theta grabbed Evie’s sleeve. “Don’t call to—”
“Mr. Woodhouse! Oh, Mr. Woodhouse!” Evie bellowed.
“Him,” Theta finished as every head swiveled their way.
“It’s the Sweetheart Seer!” somebody shouted, alerting the reporters, who now rushed toward Evie and her friends. It had been a while since Evie had enjoyed the bright spotlight of the press’s attention, and for just a moment, it felt so good that she quite forgot why she had come to the museum in the first place.
“Golly, is it Win a Free Skeleton Day at the Creepy Crawly?” she quipped, moving quickly ahead of Henry, who complained, “Hey, that was my line.”
But when she got closer, she saw the broken windows and the word Murderers splashed in red paint across the neat, hand-lettered sign for the museum. Woody was pushing his way toward her, his expression grim. “Evie! Evie!”
“Say, Woody, what’s happened?”
“You don’t know, Sheba? Didn’t anybody telephone you?”
“I was at Theta’s last night,” Evie said feebly. She didn’t like the cold she suddenly felt in her belly. It was the same cold she’d felt when Mr. Smith from the telegram office had come to deliver the telegram about her brother, James, during the war: We regret to inform you…
“You’d better brace yourself for a shock, kid.” Woody reached inside his jacket pocket for his flask. Evie took note of the reporters watching her. She shook her head and he put it back.
“What is it, Woody?”
“Your uncle’s dead. He’s been murdered.”
Will. Murdered. The street swam and Evie stumbled a bit. A cameraman’s flash went off, capturing her in her shock.
“Who would do that? Who would kill Uncle Will?” was all Evie could seem to say.
“Nobody’s said anything yet. Say, uh, you wouldn’t have any ideas, would you, Sheba?” Woody lifted his pencil from over his ear and opened a fresh page on his notepad.
Evie glared. “No, I don’t, Mr. Woodhouse.”
“I’m a reporter, Sheba,” Woody said sheepishly but not apologetically.
Will dead. It seemed impossible. Everything about her uncle suggested life. He was never still. Had never been still. Was still. Now. Another camera flash went off. Evie blinked away spots and put up a hand to block her face. “Please… please don’t.…”
“You wanna put that flash box away before I break it?” Theta shouted at the photographer.
“Why don’t you smile for us instead, beautiful?” a reporter joked.
The others laughed. Theta felt her hands getting warm.
“Ignore them,” Henry whispered.
Evie marched forward with grim determination.
“Evie, where are you going?” Henry asked.
“I want to see for myself,” she said, muscling her way through the reporters.
Woody chased after her. “They won’t let you in, Sheba.”
“They have to let me in. I’m his niece.” Evie pushed past him and charged toward the museum’s steps. “Let me through, please! Let me through! That’s my uncle!”
The museum’s front doors opened, drawing everyone’s attention. Out stepped Detective Terrence Malloy, all one-hundred-eighty-five gruff, Lower East Side–bred pounds of him. His badge shone against his suit lapel and his mouth worked a piece of chewing gum.
