She’d not been a lovely woman. She’d had bug eyes and a weak chin and the kind of nose that evokes words such as “beak” or “proboscis” as descriptors. Her frown lines were deep and marked and spoke of a face set perpetually in a fierce, disapproving scowl. Death had eased her scowl, at least. Now her bug eyes were wide open, as if in mild surprise. Whoever stabbed her had done so with sufficient force to push a slender blade through her chest and through her heart and out her back. She died instantly, I guessed, since there was barely any blood from the single stab wound. I found her sitting there—eyes open, head just beginning to slump—two tables from where Evis and the Regent and the Regent’s cat-eyed creature played roulette while a cheering crowd looked on. I sat down beside her before she fell. I pulled her face close to mine and looked about. The table was filled with empty glasses. The three other chairs were pushed back. I gathered the dead woman’s companions had found reasons to leave her alone.
