Unconventional woman left to decay in a room full of oddities, the obvious assumption, something related to a strange, possibly dark lifestyle.

Meaning the real reason was anything but?

Meaning the visit to the bookstore might very well dead-end.

My tendency to put a positive spin on life was a perpetual source of amusement to Milo.

There you go again, doing that optimistic thing.

I doubt he knows that it’s learned behavior, not instinct. Growing up with a chronically depressed mother and a violent boozehound father, you figure out a survival strategy or you perish.

Friendship’s a fine thing but in the end we all walk alone.

Milo’s my best friend. No reason to disillusion him.

This time, he arrived first, unmarked parked in a loading zone but no sign of him.

Even Odd was a brick-faced storefront with a black-painted window. Carelessly applied orange paint rimmed the glass. Every day, Halloween.

I went in, found Milo talking to a heavyset woman around thirty wearing—big surprise—all black. Her butt-length hair was dyed to match, ironed straight in spots, looped and plaited in others. The skin of her arms and what I could see of her upper chest was more ink than clear space. A blue-dot tattoo centered her chin and her eyebrows were pierced by a row of what looked like ordinary office staples.

The crowning touch was a nose-ring hefty enough to restrain a bull: a circle of oxidized iron assaulting the cartilage of her lower septum and grazing the top of black-glossed lips. Sneezing couldn’t be fun; I hoped she wasn’t prone to hay fever.

The obvious metaphor was someone willing to be led around by the nose. Her body language said otherwise, reminding me why I’d grown allergic to quick assumptions.

The DeMargios had described the place as a bookstore but no books in sight. No taxidermy, either, just tables of CDs labeled as Aunti-Q Sounds and carousels crammed with vintage clothing. Emphasis on gauze, camouflage, and what looked to be fake leather.

Milo was saying, “We know Frankie DiMargio works here.”

The woman had ignored my arrival, paid no mind as I stepped next to him. Staring directly into his eyes. Placid. Mute.

He said, “It’s not a trick question, honestly. Does she work here or not?”

The woman said, “Maybe no trick, but it’s a question.” Deep voice, borderline masculine.

“Is that a problem?”

She smiled. Her outfit was a frayed lace top over a crepe A-line skirt. The skirt’s waist was set high, emphasizing melon-breasts.

Milo said, “C’mon, yes or no. Please.” Straining as he tagged on the nicety. Fighting to keep his voice even.

The woman cocked a hip and looked away.

Milo said, “This is important—”

“Yes, it is,” said the woman. “She comes in but I wouldn’t call it work.” Rotating back toward us.