The Museum Murder

Book 2: Epiphany Bloom Mysteries

by Katie Gayle

Genres: Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

Dastardly deeds, daring deceptions and a dress to die for... Epiphany Bloom is back on the case!Epiphany 'Pip' Bloom, would-be detective and London's unluckiest woman, finds herself in a real costume drama when she unearths a theft at a fashion museum.The missing dress is a proper piece of Hollywood history, worth a fortune. And as Pip investigates, she finds the museum staff all had reasons to want the garment gone. From fancy boutiques to sketchy back alleys, Pip discovers the fashion world is not all glitz and glamour as she hunts down her prize.As if she doesn't have enough on her plate, Pip also has her growing feelings for her housemate Tim to contend with, a family of cats to feed and her mother keeps phoning about a shipment of llamas arriving any day now from South America. But there's no time for distractions because Pip's not the only one after the dress. And for the most dedicated collectors, a piece like this is worth any price – even murder...A laugh-out-loud, light-hearted cozy mystery for fans of M.C. Beaton, T.E. Kinsey, Lauren Elliott and Joanne Fluke, that will have you reading late into the night.Readers are loving the Epiphany Bloom Mysteries:'A great escapism read, funny, entertaining and easy to read. It reminded me of younger Agatha Raisin who I love and Pip is a genuinely warm and comical character... Great fun, I loved it!' Karen Reads and Recommends'Epiphany Bloom is my new favourite female sleuth!... What a wonderful character... I am looking forward to more from this author!' Netgalley reviewer'It's a giggle a minute joining Pip in her adventures... addictive and amusing... I just loved Epiphany Bloom. She's a fabulously funny character who can make the sun shine even on the most gloomy of days... Fans of cozy mysteries should find this book a sheer delight!' Goodreads reviewer'I laughed out loud over just about every one of Flis and Pip's conversations. There was extremely clever writing and the plot points that came out of them were unique and interesting. Consider me a fangirl, avidly awaiting additional adventures for Pip.' Fireflies and Free Kicks'Tremendous fun!... this book has a proper and thoroughly developed mystery plot... It's a very definite yes from me for Pip Bloom and her fledgling investigative career – I can't wait to read more!' It Takes a WomanAuthor sold just under 1000 copies in less than 1 month of publishing their previous title-

Release date: March 31, 2021

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 246

Sample

At least she had the kittens.

It was hard to feel down with three fluffy balls of squeaking cuteness staggering around like little drunks. Pip sat down on the floor, scooped them up and bundled them against her chest. ‘Group hug!’ she told them as they squirmed and mewed in outrage. She released them onto the carpet and arranged them in colour order, lining them up from darkest to lightest, and took a quick picture in the nanosecond before they started to disperse.

Fully awake now, the kittens headed for their mum, nuzzling into her, looking for supper. The purring from Most was loud enough to be heard across the room.

Pip checked the photo on her phone. Amazingly enough, she’d got the shot: three furry little sausages: a black one, a tortoiseshell and a grey, their funny triangle tails sticking straight out behind them. She posted to Instagram, noting that this was her twelfth consecutive kitten picture, and about the hundredth kitten picture she’d posted since they were born. She knew she should go and take a picture of flowers or sunsets or something for variety, but she was too low.

The kittens were about all she had going on for her, now that she’d lost the job at Boston Investigations. Being a private investigator had seemed like a dream, which, really, she should have known from experience, was a sign that things were about to go wrong. She had excelled in the training and started off well. Not even the hard work and long hours had been a problem. She’d had a job at last, and a regular salary cheque. No more wondering where the rent was coming from. No more begging for handouts from Mummy. Best of all, it had been a good job that she really liked and thought she could be good at. After almost a decade of, frankly, disastrous attempts at Finding Her Life’s Purpose, or at least steady employment (yes, there’d been some adventures and a lot of fun, but at the end of the day things always seemed to fall apart) she’d thought that she’d finally got it.

But of course, it had all gone wrong. And this time it wasn’t even her normal brand of spectacular mess-up. Just one background check, where she’d spelt Marc with a ‘k’ instead of a ‘c’, which honestly could have happened to anyone. A teeny, tiny problem – except that unfortunately while Mark-with-a-k had a clean record, Marc-with-a-c most certainly didn’t. Which wouldn’t have mattered, if it wasn’t for the fact that they’d been doing checks for the Palace, and now Marc-with-a-c had been allowed sight of some top-secret security plans. It had all imploded after that, when Doug Bradford had decided to do his own background checks on Pip. Honestly, he was the one who should feel like a fool for not having done them earlier, especially when he’d already known that she’d basically committed identity fraud to get the job. It was a bit rich, him getting all worked up about the so-called theft (actually, the rescue) of Most-the-cat from the vet where she had been temping. And as for the incident with the tractor when she’d been working at the bee farm – she had only been trying to help, and who could have known the thing would be so unwieldy to manoeuvre? So here she was, once again without a job or purpose in her life.

The sound of Tim’s key in the door gave Pip a little flutter of pleasure. Her flatmate’s appearance even more so, although he looked pale and tired after a long day at work. His nice blue cotton shirt – Pip’s personal favourite – was rumpled, with a small stain on the pocket. Possibly coffee, thought Pip, who was finding it hard to give up on the idea that she was a detective.

‘How are the kids this evening?’ Tim asked, bending down to inspect the bundle of cats. It was a little joke between them – that they were the parents, and the kittens were their kids. It was funny, but squeezed Pip’s heart a little. When would she be in a real relationship? Maybe even one with long-term potential?

‘They’re in fine fettle. Most is a really good mum, isn’t he?’

‘He really is.’

‘Not many blokes are so devoted.’

‘Or manage to feed their young so well.’

Another little joke between them – the three-legged cat had been a male. Until, of course, a bellyful of kittens had proved otherwise. Pip’s relationship with Tim was a bit strange. Their conversation had recently taken on the air of a comfortable couple, but there hadn’t been any coupling, so to speak. They were just roomies with a bit of a tingle between them.

‘You look as tired as I feel,’ said Pip. ‘I’ve just been sitting here on the floor with the cats, too exhausted to move.’

‘Thank God it’s Friday. It’s been a long day for me. A long week,’ said Tim. ‘We’ve been working on this job, trying to hack into a particular system that was…’

Thereafter, a lot of technical muttering floated by Pip. Firewall… Server… Once Tim got going on computery stuff, it was best to just nod and wait until he’d finished. His recent revelation that he actually worked as a hacker – but for the goodies, he claimed – had had the unfortunate effect that he, no longer trying to keep his profession a secret, shared his work with her in mind-numbingly tedious detail.

Pip picked up a sleepy kitten in each hand and popped one on each shoulder, their little wet noses pressed into her neck.

‘Look, epaulettes,’ she said. Which made Tim laugh and lose track of whatever he’d been saying about phishing and encryption.

‘So how was your job search?’ he asked, looking at her fondly. Or, Pip hoped it was fondly. Tim was also her landlord, so his interest in her job search wasn’t exactly entirely altruistic. ‘I don’t understand how someone who stands out like you isn’t snapped up immediately,’ he added, with a twinkle in his eye.

That was another thing about Tim – he had this odd way of maybe-flirting that confused and flustered her. Did he mean she was noticeable for being attractive? Or for being an awkwardly tall person with odd mannerisms? Or perhaps for some other, even worse attribute, that she was unaware of?

‘I’m trying,’ she said with a sigh. Well, it wasn’t entirely a lie. She’d even got up the courage to phone Sharon at the temp agency today, although when Sharon had heard her name she had started screaming something about the cat and Boston Investigations and then slammed down the phone. Pip had a sneaking suspicion that this kind of thing happened to her more than it happened to other people.

‘You’ve had some bad luck, Pip. But you’ll get there. I know you will.’ And with that, Tim disappeared into his own room.

She’d get there. But where was ‘there’, and how would she even start? She looked down at the kittens for inspiration, but they seemed fresh out of ideas, too.

Pip surveyed what was indeed a very fine costume on an admittedly very buff bare-chested mannequin, and turned to her sister.

‘This gladiator get-up would be just the thing for a young man trying to make an impression down at the pub.’

‘Oh, he’d get noticed all right,’ said Flis. ‘And you’d feel quite secure having him walk you home. What with that sword, or whatever that thing is dangling from his belt.’

‘Don’t you think it’s odd that gladiators had bare chests, and wore skimpy little loincloths?’ Pip asked Flis. ‘They wore sandals and then had these random bits of armour on the arms and legs. I mean, what were they protecting? What does it say about their priorities?’

‘Their wives were probably shouting after them, “Take a chestplate, Magnus, you might need it!”’ Flis said.

‘And he’d shout back, “I’ve told you a hundred times, Octavia, I am invincible,” before stubbing his toe on the way to the arena.’

That was one of the nice things about a sister: you always knew how to keep each other’s jokes going.

Pip let her fingers linger a moment on the shiny curve of the gladiator’s bare chest. She wondered what dishy Tim’s chest would feel like under her hand. Warmer, hopefully, than the gladiator’s. And less plasticky.

‘No touching, please ma’am,’ said a polite voice behind her.

Pip pulled her hand back and turned to see a young guard in a blue uniform with ‘Museum of Movie Memorabilia and Vintage Costumes’ embroidered on the pocket, and ‘Gordon Tshuma’ on his name badge.

‘These are valuable items, miss. That one there was worn by Michael Douglas in Spartacus.’ Pride lit up the guard’s remarkably chiselled face, as if he himself had worn the costume. Which was not an entirely displeasing mental image.

‘Michael Douglas?’ Pip asked in surprise. ‘I’m pretty sure he’s not old enough…’

The guard continued regardless. ‘It’s magnificent, isn’t it? A collector would pay a good few pounds for this one, that’s for sure. I have to keep an eye. A sharp eye.’ To illustrate his point, he closed one brown eye and rolled the other about, tapping his forefinger against his temple in what was, all in all, a rather confusing gesture. ‘So, no touching of the display items, if you please, miss,’ he repeated.

Pip apologised. She had to admit, she wouldn’t have minded touching him, but she was almost sure that was against the rules, too. It so often was. The guard smiled graciously at her and moved along towards a tableau of aliens and space explorers: a mishmash of Star Trek, Doctor Who and Star Wars figures gazing up at where the Milky Way might be, if they weren’t in the ground floor of a London building.

‘Gosh, he’s nice-looking, isn’t he?’ Flis whispered, loudly. ‘Like that Trevor Noah. Only hotter.’

‘Is he? I didn’t notice at all,’ said Pip. And the sisters laughed.

‘But d’you see what I mean, Pip?’ said Flis, as if they were in the middle of a conversation. Flis often did this, and Pip knew to nod and agree until she’d figured out what they were talking about. ‘This stuff is really valuable. Collectors’ items. It’s very big right now. Part of this whole retro-vintage-heritage thing. It’s all about recycling, upcycling, downcycling…’ Flis gestured at the gladiator, narrowly missing hitting him in the chest.

‘I don’t think downcycling is a thing.’

‘Upscaling. Downgrading. Whatever you like to call it. It basically means that people are reusing and rewearing. I’ve got a new content partner on my blog – big sponsor – and they’re all about vintage clothing, high-end stuff. Celebrities are wearing vintage and heritage items, even on the red carpet. It is all the rage. Especially if it has a history, like this stuff here.’

Flis had garnered a huge following on her various social media platforms. What had started as a ‘mummy blog’ with an eco edge was now a top-rated lifestyle blog that was big on Instagram, Facebook, Twitter; you name it. And Flis, in a mind-bogglingly unlikely turn of events, was now a recognisable ‘influencer’. Just the other day, they’d been in Tesco buying toilet paper, and someone had stopped them and demanded a selfie – including the toilet paper. Lucky for Flis, it had been a one hundred per cent recycled brand.

‘It’s all about lifestyle trends,’ Flis continued, waving her arm in a wide, vague sweep to illustrate the broad and rich lifestyle that encompassed vintage clothes, movie gladiator armour and bizarre conglomerations of space travellers. ‘I knew I was right to check this out. What better place to get a taste of it than at the Museum of Movie Necrophilia and Vintage Clothing?’

‘Memorabilia,’ corrected Pip. ‘It’s the Museum of Movie Memorabilia and Vintage Costumes. Otherwise it would be really… terrible.’

Flis looked annoyed. ‘That’s what I said, Pip. Really, must you always repeat everything that I say? Anyway, I told you it would be fun, didn’t I?’

To be honest, Pip hadn’t been eager to leave her cats and her flat on a Saturday morning. She had wanted to stay at home, contemplate how everything had turned pear-shaped, play with the kittens and possibly spot Tim coming out of the bathroom in just a towel. These were the little things that kept her motivated these days. But Flis had insisted that it would do Pip good to get out. She’d said that Pip would love all the movie costumes, that it would take her mind off the job situation. And that afterwards, they might have a drink at a nearby café by the bridge, and pretend the Thames was a country river. And when Flis insisted on something, it was rather hard to argue. And to be fair, she’d been right: so far, this strange museum had cheered Pip up quite a bit.

Pip and Flis moved away from the gladiator and made their way around the room, until they came to an open doorway, and went into the next room.

And then they saw it.

‘OMG!’ Pip squealed. ‘Do you see what I see?’

‘Do you think that’s…?’

‘I think it most certainly is.’

The signage confirmed: ‘Worn by Julia Roberts, Pretty Woman, 1990.’

In the centre of the room, on a raised dais, was a gown of perfect, fiery red: form-fitting in the bodice, off the shoulder, with a little plunge at the cleavage and a gather below the waist intended to set the full, silky skirt swishing when the wearer moved.

‘“Pretty woman, walking down the street… Pretty woman, the kind I’d like to meet…”’ The two women started to sing the theme song from the film they must have watched dozens of times in their early teens, bringing the good-looking guard scurrying into the room, an expression of worry on his face. He was closely followed by a well-dressed older woman.

‘We also have the dance dress worn by Jennifer Grey in Dirty Dancing, if you like eighties movies,’ said the woman, almost shoving the guard out of the way. ‘It’s just in the next room. Let me show you.’

The two sisters, however, stood rooted to the spot. They had no interest in any other gown just yet.

‘It’s magnificent. Best movie ever. Best dress,’ said Flis to Pip.

‘No contest,’ Pip agreed. Then, turning to the unknown woman: ‘Is it the real thing? As worn by Julia Roberts?’

‘Yes. And the other dress is the real thing, too. Visitors really love to see it. Iconic. You really should come through,’ the woman continued, quite insistently, as if the Dirty Dancing dress had a dentist appointment and might leave at any moment. She even pulled slightly at Flis’s arm.

Pip wasn’t listening. She was deep in thought. Julia Roberts’s actual shoulders had emerged from that silky bodice. Richard Gere’s actual hand had cupped the slim waist. And now here it was in London, before her very eyes. The real thing. It gave Pip a thrill, just thinking about its history.

‘Do you work here?’ Flis asked, shaking the woman’s hand off her arm.

‘Yes, I do. Arabella Buchanan. I’m the manager,’ said the woman. She was older than them, and very stylish. She could have been an exhibit herself, dressed in a fifties-style pencil dress that looked like something Jackie O might have worn, her hair in a sleek black bob.

Flis was suddenly more interested in her, now that she was more than an arm-pulling distraction. ‘I’m Felicity Bloom-Green. I’m doing a story for my blog, EarthMomma,’ said Flis. “This is my sister, Epiphany.”

Arabella Buchanan’s eyes widened in recognition – Flis had this effect on people these days.

‘The museum is really cool,’ Flis continued. ‘I’m interested in vintage trends and celebrity culture. I want to do something on it for the blog. Can I chat to you for a bit?’

‘Of course, I'd be happy to talk. Vintage clothing is my passion. Shall we sit down over there?’ said Arabella eagerly, gesturing to a grouping of two chairs and a sofa in the foyer by the entrance, below a large box frame featuring Elizabeth Taylor’s tortoiseshell hairbrush.

Pip told them she’d be perfectly happy to wait while they chatted. In fact, she was rather keen on taking a break. She moved over to a little velvet sofa where she could sit and rest her feet, admire the killer red dress, and also check her phone messages and maybe catch up on a bit of celeb gossip. They had done a great job of the display of the dress, though, she thought; it was hard to tear her eyes away. The elbow-length white gloves. The diamond choker necklace that Edward (had Richard Gere ever been more gorgeous than in that film?) had presented to Vivian (had Julia Roberts ever been more captivating?).

Pip remembered that scene frame-for-frame. As a teenager, she’d practised her favourite lines in her bedroom mirror. Looking at the dress now, she murmured – in her very best Julia Roberts accent – the words that Vivian said to Edward in the lift as they set out on their date: ‘“If I forget to tell you later, I had a really good time tonight.”’ She loved those words. Pip wished she could feel some of that optimism for herself, some day.

Her phone beeped. A message from Tim! Perhaps with Pip out of the flat, he’d realised how empty his life was without her, and had decided he couldn’t wait another minute to tell her so. Her heart hammering, she opened the message.

‘I don’t mean to put pressure on you, but the council tax is due tomorrow. Any chance you could pay at least some of your rent?

Pip felt her eyes prickle with imminent tears. This was not what happened to movie stars and Insta-celebs and influencers. What was she going to do?

Flis and Arabella got up from the sofa and came over, chatting and laughing together. ‘Can you believe it, Pip? Arabella knows our cousin, Jane. They went to school together, back in the day. What a strange coincidence – quite splendiferous.’

‘Why is it splendiferous?’ Pip asked Flis.

Flis looked confused. ‘You know,’ she said. ‘When something happens, and then another thing happens. It’s splendiferous.’

‘Serendipitous?’ Pip suggested, with an inward sigh.

‘Yes, that’s what I said,’ said Flis, not quite meeting Pip’s eye. ‘Anyway, Arabella was just telling me how they’re looking to update the museum, to focus on some recent movies and TV shows.’

‘That is a fabulous idea. There’s nothing like that around. It would bring in a younger crowd, too,’ said Pip.

‘And Arabella was telling me how she’s looking for someone who knows that celebrity and TV world, to source new pieces.’

Pip sighed. ‘Oh, that sounds like a wonderful job for some lucky person.’ If only she could get a lovely job like that, Pip thought, miserable again. Life just wasn’t fair.

Arabella looked at Pip. ‘Your sister says that you know a lot about popular culture and stars and so on, and you’re friends with all sorts of celebs,’ she said, her perfectly plucked eyebrows raised in an inquiring arc – which was quite a challenge, given her Botoxed forehead.

Flis gave Pip a meaningful look. ‘I told her all about how you’re basically best friends with Madison Price, ever since you found her missing son.’

‘Not best friends, exactly,’ said Pip with a modest shrug. ‘Just friends.’

It was true, though, that after Pip had found Matty Price, Madison had messaged her and called her and sent her gifts for weeks. Pip had been for dinner at the Prices’ Kensington townhouse twice, and met all sorts of interesting people. And it was true that Madison had hugged Pip warmly when she saw her, and her husband, Ben, had looked at her with big, grateful, puppy-dog eyes. Pip never thought she’d say this, but sometimes she wished that the Prices were slightly less grateful.

Flis was doing weird things with her eyebrows, as if trying to communicate something. Pip had no idea w. . .