"How's your head?"

Grissom glanced up at Catherine from where he had been sitting in the break room for the last half hour, nursing what was only a mild headache (despite what everyone was saying about migraines and aneurysms). In front of him was Nick's report on what had happened in the candy shop, which was tidily summarized thus: "Warrick and I arrived at the scene, but found that any evidence that might have been on the sidewalk had been compromised by bystanders. We entered the premises and discovered twenty individuals still within, who proceeded to bombard us with candy until we identified ourselves, at which time they ceased their attack and treated us to a statement by way of a musical number. Entire chorus detained for further questioning."

"You know," Grissom said, "Every time I think I've seen everything there is to see in Las Vegas…"

"You encounter shop gnomes. I know. Kinda makes you feel like you took a wrong turn and wound up in Oz."

"On the bright side, their statements agreed without seeming rehearsed."

"Unlike the 'musical number' Nick and Warrick say they got?"

"I'm still trying to figure that one out. Give me a day."

Catherine laughed. "I don't think even you will be able to figure that one out."

"How are the background checks on Miss Salt and Miss Beauregard coming along?"

"I'm sure they're doing fine. Just relax. Nick's on primary – he'll make sure everything keeps on without us."

"You're right. We have a plane to catch. Is Lindsay…?"

"Staying with her aunt. Everything's taken care of."

"I just can't help thinking there's some element of this case I'm overlooking…"

Nick poked his head into the lab, where Greg had just finished cleaning up the last of the glass from the fireworks show.

"Hey Greg – you feel like getting out of the lab for an evening?"

Greg looked up, interested already – the lab still reeked of burnt sugar. "Sure! What's up?"

"You, sir, have a date with a contortionist tonight."

Greg blinked as he felt his mind rifling through all the possibilities of that statement. "I… what?" he finally asked, in the spirit of purely scientific inquiry.

Nick handed him a file folder. "Catherine and Griss met a woman named Veruca Salt last night. A glimpse into her background told us Miss Salt was—"

"One of the five finalists in the Golden Ticket Giveaway ten years ago!" Greg finished.

"Yeah. Should we have just asked you and saved the newspaper archive the trouble?"

"Sorry. Go ahead. I'm listening."

"Anyway, she mentioned an old friend of hers that she'd come to see at the Cirque." Nick tapped the file folder. "Violet Beauregard, though nowadays she goes by the stage name of Viola the Blue Faerie. I need you to confirm the Salt woman's story."

"Did you happen to read the news articles for about a week after the Chocolate Factory visit?" Greg asked, "I was following the whole thing – and apparently little Veruca was pretty steamed that she didn't win. Her dad waged a legal World War III on Wonka, citing emotional distress, saying Wonka had wild animals running loose and they'd attacked Veruca, that he'd made cruel remarks to his daughter and dumped her down a garbage chute—"

"Since you're the big expert on the matter," Nick cut in, "What's your opinion?"

Greg considered this. "I saw her on TV. She needed a good scare."

"In which case I'm sure you'll be extra careful to see if Violet's story matches Veruca's… right?"

"Sure. Diligence is my middle name."

"Great. Your ticket to the Cirque is in the folder."

Greg snatched open the folder and saw that this was indeed the case. It lay on top of a brief dossier of Violet, including a photo of a slender woman (who couldn't have been more than 90 pounds, soaking wet) in a gossamer costume, draped seductively against a prop of a galleon with a figurehead resembling a sea horse. Her face and hair were sapphire blue.

"Hell of a makeup job," Greg observed, mainly to himself.

"You've got an hour before the show starts," Nick said, "After that they don't let anyone in for any reason. You can probably make it if you run – but don't leave your brain behind when you leave, got it?"

"Got it."

Later, Greg reflected that it was quite possibly the most careful rush in history – and it still didn't prepare him for the meeting. Not by half.

The Cirque du Soleil is world renowned for the diversity and sheer artistry of the acts it chooses to be part of its shows, and those who run it are naturally unsatisfied with having the best of the best on their stage. Only the best of the best of the best are good enough to work with the Cirque, and slackers are culled from the finished production as swiftly as a hangnail is trimmed from an irritated finger.

So, it came as absolutely no surprise to anyone who knew her that Violet Beauregard, title-holder in almost a dozen different categories by age 12 and perpetually unsatisfied with second place, would ultimately come to join the legendary troupe. The only time in her life she accepted a runner-up prize with good grace was after her tour of the Chocolate Factory, during which she had been turned into a blueberry twenty feet wide and subsequently given an emergency juicing.

This last bit of trivia was not in the dossier Greg Sanders had been given by way of background on her, and it might have explained a few things that he observed later.

At the moment, however, he was clinically observing her performance onstage, in a state of chiropractic sympathy. It was a good seat – Nick had assured him that the department's budget would be screwed up for the rest of the year thanks to that ticket, so he'd better enjoy it, dammit – and Greg could feel his own spine trying to realign itself as Viola the Blue Faery bent and twisted herself into interesting and uncomfortable looking shapes that, based on his high school biology classes, simply were not possible without risk of permanent deformity, paralysis, or death. He had, however, seen one of the shapes in a crime scene photo during a previous case in which the victim had been pushed headfirst down a curved flight of marble stairs and then, for good measure, been gnawed on by his pet Doberman Pinscher for a good hour before animal control could restrain the animal.

To say Viola was a contortionist was a bit crude, he thought as he watched her. She didn't contort (for contortion implied pain or discomfort) – she flowed smoothly from one shape to the next, like the water spirit she was portraying in the storyline, as she balanced – usually only on one hand atop the hand-balancing blocks. He had, admittedly, seen women who could tuck their head between their knees – just never from behind. And he had never personally met any of them. In the case of at least one of them he had only Nick's assurance that she even existed.

Well, Nick wasn't going to be the one to meet Viola, Greg thought with a touch of smugness. The only thing that troubled him a bit was the fact that she wore the same blue makeup here as she had in the publicity photo in the dossier.

"My name is Greg Sanders," he said to the security officer after the show, "I'm with the Las Vegas Crime Lab. I need to speak with, uh, Viola." He showed his CSI identification.

The bouncer – who looked big enough to actually bounce Greg against the sidewalk if he wanted to – peered closely at Greg's ID. "What's this about?"

"I just need to ask her a few questions. It won't take long."

"All right – but if you're just another one of those perverts—"

"I'm not. I'm cool."

"—she'll break your neck herself. I think she's a black belt or something."

Greg frowned. "Karate? Judo, Jujitsu?"

"Yes."

Greg processed this answer. "Gotcha. Hands to myself. Totally."

"Follow me."

The bouncer led Greg to one of the dressing room doors and knocked on it. "Viola?"

"Yes?" came the answer from within.

"Some guy here to see you. Says he's with the police."

"No, I'm with the Crime L—" Greg protested.

"He wants to ask you a few questions."

There was a pause within. "Is he cute?"

Greg glanced sideways at the door, then back at the bouncer who was being asked to judge his cuteness.

"Meh. I guess," the big man finally said noncommittally, "He looks a little like Tony Hawk or something." Greg sighed.

"Let him in," said Viola.

The bouncer opened the door. Greg went to enter the dressing room – after all, he had the occupant's dubious blessing – and stopped short two steps later.

Viola was combing out her blue, shoulder-length hair. With the comb tucked between her toes. While balancing herself on the arms of the chair in front of the mirror, and arching her long legs back and over her head like the tail of a scorpion. Greg gaped, tilting his head sideways in astonishment.

"Hi!" the acrobat said brightly, "Come on in." Greg noted, in an obscure corner of his otherwise rather distracted brain, that she was chewing energetically on a bright pink wad of chewing gum, and that the inside of her mouth appeared to be blue as well. She indicated a chair near the door with her free foot. "Have a seat." Greg slowly sidled over to the chair and, after missing once, managed to sit. There was a patient pause. "Um… you wanted to ask me a few questions, you said?" She put the comb down on her vanity table, plucked a cloth from a basin of water with her toes (Greg's spine crackled in sympathy) and began to wash her face. The blue color did not come off. Greg was starting to suspect as well that her blue hair was not a wig.

"Abagabada?" was Greg's first question.