I reached a door marked Dining Hall 5, used my key to unlock it, and stepped through. A six-foot-high potted palm tree partially obscured the entrance. I shut the door behind me and wiggled past the green leaves.
The dining hall looked similar to the auditorium, with its netting of roses and lights. But instead of benches, round tables large enough to seat eight people each ringed a parquet dance floor. A projector screen hung down one wall behind a podium flanked by two long tables. The happy couple and miscellaneous family members would sit there, and Octavia would announce the merger from the podium later. More Oomph lip balloons were tied to various columns. A banner stretched across the front of the podium read Olivia + Paul, Oomph + Polish = Two Matches Made in Heaven.
Lip-shaped crystal bowls sat on every table, each filled with samples of Oomph cosmetics. The guests would take the samples with them, instead of more traditional party favors.
Waiters bustled around the dining hall, lighting the candles on the tables and popping the corks off champagne bottles. One of the waiters stepped through a door leading to the kitchen. With my supersense of smell, it was easy to distinguish among the various aromas. Red-pepper-crusted chicken, garlic mashed potatoes, Parmesan-dusted asparagus, warm pumpernickel bread.
Olivia and Paul had forgone the typical bland dinner fare of baked chicken and fish in favor of more unusual dishes. Or rather, Octavia had. She’d insisted all of the food be red, white, black, or green—Oomph’s corporate colors. It wasn’t the strangest request I’d gotten. Nothing could top Milton Moore’s desire for strippers wrestling in a pit of strawberry gelatin at his ninetieth birthday party. Still, I’d tried to point out how limiting color-coordinated food could be, but the customer was always right—and Octavia always got what she wanted. Besides, she was paying me enough to do whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted—short of sleeping with her. Even then, I might consider it.
But right now, I had a caterer to talk to.
“Where’s Kyle?” I asked one of the waitresses.
She jerked her thumb over her shoulder in the direction of the kitchen. I pushed through the swinging double doors. A dozen chefs wearing food-spattered aprons and tall, white hats crammed inside, chopping vegetables and yelling out instructions. More waiters scooped and arranged mounds of potatoes and pounds of chicken onto plates. Kyle Quicke stood in the middle of it all.
A tall guy with a very lean figure, blue eyes, and a mop of sandy hair, Kyle owned Quicke’s, his family’s restaurant. Thanks to some secret recipes, Quicke’s served up the best food in the city. Everybody loved it, and it was my go-to restaurant for catering events. Kyle hadn’t blinked an eye when I’d told him I needed five hundred pounds of chicken in less than a week. It took a lot to ruffle Kyle, who took everything in stride.
“Abby Appleby.” Kyle smiled. “I was wondering when you were going to show up. Are you okay? You look a little tired.”
I was tired. I’d been working eighteen-hour days for the past week to make sure this party went off without a hitch, but I wasn’t about to tell him. If there was one thing an event planner could never do, it was show weakness. People expected you to be cool, calm, and in control—and more or less awake—always.
“Well, here I am. You know what I was wondering, Kyle? Where my lip-shaped cake is. It’s supposed to be outside when the guests come into the dining hall. A big visual reminder of the merger. We talked and talked and talked about this.”
Actually, I’d done most of the talking. With a touch of berating. Maybe it was the perfectionist in me, but I tended to get a little worked up at my events. All right, a lot worked up. Most of the time, I was able to get things done just by politely asking, but the rougher the going, the louder my voice got. My customers paid me to deliver the best, to make sure every detail was seen to, no matter how small, trivial, and inconsequential. Perfection was what I’d built my business, my reputation, on and I liked to deliver. Molding chaos into birthdays, parties, and weddings to remember gave me a sense of accomplishment, satisfaction, and pride.
I pointed to a table where the cakes sat—five of them, courtesy of Bryn’s Bakery. Four chocolate layer cakes, and one monstrous, red, liplike behemoth with seven butter cream-filled layers. I thought the giant lips looked a little garish and creepy, but that wouldn’t stop Bigtime’s finest from digging into the cake—provided it made it outside on time.
“Abby?” Chloe’s voice crackled in my ear. “A few folks are leaving the auditorium, and Olivia and Paul have just started posing for the photos. Everyone should be headed your way in about ten minutes.”
“Thanks, Chloe.”
I turned back to Kyle, but he’d already moved to the other side of the kitchen, despite the fact that his chefs blocked the aisles. Kyle was stealthy. He always managed to slip out of reach whenever my back was turned. He has excellent survival instincts.
“I know, I know, get the cakes out pronto, or you’ll have my guts for garters,” Kyle said, still smiling. “Relax, Abby. You worry too much.”
I really must be tired, because I was getting a little too predictable. I’d have to come up with some new threats for Kyle Quicke.
#
Kyle and the waiters placed the cakes on the dining hall tables a scant twenty-seven seconds before people started filing inside. Everyone made a beeline for the desserts, just as I’d predicted. By the time Olivia and Paul arrived, the first round of food and drinks had been served, and guests had consumed three of the chocolate cakes.
Waiters brought in the chicken entrees, and everyone drifted away to their tables to eat. I stationed Chloe behind a column next to the stage so she could see to the needs of Olivia, Paul, and their family members, while I took up a position next to the kitchen to make sure the food and drinks kept coming.
Nothing much happened during dinner, and finally, Octavia got up to toast her sister and soon-to-be brother-in-law—and announce the merger of their companies.
“This is not only a joining together of two terrific people, but of two visionary businesses,” Octavia said.
A spotlight fell on Olivia and Paul. Maybe it was just the glare, but the two of them weren’t exactly smiling—more like cringing.
“With Oomph’s recent acquisition of Polish, we will continue to bring you not only the finest makeup, but also the best lip-care products on the market,” Octavia continued.
She raised her champagne glass, and everyone applauded. Octavia’s speech soon drifted into the land of stock speak, the way these things always did. I tuned most of it out.
A few minor crises occurred during the evening, most notably Paul’s father, Peter Potter, getting drunk and trying to wrest the microphone away from Octavia. But I muscled Peter into the bathroom, shoved his head under the sink, and got him sobered up enough to return to the party.
At least no superheroes or ubervillains decided to crash the dinner. I worried about that with every event. A villain might decide to hold everyone hostage—or worse, take all of the food and booze with her. The fear was greater now, since a museum benefit I’d recently helped to plan had ended in disaster just that way—not once, but twice—with Berkley Brighton, the richest man in the city, getting killed in the crossfire.
Speaking of rich people, more than a few were in attendance tonight. The O’Hara-Potter engagement and merger were big news, as both families were worth a couple hundred million. Sam Sloane, Devlin Dash, Wesley Weston, Grace Caleb, and dozens of other business tycoons populated the room. The society and other reporters for the newspapers and TV stations had also come out to cover the event, including Carmen Cole with The Exposé and Kelly Caleb of the Superhero News Network.
I spotted Joanne James in the crowd, talking with Bella Bulluci. Joanne was hard to miss with her mane of black curls, lithe body, and sharp tongue. Bella, meanwhile, was a quiet, curvy, petite woman with frizzy hair. The two couldn’t have been more different, but they’d recently become good friends.
Joanne and Bella had been at
the museum benefit the second time ubervillains had struck, and they’d both been kidnapped. Although they’d survived, Joanne’s husband, Berkley, had been killed. I’d planned his funeral a few months ago. It was one of the hardest jobs I’d ever done, mainly because I had only a couple of days to pull together what amounted to a state funeral.
But Joanne had seemed pleased with my efforts, enough to hire me to coordinate some of the other events accompanying Berkley’s passing, including all of the dedications and ribbon-cuttings his benefactors were holding. The whiskey mogul had been worth billions, and he’d spread his wealth to dozens of Bigtime charities. Pretty soon, Berkley Brighton’s name would be on just about every building in the city.
I waved to Joanne and Bella, trying to catch their attention, but the two women were deep in conversation—one I could hear, despite the ambient noise in the room.
“I still can’t believe Jasper is your brother,” Bella said, “and that the two of you don’t speak.”
“Are you on that again?” Joanne snapped. “I told you Jasper and I don’t have the same cozy relationship you have with your brother, Johnny. We never have.”
“I’m just worried about you. That’s what friends do. They worry about each other.”
Joanne rolled her eyes, but she linked her arm through the younger woman’s. “There you go again, being all sugary sweet and concerned and making my teeth hurt. Don’t worry, Bella. I’m fine. Or as fine as I can be with Berkley gone.”
The two women started talking about other things, including Bella’s significant other, Devlin Dash. I waved again, but Joanne and Bella didn’t see me, didn’t even look in my direction, didn’t even know I was alive. Nobody saw me at events. I faded into the background, just like the Invisible Ingénues did. Oh, people knew I was around, but they didn’t actually look for me—unless they needed something. In addition to having supersenses, I was an invisible woman—whether I wanted to be or not.
So, I quit listening to Bella and Joanne and went back to work. I stood against the wall, eyes flicking around, ears open wide, using my superpowers to make sure every single thing was still perfect.
By the time we got through the toasts, dinner, and dancing, it was almost midnight. I shifted on my aching feet. I would have loved to leave hours ago, but I always stayed until the bitter end. The one time I’d left a wedding before the reception ended, the maid of honor had tossed champagne on one of the groomsmen just as the waiter served the baked Alaska. One thing had led to another, until the Bigtime Fire Department had to be called out to save what was left of the church. So, I didn’t take any chances now.
“Oh, Abby?”
I jumped at the sound of Octavia’s voice. She stood beside me, propping up a very drunk Peter Potter. Superhearing or not, I’d been so preoccupied I hadn’t even heard them approach. Good thing I wasn’t a superhero, and they weren’t ubervillains. I might have been in serious trouble then.
“Yes, Octavia?”
She murmured in my ear. “I’m afraid Peter still isn’t … feeling well. Do you think you could take him someplace and get him to lie down for a while?”
In other words, could I stash the embarrassing relative out of the way so everybody else could keep having a good time. I might call myself a professional event planner, but I was really just a glorified shrink, pharmacist, and babysitter rolled into one.
Before I could respond, Peter’s stomach rumbled. His round face paled, and I could hear his rapid heartbeat and ragged breathing even over the music. All the signs of a man about to be violently sick.
I stepped back, but wasn’t quite quick enough. I doubted even the superhero Swifte would have been with his superspeed. Peter lurched forward, bent over, and puked all over me. The hot, sour stench of booze hit my nose, while warm, squishy things I didn’t want to think about splattered onto my shoes and pants.
Oh, yes. I definitely hated engagement parties.
Chapter Three
Thankfully, only a few stragglers saw Peter upchuck all over my shoes. I fished a ginger tablet out of my vest and gave it to the businessman to help his queasy stomach. By the time I put him in a limo home, went to the bathroom, and cleaned myself up, everyone else had left.
I walked back to the dining hall to find it deserted. Thanks to the convention center’s staff and Kyle and his army of workers, the decorations and dirty dishes had already been cleared away. The area had been returned to its usual, empty, pristine shell, just as Kyle had agreed to in the contract. I might not care for his lackadaisical attitude, but Kyle always was efficient.
Because everything had been taken care of, I trudged back to the hidden corridor and made my way to the staff break room. A couple of vending machines hunkered inside the windowless area, flanked by several plastic tables and rows of metal lockers. A man wearing gray, janitor’s coveralls sat at one of the tables, drinking a soda and chain smoking while he flipped through a hunting magazine.
“Hey, Colt,” I said, moving to my locker and spinning the combination lock.
“Hey, Abby. How was the party?” Colt Colton asked, taking another drag off his cigarette.
“Not too bad, except for the guy who puked on my shoes.”
Colt leaned over and stared at my black pumps, which weren’t quite so black anymore. “That’s messed up, Abby.”
“Tell me about it.”
He started to reply but his cell phone rang. He flipped it open and started talking.
I threw my puked-upon shoes in the trash. Digging some wool socks and my snow boots out of the locker, I plopped down in one of the chairs and pulled them on. Colt finished his call, crushed out his cigarette, and swallowed the rest of his soda.
“Duty calls.” He folded up the magazine and stuck it in his back pocket. “Later, Abby.”
“Later, Colt.”
The custodian left the break room. The second the door shut behind him, I reached into my locker, pulled out an industrial-sized can of air freshener, and sprayed a liberal amount. Cigarette smoke always aggravated my supersenses. It never failed to make my eyes itch, nose twitch, and skin crawl. Unfortunately, Colt had a two-pack-a-day habit, and the break room always reeked of smoke.
I put the air freshener back into the locker, grabbed my black coat, and shrugged into it. A black toboggan went on my head. I glanced at my watch. Just after one in the morning. I thought about calling Piper Perez, my best friend, to see if she wanted to get a drink, but it was too late to go to The Blues, the karaoke bar we still frequented, despite my unfortunate accident there. So, I buttoned up my coat, pulled on my gloves, wrapped a scarf around my face and neck, and headed out.
The party guests had long deserted the convention center, leaving the long, wide hallways still and silent. Thick, crimson carpet stretched across the floor, while sheer, matching fabric covered the walls. Gold threads arranged in paisley patterns in the fabric shimmered under the low glow of the house lights. More gold glinted on the Renaissance-style paintings, while murky shadows sprawled across the floor and crept up the walls. I made a right and entered the lobby, with its hundred-foot-high ceiling, elegant chandeliers, and gold-leaf crown molding.
Eddie Edgars, the college-age guard who manned the front desk, waved at me, then returned to his reading. Even though I was about fifty feet away, I could see the cover. Eddie was engrossed in a comic book by Confidante that chronicled the latest adventures of the Fearless Five, Bigtime’s most powerful and popular superhero team. Each of the members—Striker, Fiera, Mr. Sage, Hermit, and Karma Girl—was featured in a heroic pose on the cover. I waved back to Eddie, pushed through the revolving doors, and stepped outside.
A hard spurt of wind slapped me in the face, chilling my cheeks through my scarf. It had snowed while I was inside, and several inches blanketed the street. A cold front had been stalled over Bigtime for a week. Every day, it snowed a little more, adding to what was already on the ground. The forecasters were calling for an actual blizzard tonight.
I reach
ed through a slit in my coat and turned on the pocket-sized heater hidden in my vest. The machine clicked on, and warm air rushed across my chest, fighting back the cold. Let Chloe scoff all she wanted. There were advantages to having a vest of many things.
I stuck my gloved hands in my pockets, tucked my chin down, and walked on. I’d recently moved to a loft in the city so I could be closer to my office. My building was only a few blocks from the convention center, but the snow made it slow going.
Quiet cloaked the streets, along with the snow. Only an occasional puff of wind whistled at the icy silence. I enjoyed the tranquility after the clang, clatter, and conversation of the party. I’d learned to tune out much of the noise that aggravates my enhanced hearing, but I still ended up with killer headaches after some of my more boisterous events. Tonight, I’d been lucky; I had only a dull ache in my temples.
I’d just passed an alley on Thirteenth Street when a strange noise broke the cold quiet. It sounded like a large zipper being drawn down. A soft sound, no louder than a whisper, I wouldn’t have heard it at all if everything else hadn’t been so still.
I continued on my way, but when I heard a different noise, like metal scraping together, I stopped and concentrated, trying to find the source of the sounds. They seemed to be coming from deeper in the alley. I stepped inside a shadow at the far end and reached for my stun gun.
The alley ran about a hundred feet straight back before curving to the right. A few Dumpsters sat against the brick walls, and shadows pooled around them like blood. I looked—really looked—toward the end of the alley where the shadows were the darkest. Most people would have seen nothing but blackness ringed with snow, but I wasn’t most people. Not anymore. My vision was just as good at night as it was during the day.