“It will take three seconds,” I say, sensing weakness. “Andy says one of the frames might have cracked in transport. We might have to fix it before the auction tomorrow. But like I said, I can come back later if you need a note or something.”
He saw my badge. He knows I work for Genius. He wavers and finally steps aside. “A few minutes?”
“Or less,” I say, doing my best to keep a straight face. “I appreciate your diligence. We wouldn’t want anything in here to go missing.”
I slip through the door and into the dark, quiet ballroom. In here, the buzz from the hall is diminished, sounding like a faraway swarm of bees. A row of covered folding tables is set up on the stage, lined with various groups of items, each one with an official-looking placard describing the lot. I waste no time ascending the stairs, bypassing the podium, and walking quickly down the line of elements.
My fingers itch to touch everything, including early editions of The Hooded Falcon. Signed pen-and-ink drawings on card stock. I’m passing the first large framed piece when I hear a noise in the room. Instantly I am on alert, and I straighten.
“Find anything?”
Guard Guy pokes his head into the room and regards me uneasily. I can tell he’s still not sure he should have let me in.
I make a show of pointing to the large framed piece in front of me. It’s the same one that sat behind Casey Senior’s desk, and the last time I saw it, it was on the floor of Casey’s office. Thor’s hammer, the sight of it has me buzzing with excited energy. “I think this is the one Andy told me about. I’m just going to have to inspect it for damage.” I brandish my phone, turn on the flashlight function, and proceed to check over the frame front and back, hoping the guard will get the hint and leave again.
Instead, he walks up the dark aisle toward the stage. No, no, no. I cannot properly look at this frame with him in the room. I feel like crying. I’m this close.
It’s going to be hard to fake a damaged frame if it looks perfect.
“Oh, I see what you’re looking at,” he says, motioning to the frame.
He does? I blink. “Oh yeah.” I lean over the frame with my phone flashlight. “It’s just easier to see with some light . . .” But he’s right. From this angle, I notice that the black paper covering the back of the frame is torn. About the right size tear for someone to slip a journal through. My heart does a victory dance.
Not only my heart, but I execute a tiny shimmy of joy. I just cannot contain my excitement. “I, uh, just need to look inside and see if the cornice pieces are affected.” I have no idea what I’m talking about, but I’m a writer. Making up stuff is my job. I make up monsters daily; surely I can fool one measly guard. “It’s okay if the outer layer tears, but you don’t want the protective layer to be punctured; the integrity of the structural layer holding the cornice pieces has to stay intact.”
I’m positive he’s going to call my bluff. He’s most certainly the son of a professional painting framer. He probably knows what cornice pieces are, which I don’t. I hold my breath.
“Oh yeah, that sounds serious.”
“I’ll just take a few pictures, and then I’ll be on my way. We won’t need to fix it if the structural layer still protects the art.”
I use my pen to hold the torn piece away from the frame and snap a picture. There is something in there, but I don’t want to pull it out in front of Guard Guy. I squint harder. The corner of a black journal is barely distinguishable inside the tear. I squint harder, thinking I make out a second black corner . . . so, possibly two journals. Not only that, I catch the flash of something manila colored. Please, oh please, let that be Casey Senior’s evidence.
If it is, my plan will work. I texted Matteo yesterday and told him there is a journal in the memorabilia, possibly inside this picture, and that I am worried about it going to auction and will try to buy it. If he behaved as expected, he’d have told the whole team—most importantly Rideout—and the information would get to the White Rabbit. Hopefully the Golden Arrow too. All the players in this chess game would be present. All I have to do is sit back and see who’s intent on bidding for the painting that only a few select people know contains a journal. Brilliance, if I do say so myself.
“So is it bad?” The guard’s face hovers right next to mine now. I can’t let him see the journal.
“Nope. No. Not at all. Just a little tear. Nothing to worry about. This piece won’t need to be touched. Or fixed. By anyone. At all. I took a picture for insurance purposes, so we’re all good here.” I tap my phone importantly. The last thing I need is Andy coming in and fiddling with the frame. I nearly drag Guard Guy out of the room with me.
“Well?” Lawrence pounces on me the minute I wave at the guard and walk back toward the Genius booth.
“I found it.” I can hardly keep my voice steady. I manage to stop shaking long enough to pull up the picture on my phone and zoom in. It’s no work of art, but the picture does show the spines of the journals. Bazinga. “And I sure hope you’re going to buy me dinner because I’m going to have to spend a year’s salary to win it at auction. And now it’s time to focus on the fashion show because there’s nothing much more we can do until tomorrow.”
“What happens if you don’t win the journals?” Lawrence is frowning now.
“We have to win. That’s what Operation Janeway is all about. And if we don’t, well, I hope you like wearing orange.”
CHAPTER 25
The wheels of the suitcase I’m dragging protest against the concrete ramp outside the Hyatt hotel, just next door to the convention center. “What did you pack in here? Bricks?” The bag in question lurches side to side as we level off near the lobby, and I drop the second bag slung over my shoulder.
“That’s my makeup case, so be careful with it.”
“L, you packed an entire suitcase of makeup? I packed one bag total.” I open the door for L and hold it as he wheels in the rolling garment hanger we snagged from the valet.
“The next time you’re the star of a fashion show and responsible for the future of a talented designer, you can let me know how much makeup you pack.”
“L, we’re in a competition. There isn’t a ‘star.’”
“So you say. I look so delicious in this thing. Everyone else is just a side dish.” He eyes me over the oversize garment bag holding the wig. “But I promise to share the spotlight with you, sugar.”
I chortle as we walk down the deeply padded floral carpet, following the signs to the fashion show backstage. My stomach is a mess of knots, and not just because I’ll be racing to an auction after my show to apprehend a criminal. That should be enough, but I’ve spent months prepping for this, plus the cost of travel, and my future plans to go into business for myself hinge on today’s results. I’ll either leave with valuable feedback about areas I need to work on as a designer, or I could leave with the offer to help a well-known chain of stores develop a line of geek clothing for their customers. Either way, this contest is a launching point for MG version 3.0.
My fingers inch their way to my phone, and I find it in my hand, Matteo’s number pulled up. For the fifth time in the same number of minutes, I stick it back in my pocket. I want to know if he’s coming. I want to know if he’s mad I’m here and I’m pulling strings on the case. I want to know if the information has been leaked. I need to play this cool, but it’s damn hard.
“Come on, L.” I stop outside the backstage door and show my badge, my ID, and my pass for the fashion show. “Let’s go get you dressed.”
I survey L’s final touches on the drag makeup and breathe a huge sigh of relief and appreciation. Latifah Nile is a vision. Well, if Ursula the Sea Witch can be a vision instead of a nightmare.
All around us, girls are scrambling to finish costumes, stitch pieces that have come loose, touch up mascara. The nervous energy is unreal. I haven’t had much time to talk to the other designers; we’re all focused on helping our creations look spectacular.
“You’re fr
eaking out.” It’s not a question. L looks at me in the rectangular mirror that is propped on the folding table given to us by the fashion show. “Look at me. Look at me, Michael-Grace Martin. You’ve got this. We’ve got this. This is who we are, and that’s all we can be today, okay? We’ve got all of this.”
I let out a breath. L isn’t just talking about the show. It’s the auction. The case. Matteo. My job. So much at stake everywhere. “How do you know exactly what I’m thinking?”
“Because I know you.” Latifah squeezes my shoulders, then turns back to the mirror to fluff her spectacularly tall wig.
“Michael-Grace Martin and . . . Latifah Nile?” The crew member reading our names stumbles over L’s and gives us a double take. I don’t blame her. With the wig, L is six foot five of sea-witch fashion fabulousness.
“Let’s go,” I mutter, straightening my own simple white pantsuit, accented with bright-blue stilettos, a chunky gold necklace, and my fire-engine-red glasses. The blue has faded in my hair, but I dabbed in some blue powder near the roots this morning for an intense ombré effect. Though I wear my makeup more toned down than Lawrence’s, I’ve penciled in my lighter brows with a blue tint and wear blue-purple lipstick. My battle armor is on, and I’m ready to go kick some ass.
We wait for what seems like forever in a decidedly unglamorous back hallway while the show proceeds in the ballroom. Slowly our line inches forward, and finally it’s our turn.
“Right in here. Watch your . . . hair.” A girl dressed in black and carrying a clipboard holds open a side door in the hallway so L can duck slightly into the well-lit runway. The glare of the lights blocks most of my vision of the large ballroom, but it doesn’t matter. I watch every strutting step Latifah takes up and down the catwalk. She owns it like no other model could. My Ursula the Sea Witch costume looks fantastic under the lights. The bodice is hand-dyed black-green tulle with glitter, woven and overlapped to create the effect of seaweed around the neckline. The frothy neckline gives way to a leather bustier with shell buttons up the front and laces up the back, giving Latifah an even fuller figure. The leather wraps over L’s hips, giving way to a sexy, seductive mermaid-style skirt, green parachute material peeking through the darts just enough to look like seaweed underneath sheathed tentacles.
At the end of the catwalk, L executes a perfect spin, revealing the last surprise of the costume. The skirt flares out at the bottom in points, mimicking tentacles reaching out. The crowd breaks into applause, and L grins as she shimmies back toward me. I cannot fathom this costume on any other person. L embodies my vision for it perfectly.
We’re the last runway model, so we don’t have too long to wait until we’re all called back up onstage to showcase the amazing costumes shown. The bright stage lights are glaring, and I can’t really see many people past the front row. I wonder briefly if the Golden Arrow is in attendance, watching me.
We stand up front while the judges tally their votes, and I lean in to L. “So we’re all set? For afterward?”
“Everyone’s dressed in their appropriate costumes and ready for action.”
The host, Auburn Elo—well-known geek fashion maven and my personal hero right now—approaches the mic. Her voice booms out as she thanks the audience for attending and announces that there will be two winners. The judges’ pick and the audience pick.
“The judges’ pick is . . .”
I hold my breath. I can imagine her saying my name. Several times over.
“Kelsey Maya, for the Black Widow!”
The crowd yells, but I deflate. I didn’t win. Tears fill my eyes. Everything I’ve done. Everything I’ve worked for. But I square my shoulders, a ray of sunshine breaking through the clouds. This isn’t the end. I’m still here. I still did this, and I’m still going to do this as a business. This exposure can only help me, even without a crown. I don’t need any more proof that I should take a chance on myself. L is hugging me fiercely. I pat her arm.
“I’m sorry, L,” I say.
“What are you talking about?” She picks me up and swings me around. “Aren’t you listening? We just won the Audience Favorite!”
I look around in astonishment. Latifah hugs me to the glue-scented tulle neckline of her dress, and I am shocked to find I’m crying. Zero to sixty. I’m so excited and happy. Everything is a blur of disco lights, thumping music, and happy tears.
“We won!” I say, leaning against the wall backstage and closing my eyes. I don’t even care that it wasn’t the judges’ favorite. My heart doesn’t know the difference. I’m basking in the euphoria of knowing I’m finally on the right track scaling back on the writing and pursuing costuming. It’s not what I ever planned, but it feels like the universe gives its nod of approval. In a world of mortals, I most definitely feel like Wonder Woman right now.
“I wish we had time to soak it in.” L’s already at the makeup station, though she’s not disrobing like I thought she would be. “Vince just texted me and said that someone wearing a T-shirt with a golden arrow painted on it just walked into the auction and asked about the painting.”
Right. That whole freaking fate-of-the-world thing. Crap. No big deal, I just won my first national fashion competition, but I still have hidden journals to buy, a masked avenger and a murderer to identify, and a man to win over.
“It’s like sardines in here,” L mutters as we push our way into the packed ballroom for the auction. Edward Casey Junior is already onstage, introducing the curator for the museum, who will be retaining one of the pieces and gaining the charitable funds.
My gaze sweeps the crowded room, already too warm, or maybe that’s from my sprint over here. The first queen I spot is Shwanda, L’s drag mama, dressed as much like a security guard as L and I could costume her on short notice. She’s standing along the back wall, looking official and important, and meets my eye immediately. She motions with a nod toward one section of the room, so I pull L along with me through the crowd.
It takes a bit to get there, and by the time I locate two empty seats, Edward Casey Junior finishes his speech. I face forward and groan. He’s shaking hands and posing for a photograph with the piece he’s donating to the museum, and it’s the large print. The one with the journals in it. Donated, not for auction. I apparently misread the stupid booklet Tej had given me. Dammit.
They set the painting—nay, my carefully placed criminal trap, now rendered useless—to the side, and the auction starts in earnest.
“This is all wrong,” I say to L. I feel crushing defeat for the second time in as many hours. “That’s it. This plan will never work now. I won’t be able to see who bids on it because nobody gets to.”
Someone slides into the chair on my left, and I whip my head to the side, ready for combat. My adrenaline and nerves are just about shot. “Ryan, you scared me stupid!”
“Sorry. Has the auction started? This place is a zoo.” Ryan picks up on my nervous energy, evidenced by my fidgeting like a kindergartner on a Fruit Roll-Up high. I follow his gaze to Lelani, who’s standing near Shwanda. Lelani’s brows are pulled down, her face in a scowl. I’d be mad too if my huge dress kept me from being able to take a seat.
“No, it’s just starting. You didn’t miss anything.” Except my plan to capture one or two suspects in my case going up in flames. Suddenly suffocating in my suit coat, I peel it off and toss it across the back of my chair. It leaves me in only my white silk camisole, but in this stifling room, I’d give anything to be wearing less. Or maybe it’s nerves. Or both. I swallow noisily, panic rising in my throat.
L leans in, whispering so just I can hear, “Just sit tight. I’m sure we can get up there after the auction. We’ve got other problems. There are at least three Golden Arrows here.”
“What?” My eyes scan the room, and dread fills my limbs.
There are several people here dressed like the Golden Arrow. The social superhero has been in the media long enough that people have made costumes based on it. Not that I’m even sure the Golden Ar
row will be dressed like the Golden Arrow. There are Hooded Falcons in the crowd too. Considering this is a Hooded Falcon memorabilia auction, it’s to be expected. And surely the White Rabbit won’t be wearing a costume that says, “I’m a drug lord and murderer.” I’m not sure why I thought I’d be able to pick them out.
I search for Amy Blondonis, the last queen on our private crew. I spot her by the back door, easy to pinpoint because of the copious tattoos on her person. The long half-black, half–icy blonde wig sticks straight with blunt bangs. It complements her huge fur stole and signature Cruella de Vil slinky black dress. Amy meets my eyes, and I suppress a shiver—I’m glad she’s on our side; Amy is intense.
How are we ever going to identify anyone in here? There have to be a thousand people.
I turn forward and sink in my chair. An air of electricity charges in the room, and it doesn’t have anything to do with the action figure that makes up the first lot at auction. “I guess we just wait and see,” I say to L. “Something will work out; I feel sure of it. Hold your sweet black tauntauns. All hope isn’t lost.” Or I’m wrong, and we’re both in a huge pile of crap.
A hush falls as the auctioneer steps up on the stage. Bidding starts, and I sneak looks around. No one seems particularly suspicious or familiar. Well, that I can tell anyway. One of the bidders is Groot, and I can’t see even a bit of face.
“L, maybe you’re right. With the costumes, I can’t even tell who anyone is; this whole plan is a bust . . .” I trail off and turn to look behind me. A scuffle has broken out in the back among bidders. I’m not the only one to pause. The auctioneer slows the bidding, obviously unsure if he should continue. The scuffle increases in intensity. It’s odd for a fight to break out before the auction has even really started. A chill snakes down my spine, and I get the inkling of an idea that this is no mere scuffle just seconds before the entire room plunges into darkness.
CHAPTER 26
Instantly, L pulls me to my feet. “Get to the door!” I can barely hear her over the screams of the patrons around me. I hear a strange whizzing as something flies by my head and an ooof as the item that grazes my head goes on to hit Ryan. Something sharp scrapes my face, and I feel the instant ooze of blood. Between this and the damn warehouse break-in, I am going to look like Deadpool when this is finished. I’m aware of Ryan climbing straight over the chairs in front of us, making his way to the stage. He seems pissed, which is so completely odd, I just stop and stare for a moment.
The Frame-Up (The Golden Arrow Mysteries Book 1) Page 27