Chapter 7
7
7:30 p.m. Thursday, October 31
“ R emember, you two have to stay a minimum of ten feet away from me at all times,” Griffin said, stopping them just shy of the Hilton Harrisburg’s ballroom. Beyond the narrow shoulders of his tuxedo jacket, Riley could see the beautiful and wealthy people of the city gathering in their masks and festive finery.
“Let me get this straight. Not that I would mind watching one of these fancy fuckers exact their revenge on you—hell, it would make this birthday the best one I’ve ever had. But doesn’t that completely defeat the purpose of personal security, you human toadstool ?” Nick said on a disbelieving snarl.
Riley patted her boyfriend’s arm. “What the client wants, right?” she reminded him with a fake smile.
“He could have called a fucking Lyft, and we could be eating birthday tacos naked right now,” Nick complained.
“We’ll get birthday tacos on the way home,” Riley promised.
“I can’t have you two encroaching on me.” Griffin’s gaze fastened on Riley’s dress. “You’re too…colorful.”
“He means your boobs look amazing,” Nick said.
Griffin pointed at Nick. “And you’re too…imposing.”
“He means you’re tall,” Riley filled in for Nick. “He doesn’t want us overshadowing him and taking attention away from him. Which means we look good. So thanks for the compliments, Griffin.”
“We do look good, and I hope someone tries to murder you just for ruining my birthday. We’ll be by the shrimp fountain or whatever the hell they feed you people,” Nick said, towing Riley in the direction of the food.
The ballroom was a cavernous space with a grand staircase perfect for posing on and a candlelit upper-level balcony that, judging by the number of couples on the stairs, was the perfect spot for canoodling. A string quartet played classical versions of pop songs on a skirted riser in front of the dance floor.
“Wow. Is that an actual vat of caviar?” she asked when she spotted the food tables.
“You got me,” Nick said, realigning the eye holes of his matte black mask and surveying the room. “Does it feel weird to be hobnobbing with all the Richie Riches you used to hang with when you were married?”
“We weren’t married long enough for me to hobnob. I doubt anyone remembers me, and even if they do, I’m wearing a mask. I can pretend to be anyone I want.”
“A mask and one hell of a dress.”
“See? Ursula isn’t so bad,” Riley teased.
Nick shuddered.
“Why didn’t Bella come tonight?” she asked as they approached the first food table. Appetizers were staged on tiered acrylic displays above artfully rumpled gold table linens.
Nick picked up a tiny glass plate and frowned at it. “Short and Orangey said something about weather girl continuing education, which I’m pretty sure is code for Bella is boning someone on the side.”
“Suspicious,” Riley said. “Always look at the spouse…or the weather girl in this case.” After recently losing her powers and not knowing when or if they’d return, she’d decided it was important to bone up on her nonpsychic investigative studies.
“Yeah, when an actual crime has been committed.”
“You still don’t believe someone’s threatening him?” she asked, crossing her arms as Nick loaded the surface area of his little plate with food.
“Like I said, the twerp is looking for some attention. And even if someone is out to get him, I’m having trouble getting worked up over the idea that one of the hundreds of people he’s screwed over decided to get some revenge.”
“You do realize we only get the rest of the money after we solve the case, right?” she pointed out.
“Technically, we get paid for performing a service, not for solving the case. I figure we spend a week pretending to care, and then I’ll skip off to the bank with a big fat check like I’m a pack of schoolgirls on the playground.”
“They have mobile deposit now. But I still would like to see the skipping.”
Nick scowled down at the tiny plate in his hand. “How are you supposed to fit any food on this? Here,” he said, thrusting the plate at her and getting a second one.
Riley turned away from the food to scan the crowd. There were a lot of beautiful masked people circulating everywhere. She rolled her eyes behind her mask when she spotted Griffin in the center of a circle of fawning middle-aged women.
She took a breath and mentally lifted her psychic garage doors. Other people’s thoughts glided into her consciousness like parade floats.
“Why the hell can’t these events serve real food? I don’t want raw squid compote. I want a fucking cheeseburger.”
“I can’t believe Nancy is here showing her face after that humiliating loss in the last election. I think I’ll go remind her she lost.”
“Look at that hideous Dexter with his new facelift and his twenty-two-year-old wife. Does she have to tuck him in before she goes out with her friends for the night?”
“Did Griffin Gentry get taller?”
“It’s my fucking birthday, and I have to spend it with Booster Seat. But damn is it worth it just to see Riley in that dress. I wonder if I can talk her into taking a naked tour of a janitorial closet?”
“Here. I brought you some shrimp and whatever this stuff is. Maybe some kind of seafood dip? There was a crab leg sticking out of it,” Nick said as he pushed a second appetizer plate at her.
“No,” Riley said.
“You don’t want any food?”
“I don’t want to have sex in a janitorial closet. At least not until we’re off the clock.”
Both dimples winked into existence. “How did a guy like me get lucky enough to land a girl like you, Thorn?”
His tone was teasing, but she could feel something else behind it.
“Are you okay?” she asked, abandoning her assessment of the crowd.
Nick popped a shrimp into her mouth. “Baby, with you, I’m better than okay.”
“Did you hit your head getting out of the car again?”
“No. But that dress knocked me out.”
“Champagne?” The offer came from a young cocktail waiter behind them.
“Sorry, man,” Nick said. “We’re on the job, making sure no one tries to murder one of these rich pains in your ass.”
A gentleman with silvery hair and a Phantom of the Opera mask who had just reached for one of the glasses changed his mind and swept away into the crowd. Riley craned her neck but lost him when he disappeared behind two men resembling refrigerators in their white dinner jackets.
“If it’s Ing Theodoric, I’ll give you this entire tray of champagne if you look the other way when it happens,” the waiter grumbled.
Riley juggled her appetizer plates to elbow Nick. Ingram Theodoric was on their list of suspects.
“Ow. What was that for? Do you want more shrimp?” Nick asked, rubbing his arm.
“Ingram Theodoric sounds like a bad guy ,” Riley said pointedly.
“Very subtle, Thorn,” Nick said with a wink.
“He just made my boyfriend get on his hands and knees and mop up the scotch he didn’t spill on the asshole’s wingtips,” the waiter said, drawing Riley’s attention again. He was a gangly white twentysomething with a head full of shockingly blond curls. His dinner jacket was a few sizes too big, his pants were too short, and his bow tie was crooked. He winced. “Sorry. I’m not supposed to say stuff like that. Please don’t tell my boss. I don’t wanna get fired again.”
“Tell you what”—Nick leaned in to read the waiter’s name tag—“Garvey. You point us in the direction of this Theodoric guy, and I’ll be sure to spill this cocktail sauce all over him.”
Garvey’s eyes lit up. “Deal. I’ll save you a bottle of champagne to go if you get some up his nose.”
“Consider it done.”
Riley took a preemptive bite of shrimp just in case they were about to get thrown out by security. It was never a dull moment with Nick Santiago on the loose.
Garvey pointed across the ballroom. “Standing over there by that urn of flowers. He’s the tall dude with the gold mask and the comb-over who looks like he’s got an ice sculpture shoved up his butt.”
Nick popped a crostini in his mouth and straightened his shoulders. “Let’s get to work.”
“Are you sure dumping cocktail sauce on someone is the best way to get them to talk?” she asked nervously as she trailed him across the ballroom.
“Gotta read the situation and adapt. Sometimes you need to throw a punch or hurl some condiments to get someone to open up.”
“Listen, I remember Ingram Theodoric the Third from a fundraiser at Fort Hunter. He’s a bank vice president and colossal jackass,” she warned.
“Then this will be even more fun,” he insisted.
“He makes underlings cry on a daily basis at the bank. According to the suspect list, Griffin says Ing screamed at him on the court after a pickleball match.”
“What the hell is pickleball?” Nick asked. “Never mind. Tell me later.”
“All I’m saying is if you dump cocktail sauce all over him, he’s not going to stand around and answer questions.”
Nick glanced back at her, his grin wicked. “Baby. This isn’t amateur hour. Play along. It’ll be fun. Oh, and don’t be afraid to whip out those psychic abilities. The faster I can prove no one is out to get Gentry, the better.”
“Spirit guides, prepare for…anything,” Riley muttered under her breath as he led her directly into the path of Ingram Theodoric.
Nick froze midstep. “A-a-choo!”
His fake sneeze had him bobbling his appetizer plate. He dramatically pulled a dinner napkin out of his jacket and blew his nose noisily. “Ugh. Darling,” he said with a suddenly posh British accent. “When will event planners stop insisting on using chrysanthemums? For the last time, if it’s in season, it’s too cheap.”
“Uh, you’re so right, dear,” Riley said, struggling to keep a straight face.
“I’ve said the same thing a thousand times of these ridiculous dinners,” Ingram announced with the slightest slur to his words. The glass of scotch in his hand was almost empty.
Nick tucked the napkin back into his suit jacket like it was a handkerchief. “And shrimp cocktail?” He gestured with his plate of shrimp tails and sauce. “How gauche.”
Riley hadn’t been aware that Nick knew the word gauche , let alone how to pronounce it.
Ingram polished off the rest of his drink with a noisy slurp. “Next thing you know, they’ll be feeding us SpaghettiOs and expecting us to say thank you. By the by, I’m Ingram Theodoric the Third. I’m sure you’ve heard of me.”
“I’m Poindexter Flopper the First,” Nick said. “And this is my wife, Gilligan. Say, old man, you don’t know that tiny tosser over there with the unforgivable spray tan?”
Riley didn’t miss the subtle tightening of Ingram’s jaw beneath his garish mask. “That’s Griffin Gentry. He’s on the morning news,” he said. He snapped his fingers at the nearest waiter. “Scotch. Double. Now. And don’t get your fingerprints all over the glass this time.”
Nick snorted. “I don’t care if he’s on The Price Is Right ; the man’s a colossal prick. He insulted me on the pickleball field.”
“Court,” Riley muttered.
“Right. Court, of course. I was thinking of rugby,” Nick continued in his ridiculous accent.
“You’re not the first person Gentry has rubbed the wrong way,” Ingram said stiffly.
Riley’s nose twitched. Nick gave her hand a squeeze, and then she found herself swooping along through clouds of baby blue and candy pink. The clouds parted, and there was Griffin in an all-white tennis outfit, standing on a pickleball court. His sweatband was stained orange from his fake tan. Ingram stormed the court just before a serve and began hurling plastic balls and paddles at the news anchor.
She couldn’t hear what Ingram was shouting. The sound was muffled like it was coming from underwater, but she was fairly certain some of the words were “you son of a bitch.”
Griffin did his best to dodge the onslaught by hiding behind his doubles partner, a young man of possibly Asian heritage with messy hair, glasses, and a resigned look on his face.
“These pickleball folks sure take their sports seriously,” Riley observed to her spirit guides.
But the scene was gone as quickly as it appeared, changing and shifting into something else. The clink of cocktail glasses and a sudden explosion of laughter in the ballroom threatened to pull her out. Riley clung tighter to the wisps of a new scene.
Focus focus focus , she ordered herself.
Griffin—hands stacked under his head, expression smug—lounged naked on a king-size bed with an imposing wrought- iron canopy.
“Is this view really necessary?” Riley asked her spirit guides as she tried not to dry heave.
The woman partially draped in a sheet next to Griffin was not Bella. She was too blurry to make out more than a leggy brunette with pouty lips and long fingernails. “That was it?” the brunette asked, sounding flummoxed.
“That was it,” Griffin said with pride. “You can give me a back rub now.”
The scene spun, and Riley found herself zooming in on the shelves on the wall opposite the bed. Closer, closer, closer until she realized she was looking at an oil painting of a scowling man in a suit. Ingram Theodoric III.
Was this Ingram’s bedroom? Did that mean the woman was his girlfriend? His wife? His daughter?
The band played an orchestral riff, and the gala attendees began to applaud, which popped Riley’s little psychic bubble.
“Oh boy,” she muttered, lurching sideways into the strong, solid heat of Nick’s body. She really needed to ask Gabe if they could practice more dignified exits from Cotton Candy World.
“You all right there, love?” Nick asked.
Ingram was staring at her, but judging from the tilt of his head, it wasn’t her face that had caught his attention.
“I’m fine,” she said brightly. “I just caught my heel on the carpet.”
Ingram scoffed in the general direction of her chest. “The cleaning staff probably separated the carpet seams by vacuuming the wrong way. I swear these uneducated buffoons should be paying us for putting up with their ineptitude.”
“What an interesting opinion,” she said and covertly elbowed Nick.
“I must say. That’s a lovely dress, my dear,” Ingram said, openly leering at Riley now. “You’re a lucky man, Poindexter.”
“Don’t I know it,” Nick agreed. “Achoo!”
This time, Nick’s comical fake sneeze registered on the Richter scale. His entire body spasmed outward, sending his plate of shrimp tails and cocktail sauce flying directly into Ingram’s masked face.
Silence reigned as every mask within twenty feet turned in their direction.
“Oh, dear. I told you to see a doctor about those allergies,” Riley chided, patting Nick on the arm.
He produced the dinner napkin again and dramatically blew his nose as sauce dripped from Ingram’s face onto the pristine white shirt. His mouth hung open, and he had a shrimp tail in his hair.
“Terribly sorry, old chap,” Nick said, handing the immobile Ingram his used napkin. “Come on, Gilligan. I think it’s time to get off this island.”
Garvey the waiter flashed them a covert thumbs-up as they hurried away from the snarling Ingram.
“That was…” Riley searched for the right word.
“Awesome?” Nick filled in.
“I was going to say ridiculous , but awesome works too. Nice accent, by the way. Do you think it’ll help when security hauls us out of here?”
“Are you kidding me, Thorn?” He took her hand and twirled her in a circle as they crossed the dance floor. “We’re Poindexter and Gilligan, filthy rich assholes. We do what we want.”
She yelped as he dipped her low. “I’m concerned that fifteen minutes of hobnobbing with the upper class is rubbing off on you.”
“You should be more concerned that we’re rubbing off on them.” He returned her to her feet and led them to a quiet table on the opposite side of the ballroom. “Now spill it. What did that twitchy little nose of yours tell you?”
Riley glanced over her shoulder to where Griffin was now slow dancing a little too close to a tall woman in a feathered mask. “Ingram attacked Griffin on the pickleball court all right. But it wasn’t over a match. I can’t be sure, but I think it was because Griffin slept with his wife or daughter. It’s hard to tell with these kinds of age gaps.”
“Nice work, Thorn. I’ll text Brian and tell him Ingram gets bumped to the top of the fake motive list,” Nick said. “Is there anyone else we should dump cocktail sauce on, or can I go get another tiny plate of tiny food?”