Chapter Fourteen
Fourteen
Malibu smells like sea salt, citrus, and gasoline.
It slams into me as soon as I step out of the limousine, heel hitting the concrete, bare calf exposed by the slit in my dress.
I’m offered a gloved hand in assistance, and I look up into Rook’s gray eyes.
His hair is slicked back like a thirties movie star’s, and his tux is immaculate.
The sequins on my dress sparkle in the setting sun as I follow Rook onto the red carpet leading up to the museum.
Lowering my head, I let my hair shield my face from the flashing cameras and cell phones.
Luckily, they’re not here for us, and at most we’ll be background characters in someone else’s portrait.
These photographers are not from the media. Well, they are, but their readership is niche, their journals and magazines esoteric. Many of the Coven will be in attendance tonight, but they’ll have no memory of it. They’ll want photographic evidence of their evening.
I’d given Rook a brief tutorial on avoiding being photographed and he’s doing better than expected in nonchalantly facing away from the cameras. He effortlessly directs us behind the red carpet’s backdrop to a small concrete path sheltered by firs and pines.
“Well,” he says, adjusting his bow tie, “Part One is a success.”
I roll my eyes, my hand still in the crook of his arm. “Yes, I was worried about the getting-out-of-the-car part.”
“Now for Part Two,” he says, and even though he appears as confident as ever—his posture sure, his voice steady—something makes me think he’s nervous.
“Do me a favor?” I pat his forearm.
He raises his eyebrows questioningly.
“Stop announcing which part of the plan we’re on.”
“Right.” He clears his throat and tugs at his bow tie again.
“Keep your conversation focused on what a guest at this event would say. And you look fine,” I say, swatting his hand away as it again reaches for his tie.
“Just fine?” he asks as we approach the torch-lined entry point under an arch.
Before I can respond, a man in a suit asks, “Might I see your invitations?”
“Of course.” Rook’s voice is a little too loud as he reaches into his pocket. I can tell he’s starting to panic.
“Other pocket, dear,” I say in a mid-Atlantic accent. I turn to the attendant as I lay a possessive hand on Rook’s chest. “Honestly, he’d lose his head if it wasn’t attached. Metaphorically speaking, of course.”
The attendant laughs politely at my joke, as Rook hands over two velvet-lined invitations for Mr. and Mrs. ?apicki hosted by Rob Jurski and Christine Horridge-Shale.
Once they’re out of Rook’s hands, he stiffens as though he’s holding his breath.
I rub my hand along his forearm, trying to calm him as I breathe in counts of five, and wait.
When using an alias, it’s usually best to keep it as close to your real name as possible so you don’t forget it. But Rook and I didn’t have a choice. Or should I say Rob and Christine?
Or should I say Mr. and Mrs. ?apicki?
Here’s where things get complicated.
We’re not at a normal gala, and those aren’t normal tickets.
Since the invitees are from all over the world, we made it easy on ourselves and waited to grab the invites the night before, when most out-of-towners had already arrived in Los Angeles.
We gave Ezra a list of names, and he was back within six hours, which, given LA traffic, was nothing short of a miracle.
He met Poppy and me back at our Airbnb—a vacation home off the PCH that overlooks the ocean. Alright, we didn’t actually rent it. And maybe it’s not even an Airbnb. But no one was using it, so I don’t see what the big deal is.
Ezra slipped through the balcony window instead of using the door like a normal person. We’d already dismantled the entire security system, so I’m not sure why he was sneaking in other than just to show off.
“Here,” he said, tossing five velvet tickets onto the kitchen island’s marble countertop, already littered with cardstock and hot glue and calligraphy pens.
I gave him a wide smile. “You may not be useless after all.”
He wrinkled his brow. “You’re the one who chased me all over Times Square begging for my help.”
I flipped through the tickets, taking in the velvet border, the shining gold calligraphy, and the stiff cream-colored paper. “You’re the one who got caught. Forgive me if I was a little nervous about your contributions.”
He plopped onto a bar chair. “You know, I might not have done this teaming up thing, but it seems counterproductive to belittle your crew.”
I looked up from the tickets. “You’re not crew yet, New Guy. You’re a…contract employee.”
He pushed his baseball cap over his eyes and leaned his head back. “Yeah, well, as long as I get paid.”
I handed the tickets over to Poppy. “So, you can replicate these?”
Poppy nodded. “Just like Mrs. Gardner’s fifth-grade arts and crafts.”
A few hours later, Ezra was sound asleep, and I had just started to doze off myself when Poppy finished forging the last ticket.
“Done!” she said, nudging my arm so that it was no longer holding up my head.
I blinked, then rubbed my eyes and looked over Poppy’s work. I couldn’t tell the difference between the forgeries and the originals. She handed half of them to me.
“Those are the originals,” she said.
“You sure?”
She gave me a look.
I gave her one back. “Would you double-check for me? Please?”
“Fine,” she said, taking each of the five tickets in turn, eyes closed, fingertips lightly running over them. There was no noise, not really, but I could feel her hum deep in my chest.
She opened her eyes. “Yeah. I am actually reliable. Those are the magic ones.”
“I never said you were unreliable,” I muttered as I slipped the original invitations, the ones spelled with some kind of magical watermark, into my bag. Then I picked up the forgeries and reached over to smack Ezra’s arm. “Wakey, wakey.”
He jerked awake, throwing his hat from his head and running a hand over his face. “Wha?”
“Time to put these back, New Guy.”
“What?” He blinked blearily at me.
“You have to put the tickets back, or else they’ll know they were stolen and they’ll tighten security.”
I handed him the forgeries and waited to see if he noticed anything off about them, the missing magic Poppy couldn’t replicate. But he nodded, used them to salute us, and then slipped out the same way he came in.
And so the forgeries went back to Rob Jurski, Christine Horridge-Shale, Phillip Dodd, Laurie Love, and Phil Collier. None of whom are recognizable enough that the attendants would know what they look like.
At least, that’s the hope.
I’ve gone through three rounds of deep breaths before the attendant returns the tickets to Rook.
“Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. ?apicki.” He moves aside to let us pass.
I have to give Rook a tiny nudge to get him to move forward, through the arch, and into the formal gardens of the Getty Villa.
The courtyard, called the Outer Peristyle, is surrounded by a colonnade and filled with Mediterranean plants, a long rectangular reflecting pool, and re-creations of classical statues and sculptures.
Everything about this place—the fountains, the marble walkways, the tile mosaics—are meant to evoke an ancient Roman garden.
It’s still early, but the peristyle is already filled with people in extravagant dress.
There’s a small orchestra on an overlooking balcony playing slow songs I don’t know but that others are dancing to.
We pass a refreshments table, and Rook picks up a glass of champagne and hands it to me before choosing one for himself.
He tilts it toward me, and I clink my glass to his, counting the exits, which so far is one: the way we came in.
“You know, the French believe it’s bad luck not to make eye contact when you toast,” Rook says.
I bring my eyes back to his and lift a brow. “Oh? What are we toasting?”
I’m trying not to get distracted by the intensity in his expression, trying to be aware of what is happening in my peripheral vision. I can flirt with the mark and stay sharp on the job. Both things are possible. Yup.
“To raising spirits,” Rook says with a smirk.
I touch my glass to his. “To slipping past defenses.”
We don’t break eye contact as we bring the glasses to our lips, so I’m startled when a voice chimes up beside me.
“Isn’t it marvelous?”
I manage not to spit out my champagne as I turn to find a woman at my side, young with long blond hair and a dress so tight I’m surprised she can breathe.
I swallow, the champagne bubbles tickling my throat. “Sorry?”
“I’ve tried to imagine champagne for ages,” she says, “but I just can’t get it right. This is my first glass in a hundred years.”
“Seventy,” I say, gesturing to myself, laying on the accent thick. “I think the last glass I had was at Frank’s fortieth.”
“Frank?” she asks.
“Sinatra.”
She smiles uncomfortably. “I’m afraid I don’t know him, dear. Perhaps after my time.” She holds out a hand. “Mary Eccles.”
“Sofia ?apicki,” I say, taking her hand. “And this is my husband, Tad ?apicki.”
“A pleasure,” she says. “And might I say, what a remarkable dress you’re wearing!”
I run my hands down the fabric and smile.
I’m wearing a formfitting black velvet dress with a sweetheart neckline and off-the-shoulder sleeves. A re-creation of a dress Sofia ?apicki wore to a party on February 12, 1956, the night she and her husband were killed in a car crash. With one notable alteration.
Well, two.
Actually, three.
Sofia was quite slim, and I am quite not, so this is several sizes larger than the original.
What was chic and slinky on her is sultry and voluptuous on me.
There are also several hidden pockets sewn into the lining of this dress, which I assume were missing from the original.
But perhaps the most obvious difference is the human rib cage built into the bodice.