I head toward the door, already mentally rehearsing my excuse for showing up uninvited to an exclusive industry event. Something about professional development and networking opportunities should work, assuming I can pull off looking like someone whobelongs at a high-end chocolate symposium instead of someone who spends her days covered in flour and dealing with supernatural crime-solving assistants.
“Lottie!” Suze calls after me. “Try not to find any bodies at this one!”
“I make no promises,” I call back, because let’s be honest—at this point, discovering corpses has become something of a professional hazard.
Besides, someone at that symposium might just know why Duncan Whitmore ended up with Nell’s knife in his chest. And I fully intend to corner them—preferably before they take a stab at removing any inconvenient witnesses.
If they’re hiding chocolate-dipped secrets, well… they just messed with the wrong dessert-loving detective.
LOTTIE
The Evergreen Manor ballroom holds the scent of spring blooms and chocolate decadence, layered with high-end perfume and the smug confidence of old money.
Across the room, scrumptious cocoa installations have caught my dessert-loving eye. The imported coffee that probably costs more per pound than gold smells like heaven, and chocolate sculptures the size of toddlers, are enough to make Willy Wonka jealous.
The grand ballroom stretches before us like something out of a chocolate-covered fairy tale, if fairy tales included crystal chandeliers the size of compact cars and enough gold leaf to fund the national debt. Classical music drifts from a string quartet, occasionally punctuated by the gentle clink of champagne glasses and the rustle of designer clothing that probably made its way here straight from Milan.
I tried to ditch Carlotta before leaving the bakery, but she’s like head lice—persistent, annoying, and somehow always resurfaces when you think you’ve finally gotten rid of her. She somehow managed to attach herself to this expedition with the determination of someone who’s never met an exclusive event she couldn’t crash or inevitably trash.
Carlotta and I are about to step into the ballroom, and the first person to greet us is Naomi Sawyer, Keelie’s twin sister and living proof that sometimes Mother Nature has a twisted sense of humor. Where Keelie is sweet and sunshine, Naomi is all dark hair, darker soul, and a vocabulary that would make a sailor blush. She also happens to be the manager here at the Evergreen Manor.
Naomi spots us approaching the entrance, and her expression immediately shifts to suggest she’s just discovered something unpleasant stuck to the bottom of her designer shoe.
“Well, well, well,” she growls, positioning herself between us and the entry with the authority of an armed guard. “If it isn’t Aunt Carlotta and the human embodiment of a bad luck charm.”
“Naomi,” I say with forced politeness, because antagonizing the gatekeeper rarely ends well. “How nice to see you.”
“I wish I could say the same,” she responds with a smile colder than a graveyard in January. Suffice it to say, I’m not Naomi’s favorite person. She clears her throat. “Unfortunately, I’ve been asked to vet the people coming to buy tickets. Fairbanks and Regina were very specific about maintaining a certain... exclusive vibe.” She looks us up and down with the critical eye of someone appraising a couple of pigs at the county fair and finding them severely lacking.
“Oh, come on, Naomi,” Carlotta harps. “You know darn well that Lot is here to catch a killer, and I’m here to catch a billionaire. If you let us in, I’ll give you first dibs on any rich fool with old money and low standards.”
She takes a moment to glare at her demented aunt. “Sorry,” she continues with a touch too much satisfaction, “but I was told to say we’re sold out of tickets if I feel you don’t fit their social criteria. And frankly, you two aren’t quite couth enough to be rubbing elbows with this caliber of clientele. So just to be clear, I’m so sorry, but we’re all sold out of tickets.” She gives a cheesy smile, and suddenly I’m moved to knock out her pearly white teeth with something heavy and preferably made of cast iron. I can’t help it. I get ornery if there’s an obstacle between me and an entire table of exotic chocolate desserts.
I reach into my purse and pull out a crisp hundred-dollar bill,which I hold up between us with confidence. I know all too well that money talks louder than social snobbery, and Naomi is certainly not impervious to the siren call of cold, hard cash.
“Oh!” Naomi’s eyes light up with instant approval, the kind that only crisp bills and social climbing can buy. “Well then, by all means—enjoy the show.”
Money, it seems, is the magic spell that turns Naomi from ice queen to welcome committee.
Carlotta and I make our way into the ballroom, and I’m immediately struck by the sea of surgically enhanced faces surrounding us. It’s like walking into a convention for people who’ve had intimate relationships with Botox needles and plastic surgeons with artistic aspirations.
“Holy moly,” Carlotta breathes, stopping dead in her tracks to survey the ultra-glamorous crowd. “Everyone here looks stamped, polished, and rolled off the same assembly line.”
I nod. “They all look so flawless, I’m starting to feel like the before photo in a makeover ad.”
The crowd consists entirely of what I can only describe as plastic people—faces stretched so tight by surgical enhancement they look as if they’re permanently bracing themselves against hurricane-force winds. Lips pumped full of enough filler to supply a balloon factory, cheekbones sharp as shards of porcelain, and foreheads so smooth they could double as ski slopes.
“Look at that woman over there,” Carlotta whispers, though her version of whispering can be heard on the moon. “Her face is pulled so tight, if she sneezes, her ears might pop off. And those lips! She looks like she tried to kiss a vacuum cleaner and lost the battle.”
I try to shush her, but I have a feeling she’s just getting warmed up.
“And that gentleman by the chocolate fountain,” she continues with far too much vigor. “His forehead is so smooth and shiny I could use it as a mirror. Do you think they polish it daily, or is that just a natural glow from all the chemicals?”
A woman nearby turns to stare at us, her face so perfectly sculptedit looks like it was carved from expensive marble by someone with questionable artistic judgment.
“Oh, honey,” Carlotta croons her way, “your surgeon deserves a medal. You lookexactlytwenty-five… from across the street… at dusk—without my glasses.”
The woman’s mouth opens slightly, though whether in shock or because her facial muscles have a limited range of motion is anyone’s guess.
