Nightingale (18 page)

With Joanne gone, I was even more nervous. I went down the hall, scooped up Rascal, and stuffed him back inside my coat. That seemed to calm the puppy, although he kept growling at the closed door, like a drug- or bomb-sniffing dog who’d scored a hit on a major stash.

“Well, thanks, Jasper. I’ll let you get back to … whatever you were doing.” I kept a firm grip on Rascal and headed for the door, determined to get out of here as quickly as possible.

“Abby?”
 

“Yes,” I said, turning around to look at him, but still backing toward the door.

“You should be careful,” he said.
 

I gave him a puzzled look.

“I’ve heard about some incidents lately in the neighborhood. Some violence. I just wanted you to keep an eye out.”

“Oh. Okay.”

His words seemed innocent enough, but there was a strange tone to them, almost like he was warning me about something specific.
 

“Well, thanks,” I said.

He nodded at me. “Be safe.”

“You do the same.”

Jasper smiled. “Don’t worry about me. I’m always safe.”

I didn’t know about that, because he was the one who’d been mugged, but I didn’t know what else to say, so I nodded and left the brownstone. Still pondering Jasper’s bizarre words, I headed back to my apartment. I was about halfway across the street when I got the feeling someone was watching me. I stopped and looked up and down the block, but I didn’t see anyone.
 

Still, I felt like I was standing in a long, tall shadow, with someone looking down on me. I raised my head, my eyes scanning the rooftops, but didn’t see anyone. No superheroes zooming through the sky. No ubervillains swinging from rooftop to rooftop. Not even a couple of teenagers sneaking out for a quick cigarette. I opened my eyes and ears.
Really
looking.
Really
listening. Nothing.
 

I shivered, wrapped my arms tighter around Rascal, and hurried back to my building. I didn’t stop until I was in my loft with the door locked behind me.

Chapter Thirteen

The noises woke me.

Fierce, aggressive
yip-yaps
punctuated by squeaky
gr-gr-growls
. Nails clicking on the floor. The slap of a tail against glass.

I smashed my ear into my pillow, flattening the fluffy mound into a fabric pancake beneath my head. Then, I reached over, grabbed my other pillow, and pulled it on top of my exposed ear. I’d stuffed my earplugs in hours ago, determined to get a good night’s sleep, but I could
still
hear him.
 

Rascal, the freaking superdog, was on the prowl.

Evidently, puppies didn’t need much sleep because Rascal had spent the past two hours pacing back and forth in front of the glass windows and door that lined the back wall of the loft. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought he was a junkyard dog, trained to bark at the slightest noise. That, or his pea-sized brain thought there was something lurking outside that he could chase.
 

Of course, I yelled at him. Snapped my fingers. Threatened to leave him out on the cold balcony all night long, even though it was an empty threat and I couldn’t bring myself to do something like that. But unlike most of the caterers in the greater Bigtime area, Rascal wasn’t cowed by my sharp tone or harsh words. Instead, the puppy would settle down for a few minutes, seemingly chastised, and I’d lie back down and close my eyes. Then, just as I drifted toward the land of sweet, sweet sleep, Rascal would scramble to his feet and bark at the patio door again.
 

Finally, after two hours of this chess game, I sat up, smacked the lights on, and marched over to the puppy, who had his nose pressed up against the door.

“What are you doing?” I demanded. “It’s after midnight. Puppies should be asleep, and so should I.”

Rascal looked up at me, his eyes big and intense, his ears standing straight up like two antennas. He pressed his nose against the door and growled again, as if he wanted me to open the glass so he could sink his teeth into whatever was out there. Except I knew there wasn’t anything lurking outside. This was one of the quietest blocks in Bigtime which was the exact reason I’d moved here. No gangs. No crime. No loud neighbors.
 

I sighed. “You’re not going to shut up until I show you there’s nothing out there, are you?”

Rascal looked at me.

“Fine,” I muttered.

I yanked a cord, pulling the drapes back. Then, I stepped to one side and pointed out the door. “See? There’s nothing out there. Nothing at all.”

Rascal let out a low, hoarse growl. He lunged forward, barking like he was a fierce guard dog instead of a couple of pounds of ears and attitude.

A shadow fell on my body. A long, tall shadow, just like the one I’d seen earlier this evening.

I whirled around. Heart pounding. Eyes wide. Nostrils flared—and stared out at my empty balcony.
 

I put my hands on the glass and looked out—
really
looked. Empty—the balcony was empty.

I took a breath and tried to get my racing heart under control. There was nothing out there. The shadow had probably been a bird, startled by the sudden light and noise inside the loft. I let out an angry breath. Probably another wren, too stupid to seek shelter for the night.

Still, I double-checked and made sure the door was locked. Rascal kept growling, and I massaged my temples. Oh yes, the puppy was definitely going to be the death of me. But I wasn’t going alone. Piper was coming too, I thought darkly. She was going to hear
all
about this in the morning.
 

I pushed the drapes shut and pointed my finger at the puppy’s basket in the corner. “You’ve seen there is absolutely nothing out on the balcony. So lie down and go to sleep. Now!”

Rascal’s ears quivered and slowly lowered. His nose twitched, almost like he was sniffling. He looked at his basket, then at me. Tail between his legs, he trotted over to it and curled up inside.

I slapped off the lights, got back into bed, and pulled the covers up to my chin. I sighed into my pillow, more than ready to sink into the darkness until the sunlight slipped through my drapes.

Then Rascal whined—a pitiful, pathetic,
why-don’t-you-love-me-anymore?
whine—followed by a whimper of the same caliber and some more sniffling.

“Oh, good grief,” I muttered, giving in to the inevitable. “Fine. You can sleep with me. Anything to calm you down. But only for tonight. My bed is
not
going to permanently reek of puppy. Come here, Rascal.”

I didn’t have to say it twice. He hurdled out the basket so fast he kicked it into the wall behind him. Rascal bounded over to me. I reached down, picked him up, and deposited him on the foot on the bed. But the puppy wasn’t happy there. Oh no. As soon as I put my head on my pillow, the puppy crept up to my chest, squirmed his way under my arm, and put his warm, wet nose next to my cheek.

He grunted with contentment. I rolled my eyes and dug my fingers into his fur. Rascal yawned, and I wrinkled my nose as a wave of puppy chow hit me.
 

Dog breath—just what I needed to smell all night long. Still, I couldn’t help but smile as we both settled down to sleep.

#

I met Piper the next morning at Oodles o’ Stuff, Bigtime’s most popular department store. Each of the store’s many floors was crammed with every conceivable good in the known universe, from clothes and shoes, to computer and printers, to exotic spices and gourmet foods. Even though it was just before nine, shoppers crowded into the store, and cash registers rang up sale after sale. Rascal barked, excited by the lights and noise. Nobody batted an eye as I carried the puppy inside. If Yeti Girl could storm through here when she was in one of her rampaging moods, folks weren’t going to look twice at Rascal.
 

I went over to the map inside the front door. I wasn’t a big shopper, and I came to Oodles o’ Stuff only when absolutely necessary, like when I’d been overseeing the holiday toy drive. The store had rearranged its merchandise since then, so I scanned the table of contents until I spotted the location of the makeup counter—straight back on the first floor. I fell into the flow of traffic, and let the shoppers sweep me in that direction.

Piper spotted me and waved. She stood beside a tall woman with cropped blond hair. Everything about the other woman was perfect, from the smart, sharp lines of her ice-blue pantsuit to the subtle makeup that colored her face. I walked over to them, and Piper made the introductions.

“This is Sabrina St. John,” Piper said. “She’s Oodles o’ Stuff’s main buyer and color consultant. She also did the makeup for Fiona’s last fashion show, and she’s a genius when it comes to color combinations.”

We shook hands. Sabrina had a firm, pleasant grip, although her hands were cool to the touch.
 

“Piper says you want the lowdown on the lipstick wars in Bigtime,” Sabrina said, her pale blue eyes meeting mine.

I nodded. “I just finished an event for Octavia O’Hara announcing Oomph’s merger with Polish. Now, Wesley Weston wants me to put one on for Glo-Glo.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Sabrina said. “Oomph and Glo-Glo are the two main makeup companies in Bigtime. They’ve always been competitors. Follow me.”

She led us down a long, glass counter. Lipsticks, eye shadows, glosses, blushes, foundations, and concealers lined the area, each one more colorful and in a brighter, prettier tube than the last. Sabrina stopped under a sign that read
Add some Oomph to your look
. Red lips kissed on either side of the word. Another sign a few feet away screamed
Glam. Gorgeous. Glo-Glo!
      

Sabrina pulled out products from underneath the counters and started talking about the Oomph and Glo-Glo makeup lines. I picked up some of the pots of color and eyed the glossy packaging. Every product promised to deliver a subtle, but different and fabulous look, from the shimmering eye shadow to the matte foundation. I unscrewed two lipsticks that seemed to be the same shade of red and the exact same color as twenty others sitting in the display case, but each one of the tubes had a different name on the bottom, from
Candy Apple
to
Fire Engine
to
Burnt Sienna
. There were lots of colors with the word
sun
in them.
Sunset
.
Sunbeam
.
Sunrise
.

I snickered.
 

“What’s so funny?” Sabrina asked.

I shook my head. “Oh, just the fact that somewhere there’s a person sitting in an office whose sole responsibility it is to come up with fifty different names for the same color of red. And the fact this person probably makes me more money than me.”

Sabrina grinned. “I’d say that’s more sad than funny, wouldn’t you?”

I arched an eyebrow. “Touché.”
 

To look at Sabrina, you’d think she was another puffed-up, self-important, perfectly polished fashionista. But the more she spoke, the more I found myself liking her. She didn’t sugarcoat anything, and she didn’t talk down to me just because I wasn’t wearing the latest design by Fiona Fine or Bella Bulluci.

“So what do you think about Oomph’s acquisition of Polish?” I asked.
 

“I don’t think it will help them as much as people think. Although that’s not the only thing that Octavia O’Hara is up to these days.” Sabrina pulled out a plastic bag embossed with the Oomph red lips logo. “Oomph is set to launch a new line of makeup around Valentine’s Day. This is a sample of the products.”

I recognized the items inside. The same ones were given away at the O’Hara-Potter dinner. Octavia must have sent them to all the stores in town, too.
 

My eyes flicked down the rest of the counter, and I stared at the rainbow of colors. I hadn’t known there were that many shades of red in the world, but Oomph boasted twenty-six of them. Piper dabbed a bit of perfumed lotion on her hand, sniffed it, and started sneezing. Rascal leaned down, trying to bury his nose in a pot of lime-green eye shadow. I pulled him back before he could give himself a clown face.

Sabrina opened the Oomph bag and set a variety of products on the counter. Ivory Tower foundation. Quicksilver eyeliner. Sunrise lipstick. A couple of Black Velvet eye shadows. Everything you needed to turn yourself from drab to glam. At least, that was what the packaging claimed.
 

“Are those products any better than what they have out right now? Or what Glo-Glo has on the market?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I haven’t tried them yet,” Sabrina said. “Honestly, I don’t use the Oomph products much anymore, except for a few old standbys that haven’t changed. The company’s color palette is too red and orange for my liking, and the quality’s really gone downhill since Otto O’Hara died.”

“How so?”
 

“I’ve had several complaints from customers about allergic reactions, odor problems, gunky residues,” Sabrina said. “And it’s not just my customers. Oomph has lost a significant amount of their market share in the last six months to Glo-Glo. The truth is Glo-Glo makes the better quality product—at a third of Oomph’s price.”