Nightingale (2 page)

Olivia gave me another soft, dreamy look before she and Paul stepped inside. Gasps, claps, and murmurs of appreciation swept through the crowd.

I nodded. Another job well done—so far.

Olivia and Paul moved through the throngs of guests with Octavia watching their every step. I headed for the concrete stairs leading to the second-floor, balcony level of the auditorium.
 

I emerged onto the landing, and Chloe turned at the sound of my footsteps. Chloe was a petite woman in her late twenties with black hair, hazel eyes, and olive skin. Like me, she wore a simple black pantsuit. Unlike me, she didn’t have a vest on over the top of it.
 

I’d offered to buy Chloe a vest when I’d hired her six months ago, but she’d politely refused. She thought she could get by with what she had stuffed in her pint-sized purse. Rookie. Chloe hadn’t been through the disasters I had. She’d learn, though—if she lasted that long. Most of my employees tended to burn out after a few months. They couldn’t handle the pressure I put on them—or myself.

“How is everything?” I asked, moving to stand beside her.

Chloe swept out her hand. “See for yourself.”

I peered over the metal railing to the floor below. Earlier today, workers had removed the auditorium seats and had them replaced with thick, padded benches. Balloons shaped like enormous red lips, Oomph’s logo, bobbed up and down at the ends of the benches, while faux ivory columns ringed the area. The columns held up a sheer silk netting embossed with more lips and filled with red roses, ivy, and baby’s breath. Lights entwined with the roses made the velvet petals glow. I’d been worried about the heat from the lights igniting the flowers, but everything seemed to be okay—for now.
 

Olivia and Paul made their way to the middle of the auditorium, where they shook hands and kissed cheeks. If the relaxidon didn’t take Olivia’s mind off her worries, maybe the constant attention would. She’d barely have time to breathe for the next thirty minutes.

From this distance, Olivia and Paul resembled two delicate figures on top of a wedding cake, surrounded by an army of moving, glittering frosting. At least, they would have to most people. I could see them as clearly as if they stood right in front of me. I might not care for some of my supersenses, but the enhanced eyesight was a perk—most of the time.

 
Chloe shook her head. “You’ve done it again, Abby. I can’t believe you planned this party on a week’s notice. It looks like it took months.”

I couldn’t believe it either. I might be
the
professional event planner in Bigtime, but even I had difficulty throwing together a high-society soiree in five business days. But Octavia had insisted. Her baby sister’s engagement and the Oomph and Polish merger had to be announced simultaneously by mid-January in the most lavish manner possible. Olivia freaking out right before the party had been the least of my problems. Given the time crunch, I’d had to beg, badger, and berate everyone from the caterers to the florist to the band. Well, more so than usual. But somehow, it had all come together at the last minute.

My critical gaze moved from one thing to another. Decorations. Flowers. Lip balloons. Olivia. Paul.

A sense of accomplishment, of pride, filled me. I might sometimes hate parties and the crises that went along with them, but nothing satisfied me more than a job well done. Chloe was right. Everything was perfect. Just the way it should be.

Just the way I’d planned.

Chapter Two

The engagement party kicked into full swing. Olivia and Paul kept smiling and shaking hands, while the band played jazzy music. The guests sipped champagne as they waited their turn in the receiving line.
 

But my job wasn’t done yet. In addition to wanting her sister to announce her engagement in the richest manner possible, Octavia had demanded the accompanying sit-down dinner—focusing on the merger of the two companies—be just as marvelous, which meant more work for me.

“You stay here and supervise,” I said. “I’m going to the dining hall to make sure everything’s set up there.”

Chloe nodded.

I moved down the stairs to the ground floor of the convention center, stopping a moment to twist my neck from side to side. I was rewarded with a slight
pop
as my tension-filled bones found a bit of relief. January usually was one of my slowest months, but this one had been non-stop action. I’d done five weddings in as many weeks. With Valentine’s Day only a month away, I was already hip deep into planning couples’ dinners and romantic rendezvous. On the big day, I wouldn’t have a moment to myself—I’d be too busy overseeing everyone else’s happiness.

Did I mention I hate some holidays too?

I checked my watch. The two-inch-wide silver timepiece was more like a small computer. It boasted three separate black faces, each one showing the minutes and seconds remaining until the next events were supposed to start. Four minutes, twenty-nine seconds before the dining hall doors opened. Fifteen minutes before the food would be set out. Thirty minutes until Olivia, Paul, and the rest of the guests entered the dining room.

Satisfied everything was on schedule, I set off down the corridor.
 

The Bigtime Convention Center had more square footage than almost any other building in the city. I’d planned and overseen so many weddings, parties, and fundraisers here I knew the layout blindfolded. I used my master key to open a door marked
Staff Only
and entered another hallway.
 

The twisting corridor was the belly of the beast. It ran the length of the center, a secret passage offering access to every part of the building. At first, the dimly lit hallway with its faceless concrete walls had creeped me out, but I’d gotten used to it. I couldn’t afford not to.
 

More than once, I’d stashed some drunken best man down here so he could sleep off his buzz, rather than tell his buddy the groom that he was secretly in love with the bride. Sometimes, I thought I should give up event planning and just start blackmailing people. I had enough dirt to bury several of Bigtime’s high rollers.

I closed the door behind me, stepped onto a strip of gray carpet, and walked on. The concrete floor used to be as bare as the walls, and you could hear someone’s footsteps ring out the entire length of the hallway. Since my karaoke accident and subsequent acquisition of supersenses, loud, sharp noises aggravated me—and echoing footsteps almost always guaranteed a killer migraine. So, I’d convinced Morris Muzicale to put some carpet down here, along with a couple of cots, blankets, and pillows for my under-the-table party guests. I’d also brought in my own supplies—bottled water, protein bars, relaxidon, and a spare vest, all of which were stashed in my locker. Now, the convention center was like a second home.

I reached a door marked
Dining Hall 5
, used my key to unlock it, and stepped through. A six-foot-high potted palm tree partially obscured the entrance. I shut the door behind me and wiggled past the green leaves.
 

The dining hall looked similar to the auditorium, with its netting of roses and lights. But instead of benches, round tables large enough to seat eight people each ringed a parquet dance floor. A projector screen hung down one wall behind a podium flanked by two long tables. The happy couple and miscellaneous family members would sit there, and Octavia would announce the merger from the podium later. More Oomph lip balloons were tied to various columns. A banner stretched across the front of the podium read
Olivia + Paul, Oomph + Polish = Two Matches Made in Heaven
.
 

Lip-shaped crystal bowls sat on every table, each filled with samples of Oomph cosmetics. The guests would take the samples with them, instead of more traditional party favors.

Waiters bustled around the dining hall, lighting the candles on the tables and popping the corks off champagne bottles. One of the waiters stepped through a door leading to the kitchen. With my supersense of smell, it was easy to distinguish among the various aromas. Red-pepper-crusted chicken, garlic mashed potatoes, Parmesan-dusted asparagus, warm pumpernickel bread.

Olivia and Paul had forgone the typical bland dinner fare of baked chicken and fish in favor of more unusual dishes. Or rather, Octavia had. She’d insisted all of the food be red, white, black, or green—Oomph’s corporate colors. It wasn’t the strangest request I’d gotten. Nothing could top Milton Moore’s desire for strippers wrestling in a pit of strawberry gelatin at his ninetieth birthday party. Still, I’d tried to point out how limiting color-coordinated food could be, but the customer was always right—and Octavia always got what she wanted. Besides, she was paying me enough to do whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted—short of sleeping with her. Even then, I might consider it.

But right now, I had a caterer to talk to.

“Where’s Kyle?” I asked one of the waitresses.

She jerked her thumb over her shoulder in the direction of the kitchen. I pushed through the swinging double doors. A dozen chefs wearing food-spattered aprons and tall, white hats crammed inside, chopping vegetables and yelling out instructions. More waiters scooped and arranged mounds of potatoes and pounds of chicken onto plates. Kyle Quicke stood in the middle of it all.
 

A tall guy with a very lean figure, blue eyes, and a mop of sandy hair, Kyle owned Quicke’s, his family’s restaurant. Thanks to some secret recipes, Quicke’s served up the best food in the city. Everybody loved it, and it was my go-to restaurant for catering events. Kyle hadn’t blinked an eye when I’d told him I needed five hundred pounds of chicken in less than a week. It took a lot to ruffle Kyle, who took everything in stride.
 

“Abby Appleby.” Kyle smiled. “I was wondering when you were going to show up. Are you okay? You look a little tired.”

I was tired. I’d been working eighteen-hour days for the past week to make sure this party went off without a hitch, but I wasn’t about to tell him. If there was one thing an event planner could never do, it was show weakness. People expected you to be cool, calm, and in control—and more or less awake—always.

“Well, here I am. You know what I was wondering, Kyle? Where my lip-shaped cake is. It’s supposed to be outside when the guests come into the dining hall. A big visual reminder of the merger. We talked and talked and
talked
about this.”

Actually, I’d done most of the talking. With a touch of berating. Maybe it was the perfectionist in me, but I tended to get a little worked up at my events. All right, a lot worked up. Most of the time, I was able to get things done just by politely asking, but the rougher the going, the louder my voice got. My customers paid me to deliver the best, to make sure every detail was seen to, no matter how small, trivial, and inconsequential. Perfection was what I’d built my business, my reputation, on and I liked to deliver. Molding chaos into birthdays, parties, and weddings to remember gave me a sense of accomplishment, satisfaction, and pride.
 

I pointed to a table where the cakes sat—five of them, courtesy of Bryn’s Bakery. Four chocolate layer cakes, and one monstrous, red, liplike behemoth with seven butter cream-filled layers. I thought the giant lips looked a little garish and creepy, but that wouldn’t stop Bigtime’s finest from digging into the cake—provided it made it outside on time.

“Abby?” Chloe’s voice crackled in my ear. “A few folks are leaving the auditorium, and Olivia and Paul have just started posing for the photos. Everyone should be headed your way in about ten minutes.”

“Thanks, Chloe.”

I turned back to Kyle, but he’d already moved to the other side of the kitchen, despite the fact that his chefs blocked the aisles. Kyle was stealthy. He always managed to slip out of reach whenever my back was turned. He has excellent survival instincts.

“I know, I know, get the cakes out pronto, or you’ll have my guts for garters,” Kyle said, still smiling. “Relax, Abby. You worry too much.”

I really must be tired, because I was getting a little too predictable. I’d have to come up with some new threats for Kyle Quicke.

#

Kyle and the waiters placed the cakes on the dining hall tables a scant twenty-seven seconds before people started filing inside. Everyone made a beeline for the desserts, just as I’d predicted. By the time Olivia and Paul arrived, the first round of food and drinks had been served, and guests had consumed three of the chocolate cakes.

Waiters brought in the chicken entrees, and everyone drifted away to their tables to eat. I stationed Chloe behind a column next to the stage so she could see to the needs of Olivia, Paul, and their family members, while I took up a position next to the kitchen to make sure the food and drinks kept coming.
 

Nothing much happened during dinner, and finally, Octavia got up to toast her sister and soon-to-be brother-in-law—and announce the merger of their companies.

“This is not only a joining together of two terrific people, but of two visionary businesses,” Octavia said.
 

A spotlight fell on Olivia and Paul. Maybe it was just the glare, but the two of them weren’t exactly smiling—more like cringing.

“With Oomph’s recent acquisition of Polish, we will continue to bring you not only the finest makeup, but also the best lip-care products on the market,” Octavia continued.