Nightingale Read Free

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