Read Online The Readaholics and the Gothic Gala by Laura Disilverio - Free Book Online Page A

everything okay?” Cosmo Zeller came with her, dressed as a generic Victorian or Edwardian gentleman, complete with cane and pocket watch.
    Eloise, taking advantage of our distraction, swung her purse with her free arm. It clonked Mary on the knee and Eloise tore herself free. Instead of running, she dug in her purse, pulled out a jar filled with red fluid, tore off the lid, and flung the contents at Mary. The red gook spattered everyone within a ten-foot radius, and Eloise took off as we all instinctively recoiled. Hiking up her nun’s habit, she displayed neon-colored running shoes and surprising speed as she dashed toward the main doors. She dug out another jar and pitched its contents to her left and right, spattering partygoers with the fake blood.
    There were gasps of outrage and disgust as peoplebacked away. I heard a muttered “Gross,” and a wailed “My dress!”
    â€œCatch that nun,” someone shouted.
    A couple of people half turned as Eloise brushed past them, and one man reached out his arm as if to grab her, but she eeled away and was out the door in a flash. Fog swirled behind her. No one gave chase. Mary was exclaiming over the ruin of her nightgown, Hart was calmly summoning uniformed officers, and I was digging in my utility belt pocket for the foil packets with the stain-removing wipes I always carried (along with bobby pins, safety pins, tape, needle and thread, pen, tissues, and various other emergency supplies that come in handy when a bridesmaid tears her dress, the birthday boy spills punch on his shirt, or a keynote speaker shoots buttons across the room because the last time he wore his tux shirt, he was seventy pounds lighter—true story). I handed most of the wipes to Mary, who took them with a muttered word of thanks and hurried toward a bathroom, followed by Lucas. I used a tissue to sponge at a streak of red infiltrating my cleavage. It smelled sweet. It wouldn’t surprise me if the goo was Karo syrup mixed with red food coloring. I gave thanks that my costume was black and hoped it wouldn’t stain. Noticing a sprinkling of red on Hart’s forehead, I reached up to blot it.
    â€œThanks,” he said. “I’ll be back in a minute—I need to meet the officers outside. Can you hold down the fort in here?”
    â€œSure. The excitement’s over.”
    I gently herded the guests who showed a tendencyto gawk back toward the ballroom, murmuring about food and drinks and a door prize drawing. Brooke swished along beside me, and Lola started to come, too, but then said, “Drat, I’ve lost my stake.” She rattled the empty sheath.
    â€œDon’t worry about it,” Brooke said. “It’ll turn up.”
    Ignoring her, Lola pushed her glasses up, dislodging her eye patch, and said, “It must have fallen out on the stairs. I’ll catch up with you.”
    The party got louder over the next half hour and had just begun to simmer down as a few people drifted out, when Wallace Pinnecoose appeared beside me. Half a foot taller than me, he was a solid man in his sixties, with bronze skin, iron gray hair slicked back from his brow, and a stiff posture that showed off his black suit and crisp white shirt. He could have walked into any British period piece and assumed the role of butler with no rehearsal, or onto the set of a Western and acted the part of a warring chief. Those two roles should have been mutually exclusive, but somehow they both fit Wallace. He waited while I finished a conversation, and then said in a low, measured voice, “Amy-Faye, we’ve got a problem.”
    I stiffened. I’d never heard Wallace use the word “problem” before. He referred to “situations” (a thieving bartender) or “incidents” (a bridesmaid and a groom found naked on Wallace’s desk during a reception) or “occurrences” (a three-alarm fire in the kitchen) and dealt with them with