The Frame-Up (The Golden Arrow #1)(88)
Not only my heart, but I execute a tiny shimmy of joy. I just cannot contain my excitement. “I, uh, just need to look inside and see if the cornice pieces are affected.” I have no idea what I’m talking about, but I’m a writer. Making up stuff is my job. I make up monsters daily; surely I can fool one measly guard. “It’s okay if the outer layer tears, but you don’t want the protective layer to be punctured; the integrity of the structural layer holding the cornice pieces has to stay intact.”
I’m positive he’s going to call my bluff. He’s most certainly the son of a professional painting framer. He probably knows what cornice pieces are, which I don’t. I hold my breath.
“Oh yeah, that sounds serious.”
“I’ll just take a few pictures, and then I’ll be on my way. We won’t need to fix it if the structural layer still protects the art.”
I use my pen to hold the torn piece away from the frame and snap a picture. There is something in there, but I don’t want to pull it out in front of Guard Guy. I squint harder. The corner of a black journal is barely distinguishable inside the tear. I squint harder, thinking I make out a second black corner . . . so, possibly two journals. Not only that, I catch the flash of something manila colored. Please, oh please, let that be Casey Senior’s evidence.
If it is, my plan will work. I texted Matteo yesterday and told him there is a journal in the memorabilia, possibly inside this picture, and that I am worried about it going to auction and will try to buy it. If he behaved as expected, he’d have told the whole team—most importantly Rideout—and the information would get to the White Rabbit. Hopefully the Golden Arrow too. All the players in this chess game would be present. All I have to do is sit back and see who’s intent on bidding for the painting that only a few select people know contains a journal. Brilliance, if I do say so myself.
“So is it bad?” The guard’s face hovers right next to mine now. I can’t let him see the journal.
“Nope. No. Not at all. Just a little tear. Nothing to worry about. This piece won’t need to be touched. Or fixed. By anyone. At all. I took a picture for insurance purposes, so we’re all good here.” I tap my phone importantly. The last thing I need is Andy coming in and fiddling with the frame. I nearly drag Guard Guy out of the room with me.
“Well?” Lawrence pounces on me the minute I wave at the guard and walk back toward the Genius booth.
“I found it.” I can hardly keep my voice steady. I manage to stop shaking long enough to pull up the picture on my phone and zoom in. It’s no work of art, but the picture does show the spines of the journals. Bazinga. “And I sure hope you’re going to buy me dinner because I’m going to have to spend a year’s salary to win it at auction. And now it’s time to focus on the fashion show because there’s nothing much more we can do until tomorrow.”
“What happens if you don’t win the journals?” Lawrence is frowning now.
“We have to win. That’s what Operation Janeway is all about. And if we don’t, well, I hope you like wearing orange.”
CHAPTER 25
The wheels of the suitcase I’m dragging protest against the concrete ramp outside the Hyatt hotel, just next door to the convention center. “What did you pack in here? Bricks?” The bag in question lurches side to side as we level off near the lobby, and I drop the second bag slung over my shoulder.
“That’s my makeup case, so be careful with it.”
“L, you packed an entire suitcase of makeup? I packed one bag total.” I open the door for L and hold it as he wheels in the rolling garment hanger we snagged from the valet.
“The next time you’re the star of a fashion show and responsible for the future of a talented designer, you can let me know how much makeup you pack.”
“L, we’re in a competition. There isn’t a ‘star.’”
“So you say. I look so delicious in this thing. Everyone else is just a side dish.” He eyes me over the oversize garment bag holding the wig. “But I promise to share the spotlight with you, sugar.”
I chortle as we walk down the deeply padded floral carpet, following the signs to the fashion show backstage. My stomach is a mess of knots, and not just because I’ll be racing to an auction after my show to apprehend a criminal. That should be enough, but I’ve spent months prepping for this, plus the cost of travel, and my future plans to go into business for myself hinge on today’s results. I’ll either leave with valuable feedback about areas I need to work on as a designer, or I could leave with the offer to help a well-known chain of stores develop a line of geek clothing for their customers. Either way, this contest is a launching point for MG version 3.0.
My fingers inch their way to my phone, and I find it in my hand, Matteo’s number pulled up. For the fifth time in the same number of minutes, I stick it back in my pocket. I want to know if he’s coming. I want to know if he’s mad I’m here and I’m pulling strings on the case. I want to know if the information has been leaked. I need to play this cool, but it’s damn hard.
“Come on, L.” I stop outside the backstage door and show my badge, my ID, and my pass for the fashion show. “Let’s go get you dressed.”
I survey L’s final touches on the drag makeup and breathe a huge sigh of relief and appreciation. Latifah Nile is a vision. Well, if Ursula the Sea Witch can be a vision instead of a nightmare.