Isaac came to stand in the doorway between the front of the shop and his workroom. “It’s ready for the final fitting. And just in time, from what I hear. Come to the back and I’ll finish it up. You’re wearing your holster?”
I shook my head. “No. The police kept my gun as evidence.”
“You’re not unarmed?” He gave me a stern look.
“I have a Glock in an ankle holster, and I’m wearing my knives.”
“Good. But that doesn’t help us with the fitting. Gilda…”
“I’ll take care of it, dear.” She scurried off to the weapons department with Dawna following in her wake. I followed Isaac into the workroom.
The outer shop is bright, open, and designed to catch the eye of the customers. Every article is lit and displayed to its best advantage. Isaac’s workroom is a much more personal space. There is a silver casting circle eight feet in diameter in the center of the room. Inside it are three platforms of various heights that always remind me of the medal stands at the Olympics, but which actually perform a much more prosaic function. Having the client stand on the low dais puts most of them at the perfect height for Isaac to hem and tailor a jacket. The “second place” dais is great for hemming skirts. The highest one is just right for hemming the legs of trousers and tailoring them to fit perfectly to disguise an ankle holster. I remember how excited Isaac was when he had them built. No more crawling around while he performed both mundane tailoring and complex spell work.
Along the walls, outside the circle, are cube-style shelves in unfinished oak that contain books in multiple languages, various spell components, and sewing equipment. In one corner, an old wooden roll-top desk sits next to a beautiful old sewing machine. A high-definition television hung from a mounting attached to the ceiling that could be rotated to face anywhere in the room; it is primarily used to keep clients from getting bored during long fittings.
At the moment it displayed a talk show. I recognized the guest—one of Adriana’s bridesmaids, the lovely Princess Olga. I’d never seen the hosts before. Not a surprise really, since they were speaking Ruslandic.
“I really wish I was better at languages,” I complained as, at Isaac’s gesture, I climbed onto the appropriate platform.
“Ruslandic is not one of mine, but Gilda is fluent. She prefers to watch in the original language when she can, as translations are so often bungled.” He held up a needle and pointed it up at me. “Did you know that American English has the most words of any language in the world? And yet, they never seem to be able to adequately translate a word that has only four or five meanings in a foreign language.”
Gilda was fluent in Ruslandic. Really. How … awesomely useful. Oh, the wheels in my mind were free-spinning. “Isaac, do you carry audio equipment for surveillance?”
I looked hot. Men stared and women glared as I followed the maître d’ through the trendiest of trendy L.A. restaurants to the private dining room where I’d be meeting the princesses. I wore a tight, bloodred dress with a sweetheart neckline. The hem came to my knees and there was a little slit so that I could walk. Three-inch heels in black matched the jacket I wore and the purse I carried. They also matched my shoulder holster as well as the hilts of my knives and my gun. But nobody would see those. Actually I thought the handbag kind of ruined the look, but I’d had to pick one large enough to hold a netbook.
I made up for the bag with my jewelry. It was perfect—understated and elegant. Each of the individual pieces was spelled: the bracelet was also a microphone so that Gilda could hear everything that went on. I just had to be careful not to bump things as I ate. My earrings were speakers so that she could translate the Ruslandic for me. The gear had set me back a fair amount of money, but, by God, tonight I’d know what Olga and Natasha were saying and whether or not I needed to be worried about them.
I felt like a spy in a 007 movie. I even had my very own thug. Agent Baker was on her way back from Serenity, so my secret service escort tonight was Agent William Griffiths. He was a big, imposing redhead, and looked almost as good in his suit as I did in my dress. I’d take him to a premiere anytime.
He didn’t bother checking the room. It had already been done. Instead, he waited until I was seated at the elegantly appointed table before going to stand discreetly by the door.
I’m a casual-dining kind of a gal. I like old-fashioned diners and places like La Cocina, which might be described as dives—if you didn’t mind risking your health saying it in front of the owners. But I’ve been to high-end restaurants on dates, and heaven knows the amount of time I’d stood where Griffiths was now, on the edges, making sure the beautiful people stayed that way. I know what to do with all the various pieces of silver and crystal, and I can even manage my skirt when the maître d’ pushes in my chair without looking awkward. But I still, secretly, feel more than a little out of place when I eat in places like this. Everything was so perfect: candlelight, fine linen, watered silk wallpaper. I felt a little like a kid playing dress up.
Olga and Natasha, however, were born to this sort of thing. They strolled in together. Olga’s head was held high, her posture almost angry, demanding attention. Natasha, on the other hand, looked pensive. Her whole body language was off. She didn’t seem afraid as much as worried and distracted. They were an odd pair. Not friends. No, I decided, they were more like acquaintances, thrown together by chance. But that wouldn’t keep them from teaming up on someone if they felt it was to their advantage. I’d seen that already.
I started with small talk, in English, while the staff filled our water glasses and set out fresh-baked bread that smelled like heaven on a plate. “How did the interviews go this afternoon?”
Natasha opened her mouth to answer, but Olga talked over her. “It is boring. Always the same questions. Very … what is the word? Tedious.”
Bullshit. I’d seen most of Olga’s interview while I was being fitted for my jacket and this dress. She’d loved every minute of the attention. With Gilda translating, I’d been able to watch and listen as she ever-so-carefully tried to make Adriana look bad. Olga never said anything directly insulting—she was far more subtle than that. But she managed to shade her answers in such a way that the public—particularly the Ruslandic people—would be watching my cousin very warily.
Natasha hadn’t been much better. She’d expressed wide-eyed concern over attending the bachelorette party I would be throwing for my cousin. She’d heard scandalous things about such affairs. It was a perfect ploy, playing to the religious and conservative elements. Never mind that I hadn’t scheduled any such party. Now I had to either give one or figure out a good reason not to—or the press would report that we’d caved to conservative pressure.
Dawna suggested that she might be sincere since, after all, a bachelorette party is a pretty standard custom. I didn’t buy it. I’d been shopping with Natasha. Either she’d been doing a fine job of acting when she picked out the racy bridesmaid’s dress, or she was lying now. I was betting the latter.
They were making trouble. But it wasn’t the deadly kind. Just pettiness. I would’ve thought it was the result of the siren effect if I didn’t know for a fact they both wore an anti-siren charm. Maybe it was just bitchiness, or regular old jealousy. Whatever the reason, the result was the same. If there was any time in the schedule where it could be shoehorned in, I was going to be throwing a party. There’d be live tweeting by a planted reporter. And I was going to make damned sure it was sedate and boring enough that nobody could accuse anyone of misbehaving. If there wasn’t, well, we’d just find another form of damage control.