Cinderella and the Cyanide Read online

  Would he get the message in time? She had a bad feeling about it. If he had his phone on him, he would have answered it when she called.

  Maybe he was separated from it.

  Maybe... he was already dead.

  The thought shook her to the core.

  I have to get into that party, she thought.

  I have to save him.

  I have to save the guy who could be crowned Prince of The Palace.

  11

  “Gretta,” Cinda said, as soon as she reached her stepsister on the phone. “I have a favor to ask you.”

  “Why would I do a favor for you?” Gretta scoffed. “Oh! They have little tiny crepes with some kind of cheese oozing out the sides on the appetizer table.... Lucas, grab one of those for me!”

  “Just hear me out,” Cinda said. “I need you to meet me at the ballroom entrance, and give me your entry ticket so that I can use it instead of you.”

  “You must be out of your mind,” Gretta said. “You really think—”

  “Yes, I do,” said Cinda. “I think you’re going to want to hand over your ticket, because if you don’t, I’m going to tell your mother that you’re the one stealing her cash.” She closed her eyes and crossed her fingers. Please let that be true, she thought.

  It was something that Lucas had said, after lunch, that tipped her off. He’d called Gretta out for carrying cash, which apparently she usually didn’t do. Cinda remembered Lonnie mentioning that she’d fired a worker named Jess the week before for stealing two hundred-dollar bills.

  Cinda heard Gretta gasp.

  Yes! thought Cinda. A beat of silence followed. Then Gretta said, “I’ll meet you at the ballroom entrance. When?”

  “Twenty minutes,” said Cinda.

  “I hope you know you’re not going to be admitted if you’re wearing your ratty old cleaning clothes, even if you have my ticket,” Gretta said.

  “I’ll be fine,” Cinda said. “Just be there, okay?”

  She hung up and hurried to the lobby. Once there, she rushed right over to the hotel desk, where Marcus was standing, talking on the front desk phone. “Yes, absolutely, sir,” he said. “We’ll be happy to put a mini fridge in your suite. Just let me get into your reservation here on my computer...” he glanced at Cinda, raising his brows.

  “Marcus!” Cinda said in a hoarse whisper. “I need your help!”

  He held up a finger to indicate she’d have to wait.

  She shook her head. “No time!” she whispered. “I need one of those spare curtains... now!”

  She eyed his belt. “And your belt,” she added.

  Marcus spoke into the phone. “Sir, can you hold on one moment? I’ll be right back.”

  With that he jabbed his finger down on a button on the phone, and then laid the receiver down. “What has gotten into you, girlfriend?” he asked. Thankfully, he reached for the stack of curtains and pulled one off the top as he talked. “You are acting crazier than my boyfriend at a sidewalk sale!”

  “I’ll explain later,” Cinda said. “I promise. Please, can I borrow your belt, too?”

  Marcus raised a brow, and then gave a shrug. “It is a super stylish belt. I don’t blame you. But in all my years of working as a concierge I have never had to give up my freaking belt. And believe me, girl, this was not amongst the scenarios we acted out at orientation.”

  “Well, there’s a first time for everything,” Cinda said, as she thought about what she was about to attempt.

  Creating a dress out of a curtain in less than fifteen minutes—now that was definitely a first for her.

  “You got that right,” Marcus said, giving her a friendly wink as he handed over the belt. “You’d better get it back to me. It’s one of my favorites.”

  “I can see why,” Cinda said as she cradled the belt, along with the curtain, against her chest. She turned and started running, calling over her shoulder as she went, “I’ll get it back to you in a few hours!”

  When she reached her hotel room, she rummaged through her suitcase until she found her sewing kit. Then she laid the curtain fabric down on the bed and started cutting. There was no time to do anything fancy. Instead, she simply trimmed down the fabric and then stripped down and wrapped it around herself like a towel. When she knew just how tight it had to be in order to be able to stay up on her own, she marked the right spots with push pins from her kit. Then she carefully stepped out of the dress and began sewing.

  She was a fast sewer, thanks to years of doing it for fun, so soon she’d created a solid seam up the side of her new dress. Instead of sewing the top and bottom hemlines, too, she simply folded them over and used a bit of fabric tape to keep the edges from unfolding.

  Then she stripped down and stepped into the narrow tube she’d just created. The silver fabric had a slight stretch to it, which was helpful as she pulled the sewn dress up over her body. It fit snugly around her chest—tight enough that it wouldn’t fall down, at least. It also fit well around her hips and thighs. However, it looked boxy around her waist, where her figure slimmed down slightly. She fastened the shiny black belt around her waist and cinched its silver buckle in so that it gathered the fabric of the dress perfectly.

  “There!” she said, satisfied that she had created suitable getup for herself so that she would be able to gain admission to the party. She grabbed her black purse and stuffed her phone inside, along with her sewing kit in case her hasty sewing job didn’t hold up, and she needed to make repairs.

  Just as she was about to head out the door, she realized that the only shoes she had brought with her were sneakers.

  She hesitated, trying to think about what to do. Sneakers would stand out so much—they might attract the event staff’s attention, which could hold her back from being let in.

  “I’ll have to ask Gretta if I can wear her shoes,” she whispered to herself.

  Within a few minutes, she reached the double doors to the ballroom. Gretta was there, fidgeting with her phone and looking nervous. Cinda ran up to her and said breathlessly, “Ticket, please!” She held out her hand. “And I need to borrow your shoes, too!”

  Gretta looked appalled. “But these are brand new designer heels!” she protested.

  “How do you think Lonnie’s going to feel when she finds out you’ve been stealing from her?” Cinda asked.

  Gretta slipped off her shoes. At the same time, she pulled a white postcard-sized ticket from her clutch and handed it over to Cinda.

  Cinda stepped into the waiting heels. They were about three sizes too big, but they’d have to do. She didn’t have time to figure anything else out. A quick glance at the clock informed her that it was now 5:15.

  “Gotta run!” she said to Gretta, waving the ticket a few times. “Thanks for this!”

  She reached a short line that had formed in front of the two ticket checkers on either side of the ballroom’s double doors. The line moved quickly, and soon the gatekeepers threw open the double doors to her, and she stepped inside.

  Classical music filled her ears, and the smell of delicious foods wafted around her. A caterer swept by, carrying a tray of tiny pie-shaped hors d’oeuvres that Cinda longed to try. She resisted, and instead asked the caterer, “Do you happen to know where the contestants are? I have an important message for Pete.”

  Cinda was concerned that perhaps the staff would not be able to give her Pete’s whereabouts, but to her delight the caterer responded without a second thought. “Oh, sure! I just served a tray of hors d’oeuvres to him. He’s out in the garden, waiting for his grand entrance. If you go through those balcony doors, you’ll run right into him.” The caterer pointed to a set of french doors along one side wall of the ballroom.

  Cinda rushed off, calling a thank you to the caterer as she went.

  The too-big heels made it almost impossible to walk, let alone run, which was actually what she wanted to be doing. After a few frustrating moments of shuffling along, in an attempt to keep them on her feet, she simply kicked
them off.

  “Your shoes!” one of the guests said, as they tumbled to a rest under a table of champagne glasses.

  “Don't’ need ‘em!” Cinda called over her shoulder as she broke into a run.

  She burst through the balcony doors.

  There was Pete, about to sip from a short glass of water. It was just minutes before the winner was to be announced. Who had brought him that drink? Surely, Trixie was up to her tricks again.

  Cinda watched as Pete lifted the glass, and it inched closer, closer, closer to his lips.

  “Nooo!” Cinda shouted, as she ran at top speed towards him. He was slow to react. His lips touched the glass. She took a flying leap through the air and batted the glass out of his hand just before any liquid hit his tongue. Then she experienced a face-full of leafy foliage, as she landed in a thick bush just slightly behind Pete and to his left. At the same time, she heard a shattering sound of his glass breaking against the stone walkway.

  There were leaves in her mouth, in her eyes, and even one in her ear.

  Her bare knees were rubbing against something hard, and it took her a moment to figure out that it was the stone walkway that they were hitting. She’d landed sprawled out, half in the shrubbery and half out of it. She struggled, battling against the branches, but was finally able to back out of the bush, get to her knees, and then stand. She brushed a few twigs from her hair and looked at Pete.

  He looked startled.

  She didn’t blame him.

  He also looked very much alive, and that made her happy.

  “I saved you!” she said.

  “From what?” he asked.

  “From being poisoned!” she said.

  “What, by that mineral water?” Pete asked. He gestured to the shards of broken glass scattered across the walkway. “I’ve been drinking from that same glass for at least a half an hour and I feel absolutely fine.”

  “You—you what?” she said. “Trixie Trent gave it to you, right? She served it and probably even looked strangely pleased as you took the first sip.”

  “Trixie?” Pete said. “No—I poured this from a bottle of mineral water that I brought from my room. It was sealed up. I’ve been doing like you said, and being careful about what I eat and drink.”

  “Oh,” Cinda said. She knew how fast cyanide was supposed to work. If Trixie used the same heavy dosage that she’d used on the cider, surely Pete would be feeling the effects by now, had Trixie somehow managed to sneak poison into Pete’s glass.

  “You look fine,” she admitted. “I mean, not fine fine, like attractive fine, but healthy. You know. Not poisoned.”

  “I don’t feel poisoned,” he said, with a slight laugh. Then he looked her up and down. “You look like you’re wearing one of the hotel curtains. Is that right?”

  Cinda felt anger welling up inside of her, red hot like molten lava.

  She felt her expression harden.

  She wasn’t angry because Pete said she looked like she was wearing a curtain, because she knew that her make-shift dress was brilliantly done.

  Okay, maybe that was part of it.

  Because gosh darn it, she was a dress designer! If she wanted to turn a curtain into a dress, people better act surprised to find out the material’s origins. But no. Instead, he had to say, “You look like you’re wearing one of the hotel curtains.”

  She felt her cheeks start to burn.

  No. The majority of her anger was due to the fact that Pete had kissed her, despite the fact that he had a girlfriend.

  He’d toyed with her—led her on with those come-hither glances. He made me think that he liked me, she thought. How dare he?

  Slap! She reached out and slapped him right on the handsome cheek.

  His eyes flew open. “Ow!” he said, reaching up to grab his cheek, where a red palm-shaped mark was forming. “What was that for? I didn’t mean that as an insult—the dress is pretty. You look great. Did you make it yourself?”

  “That slap wasn’t about the dress,” she said.

  “It wasn’t? Then what was it about?”

  “You know,” she said.

  “No, I really don’t.”

  She shook her head, turned, and walked away.

  As she stepped back through the balcony doors, she replayed the previous few minutes in her mind. The way she flew through the air, knocked the drink from his hand, and landed in the bushes.

  How dare he just stand there! she thought angrily. He didn’t even help me up!

  Okay, maybe he was in shock because I launched myself at him... and it was probably unexpected.

  Embarrassing. That was what the whole thing was – extremely, completely, utterly embarrassing.

  She entered the music-filled ballroom, but in her mind, she was still out under the night sky with Pete—making a fool of herself.

  She stopped walking, covered her brow with her hand, and cringed as she closed her eyes. Yikes. That was really ridiculous of me, she thought. He’s fine. He’s clearly not being poisoned. I didn’t save him. Instead, I just acted like an idiot.

  Then a thought struck her: No—I’m not an idiot—he’s the idiot!

  The jerk had the nerve to kiss me, even though he’s in a relationship with Chanel.

  Pete’s shocked expression, from just moments earlier, came to mind; he seemed so genuinely confused.

  She opened her eyes and turned to glower at the balcony doors. They were shut, and the bright reflections of the busy ballroom only allowed for a faint hint of the dark star-filled, Pete-occupied gardens outside.

  How can he not get it? Cinda thought angrily, as she drilled the French doors with her penetrating glare. How can he not understand that what he did was wrong?

  She marched toward the doors.

  I’m going to tell him.

  With her mind already on the speech she planned to deliver to Two-timing Pete, she flung the doors open and hurried out into the night air.

  She looked for the target of her frustration, but Pete was nowhere to be seen.

  She stepped farther into the night and hugged her arms around her to ward off the slight chill. “Pete?” she called out. “Are you still out here...?” She peered around a bush. No Pete.

  But she had the distinct, strange sense that he could hear her, though she couldn’t see him, so she kept on talking. “I have something I need to get off of my chest. You hurt me, you know that?”

  She followed the walkway as it led out into the inky blackness. “You can’t just go around kissing girls like it means nothing. As much as I hate to admit it, I haven’t kissed a guy in years. Sad, I know. But that kiss meant something to me, and it hurt me to—” She rounded a corner and stopped short as her eyes landed on Pete’s face.

  He wasn’t alone.

  Trixie was standing right next to him, and she had a gun in her gloved hand. The gun was aimed at Pete’s head.

  12

  “Cinda!” Pete said at the sight of her. “Help!”

  Cinda was too shocked to speak. She felt her body trembling involuntarily as she tried to process what she was seeing.

  “Woah...” she whispered.

  “Miss Rella,” Trixie said in a steely, cold tone. “Good evening. Have you lost your way to the cleaning closet?” She wore a black sleeveless dress that had a bright yellow collar. Her silver bob was pinned back, and yellow statement earrings dangled from her lobes.

  Cinda didn’t speak. She couldn’t. The gun was just about three inches from Pete’s temple.

  “Oh, no, silly me,” Trixie said, all the while keeping the gun steady in her hand. “You’re here to see this young man, aren’t you. What a pathetic story... not being kissed in years.” she laughed and shook her head.

  “I don’t think it’s pathetic,” Pete said. He locked eyes with Cinda. “That kiss meant something to me, too,” he said.

  “No, it didn’t,” Cinda said. “You’re with Chanel. You can’t be dating one woman, and share a kiss with another that means something, un
less you’re a cheat.”

  “I’m not a cheat,” Pete said. “And I’m not dating Chanel.”

  Trixie spoke up, “Enough chit-chat.” She wiggled her gun. “The press will have plenty of time to tease out the details of your relationship with Chanel, Pete. That was the whole point. Scandal. Intrigue. Enough drama to keep them occupied for years to come—and all the while, The Palace will rise up in public awareness, until we’re a household name.”

  “Is that why you were so insistent about me spending time with Chanel?” Pete asked. “I thought it was strange how you kept getting us tickets and dinner reservations together.”

  Trixie laughed. “That’s my job!” she said gleefully.

  “I never even liked Chanel,” Pete said to Trixie. Then he looked to Cinda as he added, “There was just no chemistry.” Cinda felt the meaning of his words course through her like warm honey: he’s telling me that there’s chemistry between us, she thought. That kiss—maybe it was as life altering for him as it was for me.

  There was a click as Trixie cocked the trigger of her gun. “Enough of this,” she said. “The press will be here any minute now. Possibly just a few at first, but more will arrive soon—once they hear that America’s first royalty-to-be has turned on one another —one killing the other just before the crown is to be bequeathed.”

  “You’re going to frame Chanel?” Cinda asked, horrified.

  Trixie grinned, apparently proud of her genius scheme. “Exactly,” she said. “What better way to create a media frenzy?”

  Cinda could see that Trixie liked talking about her scheme. I have to keep her talking, she thought, as she eyed Trixie’s finger, which was twitching against the trigger, ready to pull it at any second.

  “How?” Cinda asked.

  “Easy,” Trixie said. “More of her ridiculous stationary. Who writes notes these days anyways? Why not just send a text?”

  “That’s exactly what I thought!” Cinda said.

  “Me, too!” Pete said.

  Trixie went on. “It’s very distinctive. I stole a few pages—easy to do when you have access to all of the hotel rooms.”