A Bead in the Hand (Glass Bead Mystery Series Book 2) (5 page)

Sure enough, the announcement came only minutes later. Ernie was at a microphone near the doors to the ballroom.

“Ladies and gentlemen. We are sorry to inform you that tonight’s sales event has been cancelled due to unforeseen technical difficulties,” Ernie said, trying to speak in his most authoritative voice, although he mostly sounded like he could use an inhaler.

Sal was fuming as he charged through the lobby, nearly flattening everyone in his path. He tried to grab the mic in Ernie’s hand, but he was too late.

“The show will resume tomorrow morning at ten. Thank you,” Ernie wheezed.

A loud groan passed through the crowd. Everyone was frustrated. I wasn’t sure who was more upset—the sellers who were going to lose money by not being able to sell during what were sure to be the busiest sale hours—or the buyers, many of whom had come from miles away to “shop ‘til they dropped.”

Sal was screaming at Ernie about why the hotel had shut down his bead bazaar. A crowd of disgruntled vendors circled Sal, wanting to know what he was going to do to satisfy them. A group of customers stood by, gawkers watching everyone yell at one another.

I went in search of Tessa and found her at the edge of the crowd.

“Jax! Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, I grabbed my beads,” I said, hoisting my stack of trays.

“Here, we can put them in my tote.” She’d been hoping to fill her canvas bag with beads that she bought, not my beads. But as long as they fixed this electrical problem tonight, she’d be able to score some fun jewelry components in the next few days.

“Let’s get out of here before things get ugly,” I said, as I grabbed Tessa’s tote and we headed toward the elevator.

FIVE

“WHAT DO YOU WANT
to do now?” I asked Tessa once we were back in our room.

“Nothing. I’m tired,” said Tessa, collapsing on the bed.

“And everything’s okay with Izzy and Ashley?”

“They’re sitting next to each other, texting back and forth. Craig said it’s much quieter at home.”

“I thought you said they couldn’t talk to each other.”

“I guess they decided there was a loophole—they couldn’t talk, but they could text,” Tessa said.

“Try and let Craig handle this, okay? This is your weekend to have fun. The show’s called ‘Bead Fun’ for a reason. Let’s go to the bar. I’ll buy you a drink.”

I was tired, but I knew where I wanted to be: in the bar—and not necessarily for the adult beverages. Although a drink would be nice, I wanted to be there to see my friends. One of the best things about bead bazaars was the chance to catch up with friends you only saw a few times a year.

“Come on, Tessa, it will perk us up,” I said again, trying to convince her that staying in the room wasn’t the best way to spend the evening.

“You go on without me. I’m going to take a shower, change my clothes, and then I’ll head down in a little bit.”

“Okay, but I better not come up here later and find you asleep in bed.”

I took the elevator—it was still mysteriously chilly—down to the not-very-creatively-named
Le Bar
. It was located on the mezzanine level so patrons could look over the balcony’s railing into the lobby below. The ballroom door was off to the side, locked up tight with a security guard in front of it.

In the bar, a large group sat around a low-slung mahogany cocktail table.

“Hi, everyone. Can I take this seat?” I asked, sliding into a chair next to The Twins. They seemed bubblier and less sullen than usual. Both were sipping matching nearly-neon lime green drinks.

“What have you got there?” I asked.

“Absinthe,” they replied in unison. Their small hands, each finger adorned with a silver and black ring, clasped the stems of their glasses.

“Wow. I’ve never tried that. Is it good?”

“It is an acquired taste,” they said, taking sips of the vile liquid and trying not to grimace. Clearly they had not yet learned to love it. “We understand what it’s like to be tortured artists. We must suffer.”

They were strange. I would never understand why they needed to be tortured artists. But I knew this: they would likely never change.

The waitress approached me. She set down a cardboard coaster and a new bowl of peanuts, and looked at me expectantly.

“You want what they’re having?” she asked, nodding toward The Twins. There was no way I was drinking absinthe tonight, or any other night.

“A margarita, on the rocks, salt.” It had been a day since I drank one with Val, and it was definitely time for another. The ones here at the hotel wouldn’t be as good as what Val could make, but any margarita was better than none at all. At least this one would have salt on the rim of the glass, which was a good thing, since I shouldn’t suck the salt off the peanuts in the bowl. There are some things I won’t do in public.

“Have you seen Saundra’s new book?” Minnie asked, sipping on her craft-brewed beer. Her hair was up in pigtails, and she was wearing boxy red glasses and a T-shirt with a cartoon of a baby fox on it—another hipster.

“We hate her,” said Sara and Lara in unison. They were never ones to beat around the bush.

“Actually,” Lara started, then Sara finished, “We hate everyone.” They spoke in that annoying way old married couples often do, although The Twins were neither married nor old. They looked at each other in agreement and clinked their tiny glasses of absinthe together. I was beginning to suspect it wasn’t their first.

“It’s just going to make her even more unbearable. If her head gets any bigger, it’s going to explode, and I’d love to be there to see that,” said Lara.

“I get to spend the whole weekend standing next to her, hearing about her latest triumphs,” I said, resisting the urge to bring up the altercation between us. Better to let that slide off my back.

“She’s got a new assistant. Have you guys met him?” Indigo asked. Since she never had much money, I was surprised to see her at the bar, until I noticed she was drinking water.

“I saw him. Pretty cute,” Minnie said, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. Miles was just her type, so geeky that he was cool. At least he thought he was.

A guy I hadn’t met before stopped by the bar. I’d seen him working at the table for Vandal Beads earlier. Vandal was well known for her graffiti-inspired glass beads covered with bright colors that looked like spray paint on a concrete wall. Vandal only sold her beads online, so it was a surprise to see she had a table at the show. All the images I’d seen online featured a young Asian woman in full punk gear—leather pants, motorcycle boots, a ripped T-shirt, and a spiked leather collar and bracelets—holding a can of spray paint.

“Hi, y’all here with the bead bazaar?” the man asked.

“We are! Nice to meet you. I’m Jax.” Everyone else waved and smiled. “I saw you working at Vandal’s booth today. Where is she?” I asked.

“Uh, look, I feel like I’m coming out of the closet by telling you this, but I’m Vandal,” he replied in a hushed tone. “My real name’s Vance.”

“What? No way,” I said. This guy looked like the Pillsbury Doughboy. No, make that the Doughboy’s awkward brother. Vance was six feet tall and nearly bald, with pale skin and freckles. He wore a Hawaiian shirt tucked into jeans, and a belt just a little too high across his belly. The only thing he had going for him was that he didn’t wear glasses. And at least he wasn’t a hipster.

“Yep. Sorry to disappoint you,” said Vance, his shoulders slumping, as he pulled his glasses out of his shirt pocket and put them on. Of course he wore glasses. Not only that, they were held together with duct tape.

“How did you get to be called Vandal? That’s a really edgy name,” said one of The Twins.

“I decided to call myself Vandal because it’s sort of a combo of the beginning of my first and last name—Vance Dalton. Get it: Van-dal,” Vance explained. “And the woman in the photos, that’s my wife Lin. She’s supposed to meet me at the bar.”

Just over Vance’s shoulder, I saw a petite Asian woman approaching. “That must be her,” I said.

Vance turned and waved her over.

Lin was pretty, but looked nothing like the photos. Instead of black boots with metal studs and skintight leather, she was wearing a pale pink blouse with a Peter Pan collar, khaki trousers, and sensible black Mary Jane shoes. The only hint she was participating in the bead bazaar was the necklace of black beads with bright spray-painted designs (clearly made by Vance) that she wore as a choker around her neck.

“Everyone, this is Lin,” Vance said, introducing his wife. She nodded and waved with only the tips of her fingers, standing close to Vance. “Lin, this is everyone.”

As we shuffled around to make room for the couple, I noticed Luke, a charming Australian jewelry designer, sitting at the bar. He looked like he was straight from the outback with his long oilskin drover coat. A Crocodile Dundee-style hat, which he wore when he wanted to have an over-the-top Aussie vibe, was hanging from a corner of his chair back. I gave him a wave, since he was sitting by himself, inviting him to join us.

Luke was notorious for what many of us called
doing the neck
of a potential customer. That is, as he put a necklace on a woman, he’d reach up and stand close behind her and ask her to raise her hair off her neck. He’d reach around the front and lay a necklace on her, and then close the clasp. Then he’d help her put her hair back in place, giving her a little neck rub, and turn her around to admire the necklace. It worked almost every time. That man sold a lot of necklaces.

Luke stumbled over to our table. He was drunk.

“How’re you mates doing?” Luke asked, trying to stand without swaying back and forth. He grabbed hold of the back of my chair to steady himself. “Hey, Jacquel—Jaz—”

“Jax,” I said, so I didn’t have to wait any longer for him to say my name.

“Hey, Jax. Hey, everyone else,” Luke said. He flashed Minnie a well-practiced smile. “Wha’s your name?”

“Minnie,” she said, blushing and taking a sip of her beer.

“You come by my booth tomorrow, I set choo up with a neck nicelace, I mean nice necklace. It’ll be perfect for you,” Luke said, slurring his words.

“Is my good buddy Luke causing problems?” Wendy asked, shaking her head and smiling as she sped toward us on her motorized scooter. “Okay, Luke, let’s call it a night.”

“But I’m having show mush fun, I mean so much fun. I’m staying,” Luke said.

“Come on, Luke. If you come with me now, I’ll let you ride on my scooter.”

“Deal,” Luke said, wandering off toward the elevators with Wendy, on her scooter, herding him from behind.

Around midnight, I decided it was time to go. I had a long weekend ahead of me, and I didn’t operate very well on no sleep. As I stood up, I looked over the mezzanine balcony and saw two guards standing at the door to the ballroom. One was the red-faced man I’d seen earlier checking badges. It must have been the end of a shift. At least they were keeping the place well-protected. The Twins stayed at the bar to have another round of absinthe. They’d had too much to drink and were trying to figure out how they could play beer pong without beer or ping-pong balls.

Back in our dimly-lit room, I noticed a lump in Tessa’s bed. As expected, she’d never made it down to the bar.

I was feeling tipsy from my margaritas. They weren’t as delicious as Val’s, but they were at least as powerful. I stripped off my pants and crawled into bed, leaving my T-shirt and panties on. I was too tired to find my PJs and didn’t want to rustle around too much and wake up Tessa. I had requested a 7:00 wake-up call, which was a disgustingly early hour.

When the alarm went off, I stumbled out of bed and into the shower with my eyes half-closed. Then I silently threw on some clothes. Tessa was sound asleep, the covers pulled up over her head. My friend could sleep in; she would still have plenty of time to shop for beady treasures.

SIX

I WANTED TO GET IN
to the ballroom early so I’d have time to adjust and clean up anything at my table that had been disturbed during last night’s blackout. There would be a giant crowd of shoppers at the doors when the bazaar opened, since no one had been able to shop for long last night. The people who weren’t able to complete their sales would be looking to pick up the purchases that had been left behind when the sale was shut down.

Downstairs, I bought an extra-large coffee in the lounge and a Snickers bar from the hotel’s gift shop. This was definitely not the breakfast of champions. At the ballroom entrance, there was a broad-shouldered security guard standing at the door. He was much more attractive than the ruddy-faced guard who had checked badges at the door last night. This guard was tall, with olive skin and close-cropped dark hair. He was tall, slender, and solid—like a tree. He stopped me as I tried to breeze past him.

“Sorry, ma’am,” he said, with a pleasant but firm smile. “Can’t let you in until eight.”

“Seriously? I’ve got a coffee in one hand, a canvas bag full of beads in another, and my show badge hanging around my neck. You know I’m supposed to be here.”

“Sorry, ma’am.”

As flirtatiously as possible, I touched the corner of his name tag, so I could pull it into view.

“Rrrryan,” I said, channeling my inner-Val, leaning in as provocatively as possible. “Are you sure you can’t help me?” I wasn’t adept at flirting, but Val had been giving me lessons. I was a poor student, especially when it came to my relationships with men.

“Sorry, I have strict instructions. I can’t let anyone in until 8:00 a.m. We’re trying to avoid any problems with theft.”

I pulled the Snickers bar out of my handbag, peeled back the wrapper, and started eating it. “Fine. I’ll just wait here and stare at you grumpily for ten minutes. And don’t call me ma’am.”

“Yes ma’—I mean, okay.”

A couple of excruciating minutes passed, and I realized this was probably harder for me than for him. So rather than stare at him in stony silence while chewing, I decided to strike up a conversation with him. It’s always nice to meet someone new, especially when he’s good-looking.

I wasn’t sure what my opening question should be. I certainly didn’t want to talk about the weather. Conversations about the weather here in the Pacific Northwest usually went like this: