Spike (5 page)

Biggs had been retouching the cake.

And from the looks of things, doing a crap job of it.

“Why is the icing smeared?” I demanded. The top and middle tiers looked uneven, as if the frosting had been massaged with significantly less skill than the original application.

I don’t like this. What’s he doing? T
he cake looks worse.

The boys tensed behind me.

Biggs must’ve sensed the change in atmosphere. He stepped backward, his left hand still tucked out of sight.

“What’s in the bowl?” Hi pointed at the cart. “Weird place for a finger bath.”

Biggs glared, then sniffed imperiously. “I don’t have time for this.”
He started to turn away. Found a hand on his shoulder, stopping him.

Ben winked at the chef. “Make time.”

Biggs shrugged Ben off with a sneer. But despite the bravado, dots of perspiration lined his brow. His left hand remained maddeningly out of view.

“This cake looked better before you messed with it.” Shelton spoke softly, as if making a casual observation. “You sure you were supposed to?”

I pointed to his closed fist. “What’s that note about? Why’d you ball it up?”

Biggs didn’t answer. I could sense his confidence leaching away, despite his size. The four of us had him surrounded, and it was making him uncomfortable. “I . . . I . . . uh . . . I have to prepare the cake for service now.” He made a shooing gesture with his fist. “You’d better run along now. Go on.”

No one moved.

“Okay, fine.” Biggs spun and dropped something into the bowl, then scooped it with one hand, shielding the rim so we couldn’t see inside. “Guests aren’t supposed to be back here. I’m going to get my boss.” He shouldered through our circle—and the kitchen door—before anyone had a chance to stop him.

We exchanged glances.

“That was interesting,” Hi said. “It’s like we caught him with his pants down.”

“Maybe we did.” Shelton was inspecting the cake. “Dude really jacked this frosting up. It’s not crazy noticeable, but he smashed some of the ridges when he smoothed the icing. Look at the bottom tier. See how it’s supposed to look?”

Hi licked his lips. “Still looks delicious. Maybe I should take a small taste, just to—”

“Don’t even think about it,” Ben warned. “Whitney would have a heart attack. Whatever that guy was doing, thankfully the damage isn’t too bad.”

True.

But something was definitely fishy.

Just then, three cooks bustled in from the ballroom, laughing and exchanging jokes. Seeing us around the cake, they smiled. “Soon!” promised a woman with twinkling brown eyes.

I barely heard, eyes glued to her uniform.

Specifically, to the royal blue piping on her pants, hat, and smock.

I scanned the other two cooks. They were dressed identically to the first woman.

Biggs wasn’t wearing the same uniform.

A cold feeling formed in the pit of my stomach. I spun.

She
lton, find that jerk
. See where he goes
and what he’s doing.

Shelton ran a hand across his face, but hurried out.
Can’t
even go to a freakin
g wedding . . .

Oblivious to my anxiety, the three caterers unlocked the cart’s wheels and began wheeling the cake toward the double doors. They hadn’t noticed the damage to the icing. As they disappeared into the ballroom, I felt a twinge of panic.

Hi, follow
the cake. Just . . 
. keep an eye on it.

That I can do
. Hi slipped through the doors behind them.

Ben and I were alone. He grabbed my hand, worry lines creasing his forehead.
What
is it?

I shook my head as a shiver swept through me.
I don’t
know
.

But my instincts screamed in warning.

A
pplause thundered inside the ballroom.

The wedding cake had arrived, and another speech was taking place.

I knew what came next. Cutting. Pictures. Whitney and Kit hand-feeding each other like dorks. Tiny plates being distributed amongst the guests.

I broke out in a cold sweat.

The bowl. The liquid. The brush. Smeared icing.

Biggs had done something terrible, I just knew it.

I l
et them wheel that s
ucker out of here, w
ithout saying a word
.

Should we stop it?
Ben asked. I must’ve inadvertently broadcast my thought.

I wavered, unable to decide. Was I being paranoid?

I didn’t
know
anything. Biggs had definitely messed with the cake, but what if he really
was
supposed to be there? It’s not like I had the freaking catering staff memorized. Maybe being a suspicious jerk just came naturally to him.

No. I trusted my gut. This felt all wrong.

I reached out with my thoughts.
Shelton, wh
ere did Biggs go?

His response was faint. We couldn’t see each other, and were almost out of communication range.
We’re
in the men’s room. I
found him inside, b
ut he didn’t notice
me. Right now he’s w
ashing the bejesus o
ut of that metal bow
l.

“Not good,” Ben grumbled, eavesdropping on our communications.

I wholeheartedly agreed.
Hi,
y
ou h
ave eyes on the cake
?

Affirmative
.
It’s
parked near the danc
e floor, but they ha
ven’t touched it yet
. Kit’s mother is bl
abbering about horse
shoes or something.
I think she’s drunk. Tempe’
s trying to pull her
aside. Oh man, the
cake looks delicious
.

Don’t let anyone ea
t a piece. Not yet.

Hiram’s reply was laced with annoyance.
How am I supposed to
do that?

Use your i
magination.

Shelton’s voice cut into our headspace.
Biggs tr
ashed the bowl, and
then flushed the not
e! That’s weird, rig
ht?

My stomach dropped. Worse and worse.
Don’t let him leave
the building!

What?
HOW?!?

Improvise!
I had no idea either.

“You think he’s trying to
poison
people?” Ben asked me in a sharp voice. It was almost jarring to hear words spoken out loud.

“I don’t know!” I was suddenly pacing. “Should we barge in there and stop the cake ceremony? We’ll look like lunatics. No one would understand, and I can’t prove anything!”

Ben winced. “Whitney might burst into flames.”

My eyes fell on the notepad lying on the carpet. I rushed forward and grabbed it.

“What’s that?” Ben said.

A blank sheet stared up at me. I flipped through the rest of the pages. More of the same.

“Nothing.” Then an idea struck me. “Unless . . .”

In the corner of the room was a small table with a desk lamp. I raced over and switched on the light. Held the notepad close to the bulb. Angled it slowly. “Ben, look!”

When tilted
just
so, I could see faint characters indented into the top sheet.

I stared at the marks until my eyes watered, but even with my enhanced vision I couldn’t make anything out. I handed the pad to Ben, but he had no better luck.

“Damn it!” Ben growled. “Whatever was written here, he really didn’t want us to see it.”

“But we can!” I blurted, eyes rounding. “I need a pencil!”

Ben gave me a puzzled look, but he’d learned when to hold his tongue. A quick survey of the staging room turned up nothing, so he ran into the kitchen. I heard drawers being yanked open, followed by a triumphant “Bingo!”

Ben raced back in with a weathered number two pencil covered in bite marks.

“Gross.” But I snatched it from him anyway. “It’s sharpened, at least.”

I placed the pencil tip flat against the top sheet of the notepad. Softly, carefully, I began sliding the graphite back and forth across the indentations on the page.

Ben scratched his temple. “Care to explain?”

“If I do this correctly,” I said, tongue wedged between my teeth, “the graphite will darken the paper
around
the indentations without reaching inside them, leaving the valleys white.”

He was already nodding. “Revealing on
this
sheet whatever’s been pressed into it by the handwriting on the page above.” Ben squeezed
my shoulder, sending a surge of warmth through my body. “Tory, that’s brilliant.”

“Hold the applause. We haven’t found anything yet.” But internally, I preened.

Shelton’s voice arrowed into my brain. Still faint, and panting like he’d run a marathon.
Okay. So. I ran two brooms
through the bathroo
m’s door handles and
 . . . and . . . wel
l . . . Biggs is cur
rently locked inside
there. He’s . . . h
e’s . . . uh . . . h
e’s pretty mad about
it. But the door se
ems to be holding up
.

Ben looked as shocked as I felt.
You imprisoned
him in the men’s roo
m?

YOU TOLD ME TO ST
OP HIM!
Shelton mind-shouted, his voice jagged as a live wire.
What was I suppos
ed to do, politely a
sk him to wait in th
e lobby!?!

No. Right
.
I tried to sound reassuring, though my arm hairs were standing on end.
Good jo
b.

Then to Ben:
Oh m
y God. If I’m wrong
about him, we’re in
serious trouble.

I h
eard that!
Shelton yelled.
I knew this w
as crazy! I’m now of
ficially a kidnapper
.

Speeches are done!
Hi sent from the ballroom.
Whitney is w
aving a giant knife.

“Crap.” I couldn’t rush my shading work without compromising the results.
I nee
d five more minutes,
Hi
.
Stall them.

You
’ve got sixty second
s
, he replied tersely.
Whitney’s jabberi
ng right now, but sh
e’ll be ready to sli
ce and dice at any m
oment. Hey, if every
one else takes a pie
ce, there’s no reaso
n why I can’t have o
ne, is there?

Ben slapped his forehead.
It might be poisoned
, you moron!

All lif
e is risk
.

I jumped as Shelton burst into the room. “Biggs is pounding the bathroom door!”

Ben covered his face. “He’s probably a bit upset. I’d be.”

Shelton’s hands flew up. “What were my other options!? Tackle him? Hogtie him in the handicapped stall? He washed the bowl, flushed the note, and was about to bail. There was nothing else I could do except just let him go!”

“Everyone zip it!” I finished the last pencil strokes and gently blew excess graphite from the page. Two cursive lines were now legible.

Two parts
per thousand into t
he icing

Ipecac comm
ercial syrup—1/14 ex
tract roots/rhizomes

“Oh mamma,” Shelton moaned. “There
is
something in the frosting!”

“But what?” Ben said. “Some kind of syrup? That doesn’t sound bad.”

Time’
s up!
Hi’s voice was as tense as barbed wire.
They’re cuttin
g the cake together.

My mind blanked. I stared at the notepad without any idea what to do next. The second line was a total mystery. What the heck was commercial syrup?

Whitney a
nd Kit
have the firs
t slice
, Hi reported.

“Ipecac commercial syrup,” I mumbled, thinking furiously. “Made from . . . plant roots?”

“I feel like I’ve heard of that before,” Shelton muttered.

My head whipped to him. “What? Which word?”

“Ipecac.” Then Shelton snapped his fingers, eyes rounding like dinner plates. “I remember now! My cousin Dudley! One time when we were kids, he drank a bunch of Windex on a dare. My grandmother found out, started screaming for that stuff. Ipecac. The word stuck with me. She had some in her medicine cabinet.”

I was practically bouncing up and down. “Why would Biggs put
medicine
in . . .”

My eyes popped as the answer hit me.
Ipecac.

Forks are
out!
Hi sent.
Repeat
: forks are out!
The
photographer is lin
ing up a picture!

I took a running step toward the double doors. Realized I’d never make it in time.

Hi, you have to sto
p them!
I sent urgently.

I think that sh
ip has sailed, Tor.

Do whatever it takes! The
frosting is spiked!

What am I supposed to do, freez
e time? I’m not an X
-Man!

HIRAM! This is
SERIOUS!
STOP THEM!

Raw panic from Hiram.
How the heck am I
—

JUST DO IT!

ALL RI
GHT ALREADY!

Adrenaline flooded the bond. Shelton, Ben, and I shuddered with the force of it.

Shelton reached for his earlobe. “What’s he doin—?”

Something crashed in the ballroom. Followed by screams.

A voice boomed through the double doors. “Somebody stop him! He’s crazy!”

“Ho boy,” Ben breathed.

Shelton winced. Removed his glasses.

I shook my head, bereft of speech.

As one, we barreled into the reception.