Page 70 of Be Still My Unbeating Heart

“What else did Salvador tell you?” Whitby asked.

“Something about time running out and sickness. It didn’t make any sense.”

“If only we knew where the mayor lived,” Whitby said. “We could break in and snoop.”

Mention of the mayor dislodged something in Bastian’s memory.

“The gala,” he said, coming to a standstill. “She invited us to the gala at her house tonight. It’s probably already started.”

The cat growled deep in her throat. “Zappa and the Obliterati will be looking for you. We need to lay low.”

“Pish!” Bastian shook his head. “They won’t be looking for us at agala, love. We’d have to be mad to show ourselves in public at a time like this, which means it’s exactly what we have to do.”

Whitby’s nose wrinkled. “You really have lost your mind. If the gala is at the mayor’s house, we’ll never sneak in unnoticed.”

“Exactly the opposite. It’ll make it even easier for us to snoop if the place is packed full of people. And we already have an invitation. We’ll walk right in the front door. Besides, what other choice do we have?”

Whitby’s tail lashed and she seemed to be trying to conjure another argument against what was, admittedly, a foolhardy plan, but then her ears flattened and she shook her head. She looked him up and down.

“You can’t go to a gala looking like that.”

Bastian inspected his torn shirt, which Matteo’s gang had triedto rip from his back. The thought of being the shabbiest attendee irked him, but they had bigger problems to be getting on with.

“The mayor will just have to get over it,” he said, starting to walk back toward the town.

“The mayor invited you, a total stranger, to her party when her town is being assailed by a killer,” Whitby muttered as she followed. “You know what that says to me? It says trap.”

24

“Signor Emerson, you came!Benvenuto! Welcome!”

The mayor swept forward to kiss Bastian on both cheeks. They stood just inside a shimmering entrance hall furnished with antique Venetian mirrors and a giant chandelier dripping in quartz. They had followed the sound of the gala through the streets of Vernazza, and Bastian had been awestruck by the house they arrived at. It was asymmetrical, the smooth stucco powder blue, while burnished brass lanterns were dotted between the dozen or so windows, all of which had their shutters open to allow light to blaze out.

“You look ravishing, Mayor Moretti,” Bastian said, admiring her sequin-spangled white trouser suit. Her hair had been sculpted into a beehive and she wore a feathered mask over her eyes that sparkled with gemstones.

So it’s that kind of gala.

“Oh, this old thing?” The mayor touched her hair, posing like a catwalk model. Bastian noticed Whitby rolling her eyes as shescrutinized the mayor, not even attempting to hide her contempt. The cat’s gaze shifted to the doors at the far side of the hall. Beyond them, Bastian caught sight of guests in colorful gowns and suits milling about a large ballroom. He heard a piano and a violin, the murmur of voices, laughter, and the clinking of crystal. The gala was in full swing.

The mayor dropped her hand, growing serious. “I’m so glad you made it, Bastian. I was worried I offended you in my office with the”—her voice dropped to a whisper—“goblet of blood. I really hope you’ll accept my apologies if I caused any trouble.”

“No, no, darling,” Bastian said. “I’m positively mortified by my behavior. You caught me off guard and I could have handled it better. You are a most gracious host, and you have nothing but my utmost respect.”

He watched for her reaction, worrying he had overplayed it, but then the anxiety lifted from the mayor’s brow.

“Grazie mille, you are most kind. It’s an honor to have you in my home.”

“It’s some home.”

The mayor clapped her hands. “My husband will be here any moment; you simplymustmeet him.”

Bastian remembered the man from the picture in her office.

“That would be lovely. Although, I must apologize for my appearance. It’s been quite a day and I haven’t had an opportunity to change.”

“Not a problem,” the mayor said. “Filip will find a suit for you.”

She gestured at her secretary, who stood to one side. The man was almost orange with fake tan, and there was a lot of product in his red hair, which was styled in an ice-cream quiff. His upper lip bristled with a tidy mustache, and his startling green eyes held no shame as they passed up and down Bastian’s body.