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“What?”
“Augusta,” Peabody repeated in Eve’s ear, nodding toward the whip-thin woman and her furballs. “This year’s primo model. God, I’d kill to have legs like that. And that’s Bee-Sting over there. Lead singer for Crash and Burn. And, oh jeez, just coming off the elevator, left bank, is Mont Tyler. Screen Queen Magazine voted him sexiest man of the decade. It sure is fun working with you, Dallas.”
“If you’ve finished gawking, Peabody.”
“If we have time, I could gawk a little longer.” And her head did swivel, seesawing back and forth, up and down as she followed Eve across the lobby.
Eve was doing some scanning herself. She measured distances to exits, to elevator banks. She spotted two of the undercovers pulling bell staff duty. She rechecked security cam positions. She looked for holes.
And as she climbed the three flights to the ballroom level, she checked out every floor between.
Security, human and droid, were on duty, flanking the entrances to the Magda Lane Display, discreetly rounding the perimeter. People queued up, wandered through to sigh and gasp over sparkling gowns, glittering jewels, the photographs, the holo-prints, the small mementos, and grand costumes.
Each display or bank of displays was ringed inside red velvet rope. That was for show. The sensor shields ringing those same displays were invisible.
Those were for security.
Auction catalogues, disc or commemorative hard copy, were on sale to those who wanted to shell out over twelve hundred dollars.
A sampling of the catalogue could be accessed on-screen in hotel guest rooms at no charge.
“They’re shoes,” Eve finally said, pausing by a pair of silver pumps. “Somebody else’s shoes. You want to wear somebody else’s shoes, you go to a recycle mart.”
“But, sir, it’s like buying magic.”
“It’s like buying somebody else’s shoes,” Eve corrected, and satisfied for the moment, started out.
Magda, and her entourage, stepped off the elevator.
“Eve. I’m so glad I’ve run into you.” Magda hurried forward, both hands outstretched. Her waterfall of hair was scooped up at the neck. And her eyes were tired. “My son.”
“Yes, I know. I’m sorry he’s ill. How’s he doing?”
“They tell me he’ll be fine. Some silly reaction. But they’re keeping him sedated and quarantined. I can’t even let him know I’m there.”
“Now, Magda, of course he knows.” Mince patted her arm, but his gaze skipped uneasily to Eve’s. “Magda’s worrying herself sick over that boy,” he said. And his eyes said clearly: Make it stop.
“He’s being well taken care of.” Eve gave Magda’s hands a reassuring squeeze.
“Well, I hope . . . In any case, I’m told you were there with him when he became ill.”
“Yeah, that’s right. I’d dropped by to see him to go over some of the security
details.”
“He was fine when I left.” Liza gave Eve a piercing look. “Just fine.”
“He certainly seemed to be. So, he didn’t complain earlier about being a little queasy, dizzy?”
Back to you, sweetheart, Eve thought.
“No, he was fine.”
“He probably didn’t want to worry you. He mentioned he’d been feeling a little off. But that was after he started to look pale and clammy and I asked him if he was okay. He got shaky fast after that, said he was sorry, but he needed to lie down. My aide suggested we call the house doctor.”
“Yes, sir,” Peabody confirmed. “I didn’t like his color.”
“He didn’t want the fuss. I was about to send Peabody to get him some water, when he started to seize. We called for medical assistance. There was a rash spreading just under the neck of his sweater. They clicked on allergic reaction right off.”
