Vicki Pettersson - The Touch of Twilight

But it was Father Michael’s earnestness that had me taking halting breaths, as if I was running, not driving. I swallowed hard as I swung into valet, and pushed the fear away. “It won’t happen. It can’t.”

But anything could happen when a life was rear-ended by someone bent on destruction. An image of Laura Crucier attached to so many machines that she looked like a science experiment assailed me. I swallowed hard, guilt like granite in my throat.

I was slipping from the car when the valet attendant scurried to my side. I flashed him a distracted glance, but he didn’t offer me a ticket and a spot up front. Instead he shifted on his feet. “I’m sorry, miss, but employees have to park in the back lot.”

I tilted my head, which made the attendant swallow hard and lose eye contact. So that’s how Xavier was going to play it, I thought, offering the poor messenger a reassuring smile. “Okay, so where’s the back lot?”

Ten minutes later, after a long hike in impractical shoes, I entered Valhalla via the back of the house and took the service elevators up to the casino, then the private elevator to the executive offices. From there, the hits kept on coming.

“I’m going to work where?” I asked Xavier’s secretary, who was waiting for me after her shift and was none too pleased about it. Glancing at her Chopard watch, she pushed back her shoulder-length pageboy and rose to straighten her papers. The activity didn’t hide her smile.

“Gift shop,” she said slyly, motioning to a white-collared shirt and baby blue polyester slacks. “There’s your uniform.”

I laughed, sobering only when she threw a name tag with the Valhalla logo on top of the pile. A security guard entered the smoked-glass doors of the executive office, and she motioned him forward, summarily handing me off. Without farewell, or even a backward glance, she sailed from the office, obviously pleased to be rid of this pesky duty, probably assuming I wouldn’t even make it one entire shift. I glanced back down at the uniform, thinking the message from Xavier couldn’t be any clearer: there would be no free rides at Valhalla. Not even for the boss’s daughter.

I excused myself and escaped to the ladies’ room while the guard waited. One look at my sister’s bunny body in the shapeless uniform and I laughed out loud again. I doubted she’d ever even worn polyester before, and wondered briefly if I’d break out in hives.

“Cher would be appalled,” I murmured, and set to pulling my glossy mane back into a low bun, and lightening the color of my lipstick. I still looked like I should be walking the red carpet, though the name tag would’ve set me on the sidelines. The guard raised a brow when I returned, clearly surprised I was going through with this, but said nothing as he led me from the executive tower, down to the main casino floor, and into the corner gift shop. Looking around, I had to sigh. The place was more spacious than any art gallery this side of the Mississippi.

Within thirty seconds the store manager, Ginny-whose name should have been Attitude-halted in front of me with a dour expression and a readied lecture about being late and how all Valhalla employees were held to a higher standard than blah-ditty-blah-ditty-blah…I mentally tuned her out, philosophically deciding to make the best of it. Sure, I’d thought I’d be given some high-level position in the company. But my intentions in seeking employment were dishonorable, so it was hard to complain about this turn of events. At least I was in.

I’d make this work, and not just for the troop. I’d do it to spite Xavier and his lack of faith in my sister; I’d do it to annoy, and perhaps surprise, the woman across from me until she looked at me with something other than dismissive resignation. And even if that never happened, I’d let it go, accepting her prejudice as her shortfall and not my own.

But mostly I’d do it to vindicate Olivia. Sure, she was dead, beyond caring and probably having a pearly white cocktail at a pearly white party beyond the pearly white gates. But I still cared about her; she was alive in my mind. Fighting for her kept the past from being so bitterly final.

So I followed Janet, the sales clerk Ginny had ordered to show me around, and revved myself up to learn about the fascinating world of stocking baseball caps.

“Don’t mind her,” Janet said as we left Ginny and her grim disapproval behind. “She’s been fixated on you ever since the article came out in Desert magazine.”

The one detailing the perks and privileges of Las Vegas’s glitterati. It was the last interview Olivia had given before she died.

“The columnist called me ‘socially promiscuous,’” I said, baffled why a bad interview would interest, much less antagonize, anyone.

“Yeah, and she wishes she was getting some,” Janet said, smirking as she began our tour of the storefront. Janet was a typical college kid with straight brown hair and the freshman ten. There was a hint of the right coast in her voice, buried beneath a sorority smile, and I felt myself nodding hypnotically as she droned on about layout, merchandising, and the importance of product location, all the while aware of Ginny’s hard stare burning through my neck. I placed my hand there, making sure the obnoxious cocktail ring was in plain view as I pretended to rub my neck. Olivia had mentioned the ring in the Desert article. Let that fuel Ginny’s raging schadenfreude, I thought, turning my attention back to the crowded mishmash of collectibles.

Just in case giving your money away to the casino didn’t do it for you, I thought wryly, you could always throw it away. The shop was a monument to the unnecessary: T-shirts, stuffed bears, perfumes- What did a Viking smell like, anyway? -shot glasses, key chains, used dice and cards, snow globes, and a wall cooler filled with vodka…all stamped with the Valhalla logo. Xavier should’ve just lifted a leg to mark the place, and been done with it.

I let myself smile at that, but it fell when I spotted the two security guards canvassing the shop from outside the glass wall. Clearing my throat, I looked away.

“Is security always so vigilant about watching the gift shop?” I asked Janet as we headed to the back.

“They’re probably checking out the new merch,” she answered pointedly, causing me to blush while she shot the guards a cheery finger wave. I kept my eyes averted, relaxing only after we’d disappeared into the storage room, and away from Hunter’s frown. “Or at least Kevin is. Even you wouldn’t have a shot with the big one. He doesn’t date Valhalla employees. Come on, we’ll start over here.”

With no way to immediately steer the conversation back to Hunter and his dating proclivities, I let Janet lead me through a maze of cardboard boxes.

“This is our stock area. Basically we’re supposed to unpack, sticker, and shelve all items back here until they can be moved out front.”

“Exciting,” I deadpanned. I was surrounded by towering shelves of crap.

Janet smiled in understanding. “Everyone starts out in here. It’s not all bad, though there is a solitary confinement feel to it. But it gives you a chance to know the inventory, the pricing-and believe me, you’ll know it down to the last cent-before you get onto the floor. Besides, you can listen to some tunes if the radio is getting reception.” She hit an old boom box on its side, and the tinny voice of early Madonna piped out at me, overlaid with static.

Screw Olivia. I was out of here.

“Here’s where we stash our purses and totes.” Janet opened a closet doubling as cleaning supply storage, and cleared some space on the floor with her foot. “You’re supposed to have a clear plastic purse so security can see we’re not stealing anything from the hotel. The Balenciaga will have to go.”