Operation Trojan Horsepower, as Maya had dramatically dubbed my infiltration plan (claiming “Operation Sneaky Preservationist” lacked pizzazz), felt significantly less clever and considerably more insane as I stood sweating slightly in the overly warm service corridor behind the Oakhaven Valley Inn’s main kitchen.
The borrowed catering uniform – black slacks a size too big, secured with a safety pin at the waistband, and a starchy white shirt that smelled faintly of bleach and desperation – felt less like a disguise and more like a neon sign flashing ‘IMPOSTER! PROBABLY HERE TO STEAL THE FANCY MINI QUICHES!’
My hair was scraped back in a severe bun that I hoped screamed ‘efficient underpaid hospitality worker’ rather than ‘slightly unhinged architectural historian attempting espionage.’ A strategically smudged bit of charcoal pencil near my temple was meant to simulate… I don’t know, frantic kitchen labor? Mostly, I just looked like I’d accidentally head-butted a barbecue grill.
Maya had, against her better judgment (and numerous frantic warnings about jail time and public disgrace), procured the uniform via a friend-of-a-friend who occasionally worked banquets at the Inn. The crucial piece, however, was the floor plan I’d studied obsessively. The River Room, where Damon Cole was currently schmoozing Oakhaven’s elite, backed onto this service hallway. And according to the slightly blurry architectural drawing I’d found online, there was an alcove. A recessed space, originally designed perhaps for storing extra chairs or bussing stations, located near the room’s main entrance but technically outside it, shielded by a decorative screen or, failing that, potentially just the general chaos of arrival and departure. If I could just slip into that alcove unnoticed…
The corridor buzzed with activity. Real catering staff bustled past, carrying trays laden with precisely arranged asparagus spears and glistening shrimp cocktail. The air hummed with the clatter of dishes, muffled kitchen shouts, and the low thrum of bass from some discreetly placed sound system filtering through the walls. Every footstep behind me sent a jolt of panic through my system. Every clipped instruction from a supervisor made me want to flatten myself against the wall and pretend to be a particularly stressed-out coat rack.
Okay, Vance. Deep breaths. Remember why you’re doing this. Damon Cole. Smug, dismissive, planning to gut the Oakhaven Theatre while feeding palatable lies to the people who could stop him. You need to know what those lies are. You need ammunition. You need… okay, maybe you just really, really need to prove him wrong about underestimating you. Ego is a surprisingly effective motivator, second only perhaps to righteous fury and the desire to wipe the smug look off an infuriatingly handsome face.
Peeking around the corner, I could see the entrance to the River Room. Polished double doors, flanked by potted ferns the size of small Yetis. Guests were still arriving, mingling just inside, their cheerful chatter a low murmur. A crisp-suited woman with a clipboard and an earpiece stood guard, checking names. No way through the front.
But the alcove… yes, there it was. Just past the main doors, a shadowed indentation in the wall, partially obscured by one of the aforementioned Yetis in a pot. It was deeper than I’d hoped, maybe four feet deep and three feet wide. Currently empty. Perfect.
Now came the tricky part. Timing. I needed a moment of distraction, a lull in the corridor traffic, a brief window to slip from the relative anonymity of the service hallway into that hiding spot without anyone noticing the random, slightly-too-tense catering person melting into the shadows.
My heart hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs. This was certifiably insane. If caught, I’d be lucky to escape with just being thrown out. Trespassing, misrepresentation… Cole could press charges. My already shaky attempt at rebuilding a quiet life in Oakhaven would implode spectacularly. I could picture the headline in the Gazette: ‘Disgraced Historian Arrested After Crashing Private Event in Ill-Fitting Uniform; Claims She Was ‘Just Admiring the Cornice Work’.’
Then, a minor miracle. A server carrying a precariously stacked tray of champagne flutes stumbled slightly, sending a cascade of clinking glass towards the floor near the River Room entrance. Not a crash, but enough of a clatter and a flurry of tutting colleagues rushing to assist to draw eyes and create a pocket of chaos.
It was now or never.
Heart in my throat, I moved. Fast, head down, trying to project an air of purpose, as if heading towards some urgent, invisible catering-related task. I slipped past the preoccupied group near the entrance, sidestepped a rolling cart piled high with dirty dishes, and then, with a final, desperate surge of adrenaline, practically dove behind the giant fern and flattened myself into the blessed shadows of the alcove.
Safe. For now.
My back pressed against the cool, slightly textured wallpaper. The fern’s broad leaves provided surprisingly effective cover, smelling vaguely of leaf shine spray and neglect. I held my breath, listening intently. The brief commotion outside subsided. Footsteps passed my hiding spot – guests entering the room, staff bustling by – none seemed to notice the human-shaped lump trying to merge with the wall behind the foliage.