Basil Instinct by Shelley Costa Page B

that we were already hoping to avoid by stashing poor Georgia for the time being. For now, I had no proof and no time, but plenty of conviction that the wall defilers were none other than Mitchell and Slash. Who didn’t know I had seen them.
    Ah.
    A grim smile played about my lips.
    This . . . this was a job for the fictitious Don Lolo Dinardo. And it could wait until later.
    Right then, though, once I was back inside the kitchen, I called Adrian the bouncer at Jolly’s Pub across the square, who owed me for a few free meals I’d given him. He was quickly enlisted to spray over the graffiti with as good a match to the brick as he could find at the local hardware store and to do it pronto. By me, Adrian and I were now square. Then I dropped the paint cans into a gallon-size ziplock bag and stashed it on the low shelf on Landon’sprep table, just in case they’d yield some incriminating fingerprints later. Lastly: I’d talk to Choo Choo at the first opportunity about how—oh, yes, how—he could make good on his colossally stupid idea about teaching cooking to CRIBS kids.
    Then I glanced at my watch and let out a little yelp. Were we really just three hours away from the arrival of the blue-haired psycho sorority? I threw myself into the prep work with manic glee, just to forget the billboard-size sketch of myself on the side of our restaurant left for all of Quaker Hills to see. And, with my luck, call me up.
    In the couple of times I came up for air, I was vaguely aware of a babbling flow of humanity, whose questions I just waved away or ignored altogether. We were already up to our elbows in scallop batter and scaloppine, yelling across the kitchen to one another for time checks. But when Maria Pia paused in the creation of delectable chaos long enough to go back to the office with Paulette and try on the official Belfiere gown—“Not that it isn’t perfect,” murmured the confident Paulette—Landon and I paused, shot each other a wide-eyed look, and saw our opportunity. I cleaned off my hands with a dish towel so fast you’d swear I was wrestling a wildcat, then tossed the rag to Landon. Our pants got the rest of the stuff off our hands as we scampered off to the storeroom.
    Looking around furtively as though we were busting into Tiffany’s, we slunk into the lighted room, where I had a quick, bad moment trying to remember whether we had forgotten to turn off the light. We leaned breathlessly against the back of the door.
    “I can’t wait for this day to be over,” I whispered.
    Landon suddenly said something useful. “I parked in the alley at the back of the courtyard.”
    Bingo. We had a destination for Georgia.
    “But we have to get rid of Choo Choo,” I hissed.
    Landon looked at me anxiously. “You do mean just get him out of the kitchen, don’t you?”
    My mouth hung open. “Of course that’s what I—”
    “I can’t help myself, all right?” His words tumbled over each other. “Somehow I’ve got to make risotto and granita in three hours, okay? I didn’t even shave this morning.” He clawed his cheeks. “And I’m not sure I fed Vaughn.”
    So my cousin was definitely off his game.
    “Listen,” I said, my brain in overdrive, like I was telling my unit just how we were going to take out the enemy machine-gun nest. “I’ll get Choo Choo out of the way, and then we get Georgia’s arms over our shoulders so she looks like she’s drunk—”
    “In case we run into anybody.”
    The reality of that possibility made my heartpound. How on earth were we ever going to pull this off? “Then we make a dash with poor Georgia out the back door—”
    “To my car.”
    “Exactly. On three. One, two—”
    “Three, already, three!” Landon couldn’t take the suspense.
    I stuck my head out of the storeroom and peered around until I caught a glimpse of Choo Choo. “Hey, Chooch,” I called, “you better make sure the Closed for Private Party sign is up on the front door, okay?” When we