Virtual Virgin

Chapter Thirty-five




“GODFREY,” I SAID.

He stood at my Enchanted Cottage front door, as formal as usual in white tie and black morning coat, but held a most unusual silver salver in one hand. His pencil-thin mustache took a stern downward turn.

I wasn’t dressed for company, wearing my Betty Boop sleep shirt and a bedhead.

“Miss Delilah, a personal invitation for you was delivered to the main house. I saw early this morning that your Miss Dolly was parked aslant in the driveway and her normally shiny black coat was dulled with dust. I took the liberty of assigning an individual named Woodrow, who was idling about the area, to have her seen to.”

“Oh, you didn’t, Godfrey.”

“I just told you I did.”

“Woodrow is a yard troll. If it’s green and growing, or, uh, brown and dirty and in need of picking up, he will do that, the brown part very reluctantly. Dust in any form is not on his duty roster.”

“Apparently he found some unemployed pixies to handle the chore. Miss Dolly is her usual self again. I’m afraid I can’t say the same about you.”

I’d slept about sixteen hours and stumbled down to the kitchen for a hearty breakfast of sliders and McDonald’s fries from the kitchen witch. Apparently she was annoyed with me as well. Quick and I were about to make short work of the fast food when the doorbell had rung.

I gazed again at the salver. At least somebody wasn’t. A large square envelope was centered exactly on its center, held in place by a slender Mexican quartz letter opener.

“You say that’s for me?”

“If you are Miss Delilah Street and not some unkempt pretender.”

“Can it, Godfrey. I’ve had a rough road trip to Mexico and back.”

With that I snatched the letter opener and pushed it through the heavy rag paper so hard I got a jagged edge instead of a neat slit.

I pulled out an embossed card on pristine white stock and read the wedding invitation script very slowly, because it was so ornate it was almost unreadable.

Christophe invites you to be his special guest

at a private party at 8:00 p.m. tonight

for the unveiling of a dazzling new Las Vegas landmark.

The Penthouse, Inferno Hotel and Casino on the Strip

Black Tie



“Nerve incarnate,” I complained. “Not even an RSVP, as if he was certain I’d come running. Who delivered this?”

“A most unique individual from a messenger service.”

I believed I’d received something from just such a messenger once before, the silver familiar.

I looked at my wrist, which was . . . watchless. Godfrey lifted his left arm, shook down his formal white cuff, and offered his round-dialed wristwatch for my perusal.

“Four fifteen? Must be p.m.,” I mumbled.

A nearby whimper made me wake up even more to spot Quicksilver beside me, presenting Godfrey with a furry and furrowed brow.

“Master Quicksilver, good afternoon,” Godfrey said. “Thank you for the heads-up. Miss Delilah, you’re exhausted. Why didn’t you say so? Do sit down. There’s a clever little bench just inside the door.”

I took his advice, surprised that my knees were a bit wobbly. No food in sixteen hours will do that to my metabolism. For some reason Godfrey was reluctant to cross my threshold. I didn’t know if it was because a proper butler would never do that, or because, as a CinSim, he wasn’t chipped to roam that far.

“May I see?” Godfrey extended a hand. It did not cross the threshold.

I handed the card over it.

“I see,” he murmured after a couple moments. “Rather formal for a piece of public relations ballyhoo. Are you going?”

“Of course not.” I pushed a hand through my hair. Hornet’s nests would be more manageable. “It’s unspeakably rude.”

“Certainly on inexcusably short notice.”

“As I said, rude.”

“Inarguably.”

“And I could never get ready that fast.”

“The last straw.”

“That’s right, Godfrey. The cardinal sin against Miss Manners. How could I possibly attend a formal affair tonight? Last night I slept in a sleeping bag on the floor of a fleabag motel in the murder capital of the world. The night before that I was up to my knees in rattlesnakes and lizards and tarantulas, big ones, Godfrey, running behind an army of desert dust devils and—”

“Please.” Godfrey’s palms were raised. “No more sordid confessions of the great outdoors. I am an urban animal, Miss Delilah. However, if your emergency is of a social nature, I’m your man. I’ll return to the main house to organize the troops and arrange for a car to pick you up at seven thirty.”

“Dolly’s all bathed and polished, you said—”

“A lady does not drive herself.”

He was gone before I could set him straight on that. My head was whirling. Food. That’s right. I sleepwalked through the front parlor, past the high-tech office/home theater to the kitchen.

Where Quicksilver was wolfing down the last of the sliders and fries.

“Quick!”

The microwave tinged. A heavenly scent of beef bourguignon filled the air. I got it. The fast food had gone cold. I took out a savory, steaming dish and headed, salivating, for the kitchen table.

A martini in a chilled glass sat beside my empty place with the sterling silver tableware.

Apparently the kitchen witch had undergone a change of menu.

My cell phone rang. I couldn’t remember where I’d left it, but Quick dashed out of the room and returned with it in his mouth, smiling around the case.

“Uh, thanks.” I eyed the screen. Ric? Ric!

“I just got this crazy-assed invitation,” he began.

“Me too. Who brought yours?”

“I’m going to sound like I’m hallucinating. A little green man.”

“Did he wear silver sandals and have hairy hammertoes?”

“I don’t check out feet and shoes first, Del. He was some kind of benign troll with rubbery green skin, in matching lederhosen.”

“That’s Mercury Express, Homegrown Delivery Service. A lot of the Strip joints use them around town.” And one in particular from my previous experience.

“You mean enterprises on the Strip.”

“That’s what I said. I’m still tired as hell, but I’m also as curious as hell.”

“You game? I haven’t gotten my tux out in year.”

“You own a tux?”

“Yeah. Business reasons.”

“I love men in tuxes.”

“Down, chica. I am not the Godfrey type. No little bow ties playing peekaboo under my five-o-clock shadow. It’s more actors at the Oscars style. Regular tie, a little black satin here and there.”

“Like your sheets. Yum. Oh, and don’t shave off all that bandito beard-growth you cultivated in Mexico.”

“So you’re into black satin and beard burns, huh?”

“No comment. It’s just . . . we deserve to put on the Ritz. Celebrate being alive. Find out what Snow’s up to. This sounds like a mega-event.”

“Like the Oscars. We haven’t had a real night out for a while. You deserve to dazzle the Strip, amor.

“Anyway, my Godfrey is sending a car for us.”

“So the night’s on Nightwine and Christophe. Sweet. Bring on the spice.”

I put down the phone and dug into dinner. It was delicious. I could hear the spa bubbling upstairs and took my martini glass with me. When I walked into the bedroom, my ruby red slippers from Emerald City Hotel and Casino in Wichita were sitting under the wall-mounted clothes rack, from which hung the scarlet silk velvet Nora Charles gown that was a prize of the city’s estate sales, like Dolly.

I dropped off Betty Boop on my bedroom floor on my way to the bathroom.


IF YOU’VE EVER seen the Disney Cinderella—and what girl child hasn’t, even me in a group home—that’s how everything went. I bubbled, I showered and washed my hair, I blow-dried it, I put on party makeup . . . for me just eye shadow and lip gloss and . . . dazzle dust here and there, but I didn’t do it.

Maybe invisible little birds did it with their tiny beaks and tiny wings, maybe bluebirds that fly over the rainbow, but the blow-dryer magically put every hair in its fluffiest, shiniest place. The lip gloss wand rolled into my hand in a prechosen color. Ravaging Red, I saw when I looked. The clear mascara skated onto my naturally black eyelashes and shaped my eyebrows as if they’d been plucked by Kevyn Aucoin to look just like Elizabeth Taylor in her prime. It was a reality TV fantasy.

The red sequined slippers fit perfectly, and I even got a matching Snow White headband with the stubby little bow at the top. Cutesy, but so classic. And on my dresser top, another estate-sale prize, the familiar going red carpet as a small rhinestone-covered nineteen-thirties bag just the right size for my cell phone, credit card, driver’s license, lip gloss, and forty bucks to see me through any transportation emergency if my date acted up. As I hoped he would.

I checked my gown out in the mirror, red, yes, with full sweeping sleeves and long, rhinestoned cuffs at the wrist. No watch. A high-collared neck and long, trumpet skirt. Discreet slits from shoulder to cuff and nape to waist, but otherwise as modest as a nun’s habit.

What was this? Maybe Group Home Girl finally free of her past and slaloming Olympic-style headfirst into her future. Heigh-ho the evil demon is dead. Ric is free and I am home free.

I tripped down the stairs (you can do that only in Disney movies) and ran to the front door, where a man in a chauffeur’s cap waited like Godfrey.

The Lincoln Town Car also awaited, the discreet celebrity choice. Godfrey would never endorse the ostentation of a limo.

Ric was waiting inside.

“Hombre,” I said, “you rock me,” as I sank into the backseat and his arms.

And we were off to see the wizard and his mysterious unveiling. Maybe he’d even reveal just what kind of supernatural he was.