Cinderella and the Cyanide

by Amorette Anderson

  “So you took her stationary, and then used it to write a note to Evian. You knew it would be easy to convince Evian and Serena to drug Pete with sleeping pills, but you provided them with cyanide instead. They had no idea, did they?”

  Trixie laughed. “Those two are not the sharpest tools in the shed. So desperate to win, too! I knew that getting Serena involved in the scandal was a must. She has a sweet girl-next-door face that’s made for the camera screen. The public just loves scandal when it involves someone so innocent looking.”

  She paused, which made Cinda nervous. Quickly, Cinda piped up with another question. “How do you know the media will swarm?” she asked. Instead of listening for an answer, she searched her mind for some way that she could get the gun from Trixie’s hand before Trixie had a chance to pull the trigger.

  All she had with her was her purse.

  Inside the purse, she had a water bottle, her phone, and her sewing kit.

  The sewing kit! What was inside of it?

  Needles—not useful.

  Pins. Thread. A measuring tape. None of it useful.

  Scissors.

  Scissors...

  Trixie was still talking. “... in PR for twenty years now, and this is my last chance to prove myself,” she said. “Mr. Weston told me that if I didn’t get adequate media coverage for us within the first few weeks, he’d fire me and hire someone else—someone capable of getting The Palace’s name emblazoned on the front pages of newspapers worldwide.”

  Cinda could see that Trixie was getting worked up. She was so focused on her tale of woe and victimization that she was barely paying attention to Cinda now.

  Cinda knew that she had to keep this going. “I bet he’d hire some young new upstart, who hasn’t nearly the experience you have,” she said.

  Her remark added fuel to the fire. Cinda slowly, carefully, reached into her handbag and felt around for her sewing shears while Trixie immersed herself in a rant.

  “Exactly,” Trixie said. “A young new upstart—probably one with a college degree from some fancy university. What good is that? Yes, she might know in theory how to handle public relations for a large company like this hotel chain, but book knowledge is useless.”

  Cinda gripped the scissors and eyed the distance between her and Trixie.

  Trixie, unaware of Cinda’s tensed muscles and calculating gaze, continued. “You have to be willing to do what it takes to just get the job done. Like me—I’ve never been afraid to take massive action in order to achieve my goal.”

  Pete, unlike Trixie, was very aware of Cinda’s movements. He watched her carefully, and for a brief moment, Cinda caught his eye.

  He’s not with Chanel, Cinda thought happily.

  He likes me.

  That kiss did mean something to him.

  In one fluid motion, Cinda yanked the scissors from her purse and threw them so that they went whirling through the air, aimed right at Trixie.

  They struck her, tip first, in the bare shoulder.

  “Ow!” Trixie shouted, flinching and lowering her arms just slightly.

  It was all Pete needed. He jerked his elbow back, knocking Trixie violently in the upper abdomen. She squeezed the trigger of her gun just before it flew out of her hand and clattered to the ground.

  At the sound of the gunshot, Cinda instinctively dropped to the ground and squeezed her eyes shut.

  The earth was cool.

  Dirt pressed against her cheek.

  Had Pete knocked the gun away in time? Trixie’d squeezed the trigger, and a bullet had definitely been fired. But where did it go?

  Was Pete hurt?

  Would she ever get to enjoy the feel of his lips on hers again?

  She heard a faint cry, but she was too terrified to open her eyes. Her heart was hammering in her chest. For a crazy instant, she wondered if she’d been shot. She scanned her body, and didn’t feel any pain.

  Her heart wouldn’t stop thumping and jumping around as if it might bound right out of her chest.

  She’d never in her life experienced this much adrenaline coursing through her. She felt as if her whole body was seizing up.

  She heard a woman scream.

  Finally, she opened her eyes.

  Dirt.

  She saw dirt.

  She turned her head, and through a few blades of grass, she saw Pete, wrestling Trixie to the ground.

  There was blood on his white button up shirt.

  She heard the sound of people pouring out of the ballroom behind her.

  “What happened?”

  “Is everyone alright?”

  “We heard a gunshot!”

  “It’s Pete! Prince Pete!”

  Cinda began to sit up. Pete, who now had Trixie pinned to the ground, spoke quickly. “Cinda—are you okay? That bullet didn’t hit you, did it?”

  “No!” she said. “Are you hit?”

  He shook his head.

  “There’s blood all over you!” Cinda said, horrified.

  He glanced down at his shirt. “That’s just from the cut on her shoulder. Those scissors left a mark. You have a good throwing arm.”

  “I don’t know about that,” she said. She managed to sit up all the way. Security guards rushed past her.

  Cinda called out to them. “Trixie had a gun! She was going to shoot Pete!”

  “It’s true,” Pete said.

  “Oh, blast it,” Trixie said, from her position on the ground.

  Two burly security guards took over for Pete, pinning Trixie to the ground. Cinda heard sirens in the distance. The police must be on the way, she realized. A couple more security guards swarmed the scene. One restrained Trixie’s wrists in handcuffs, and the other secured her handgun.

  At the same time, Pete was getting to his feet. He looked slightly dazed.

  “Pete!” someone shouted from the crowd behind them. “We have you on Channel 5 news. Tell us what happened!”

  Cinda turned, and saw that the crowd of people now gathered around included about two dozen members of the press, wielding flashing cameras, video equipment, and microphones.

  “Who’s the girl?” another reporter called out.

  Pete ignored the questions. Instead, he walked slowly over to Cinda. He knelt down.

  She sat up straighter, and tried to catch her breath and calm her heart as she looked into his eyes.

  It was impossible.

  Once he was eye level with her, his face just a few inches from hers, he said softly and gently. “Cinda, are you sure you’re okay?”

  He spoke as if they were the only two out in the garden—or perhaps even the world.

  He spoke as if only she mattered.

  She swallowed, and looked deep into his eyes.

  They were kind eyes—deep pools of black, surrounded by dark forest green and lighter hazel flecks.

  She could smell him—incense, sage, shampoo.

  His breathing was quick, like hers, but growing steadier by the minute.

  The more she focused on him, the more her surroundings faded.

  The flashing lights—gone.

  The shouts from reporters—faded into nothing.

  The sirens, loud for a moment—then only faint background tones. Almost like music—the soundtrack to the story she was living in that moment.

  The story of Pete. He was all she was aware of.

  “I think so,” she whispered. “Are you?”

  He nodded. “You saved me. She was about to shoot me, you know.”

  “I know,” she said. “And to think—I was coming out here to yell at you.”

  “Why?” he asked. “You said you thought I was with Chanel... Is that right?”

  Cinda nodded. “You’re not?”

  “No,” Pete said. “And I was only with her a few months back because Trixie kept setting us up on dates. I see now that it was all part of her plan. She was putting on a show for the media, and Chanel and I had parts to play. She kept encouraging Chanel to try to get back with me, and arr
anging for the two of us to meet up. But I never had feelings for Chanel. Not like—not like I have...” He paused.

  She swallowed again, and waited.

  As she waited, she searched his eyes. Then he spoke. “...for you,” he said.

  “How can you have feelings for me?” Cinda asked. “You barely know me. We just met.”

  “I want to change that,” Pete said. “I want to get to know you—if you’ll let me.”

  She felt the corners of her mouth raise up. “Yes,” she said. “I’d like that.”

  He leaned in, closer, edging out the dark star-studded sky beyond him. He was so close that she could feel his breath on her lips. She closed her eyes, and then sensed the warmth of his lips on hers. Not only that, but there was the feeling again—the feeling she’d first felt in his hotel room, only it was stronger now, and clearer. The feeling of alignment. It was like her life made sense—like all the moments of struggle she’d endured had been perfectly leading up to this one exact moment with Pete, in The Palace’s gardens.

  Her job with the real estate pages made sense; if not for her career and her impending article about the new hotel, she would not have been at The Palace that weekend. Her relationships to Lonnie, Gretta, and Lucas made sense. All three of them had a part in leading her into Pete’s arms.

  Even her lack of love in the past was useful; it made Pete’s affection taste sweeter on her tongue.

  Their kiss ended, and the world seemed to rush back in.

  Applause.

  Lots of it.

  A female reporter called out, “Yes? Did she just say yes? Did he propose to her?”

  “No, I didn’t hear a proposal,” another said. “But I could barely hear anything. I wish they’d speak up!”

  Pete smiled, and held Cinda’s gaze with his as he sat back and then offered her a hand. She accepted it, and the applause grew as he hoisted her up.

  Once on her feet, Pete pulled her closer and kissed her again. The sound of applause rained through the air, sprinkling down over them like confetti.

  This time when they parted, a figure emerged from the crowd. It was an old man, dressed in a dapper tuxedo.

  “Mr. Weston,” Pete said, nodding at the man. “Good evening, sir. It’s been a while.”

  “Yes, yes it has,” Mr. Weston said. “Trixie Trent advised me to keep a low profile and let the three contestants enjoy the limelight. I see now the degree of limelight she actually planned to focus on the three of you. I’m sorry.”

  “It would have worked!” Trixie shouted, as one of the policemen who had just arrived on scene dragged her away, kicking and screaming. “It would have been the intrigue of the century—mark my words! We would have had full two-hour prime time specials all about the mysterious murders at The Palace Hotel!” Her voice faded as she was dragged around the corner and out of sight.

  “I’m sorry,” Mr. Weston said, looking at Pete. “All of this in the name of generating press coverage... What a shame. I should have known she was too passionate about her work. I apologize from the bottom of my heart.” He extended his hand to Pete.

  Pete grasped it, and pulled Mr. Weston in for a hug. Cameras flashed.

  Once free from Pete’s embrace, Mr. Weston approached Cinda. “And you—the heroine of the evening... How can I ever thank you for being so courageous this evening? My security team informed me that you were the one to apprehend Mrs. Trent.”

  Cinda shook Mr. Weston’s hand. “I’m just glad Pete is okay,” she said. “And that Trixie won’t be causing any more harm.”

  “No more harm, indeed,” Mr. Weston said. “Poor Helena. I plan on making a significant donation to charity in her name.”

  He then turned to address the crowd. “Thank you all for being here tonight. I am so very sorry that this evening devolved into such chaos. I offer my deepest apologies.”

  Press members pointed mics in Mr. Weston’s direction.

  He continued. “I am sure the police will need to question all of us about the events of the evening. Before that occurs, I would like to just take a few moments to announce the winner of the brand ambassador position—after all, that is why we’re all gathered here tonight, is it not?”

  There was a murmur of agreement from the crowd.

  Mr. Weston turned to a nearby police officer. “Is it alright, officer?” he asked.

  The policeman nodded. “I’m team Chanel,” he admitted.

  “Team Serena!” someone else called out.

  “Pete! Pete! Pete!” A pulsing chant rose up from the crowd.

  Mr. Weston hushed them with a wave of his hand. “Who has the envelope?” he asked.

  “Ooh! Ooh! I do!” Marcus stepped forward, waving a sealed white envelope. Mr. Weston accepted it, and then held it up in the air. “I have here the tallied votes for our brand ambassador!” he called out.

  He opened the envelope.

  Cinda held her breath as he pulled out a small slip of white paper.

  Pete squeezed her shoulder. She leaned against him but could not tear her eyes from Mr. Weston.

  He read the paper silently, and then looked up at the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, I am very proud to announce that the person who will represent The Palace is from this day onward is... Prince Pete! Congratulations, young man!”

  Pete swept Cinda up in a hug. He lifted her off of the ground and spun around with her in his arms. “I got it!” he shouted happily.

  “You’re the Prince!” she said, just as thrilled.

  He kissed her, and this time Cinda didn’t bother trying to figure out why she felt the way she felt. Instead, she just enjoyed the sensation of joy as it burst through her body—like fireworks.

  Epilogue

  “So, what’s it like living in a hotel?” Sara asked as she lowered herself into the hot tub next to Cinda.

  Cinda grinned. “Amazing,” she said honestly. “I feel like I’m living in a fairy tale. The doorman greets me by name, I’ve gotten to be good friends with the front desk supervisor, Marcus, and every evening before dinner, Pete and I swim laps in the pool.”

  She pointed to the pool across the way. “There are some extra perks, too. Since Pete is the Prince of this place, Mr. Weston covered the cost of our entire wedding.”

  “What a life,” Sara said. “Swimming laps with your hot model husband before he cooks you an all organic meal in your brand-new gourmet kitchen.... He’s still cooking a lot, isn’t he?”

  Cinda nodded and then moved her shoulders around. The hot water felt good on her neck and upper back, which were stiff thanks to the nearly constant sewing she’d been doing.

  Ever since her five minutes of fame, six months back, she’d been getting at least a dozen orders a day for “curtain dresses,” which were now her specialty.

  In fact, business was so good that she’d moved to part time at the newspaper. She hoped to one day work for herself on her dress business, but for right now, the combination of journalism and sewing was working out well.

  “He’s obsessed,” she said, in answer to Sara’s question. “He says that he’s going to write a cookbook one day, dedicated to his clients who are recovering from heart attacks.”

  “He is so thoughtful!” Sara exclaimed. “And creative. I just loved the menu he chose for your wedding. I swear, that was one of the best meals I’ve had in my life. It was like every bite was perfect.”

  “That’s my Pete,” Cinda said happily. “He’s pretty perfect.”

  “Isn’t it crazy that we ever thought he was in love with Chanel? The two are total opposites.”

  Cinda laughed. In the six months since the grand opening, she’d had a chance to get to know Chanel, who was so in love with The Palace Bar and Grille that she often came for lunch or dinner when she was in Dayton, and usually called up Pete and Cinda to see if they wanted to join her for a meal. Sometimes Serena, who had also become a good friend, joined them, too.

  “They are really different,” Cinda agreed with a chuckle. “Like oi
l and water.” She remembered listening to the conversation that Sara had recorded, once the craziness of the grand opening was over. It had basically been a long plea from Chanel to Pete. Chanel insisted that she and Pete would make a great couple, while Pete kindly but firmly disagreed.

  Sara spoke, pulling Cinda from her memory. “But you and Pete, on the other hand, are practically made for each other. You’re just so well suited as a couple.”

  “We are, aren’t we?” Cinda said dreamily. She stopped stretching her neck and shoulders, and let her head relax back against the edge of the hot tub. “Lonnie says we rushed into things, getting married and moving in together after only four months of dating, but I disagree. I knew I loved Pete the moment I saw him, and he says he felt the same way about me.”

  “You just had to save him from a psycho killer before actually admitting to your feelings,” Sara said with a laugh. “Hey, how is Lonnie doing these days, anyway? Are her and Gretta still fighting over the stolen cash drama?”

  Though Cinda had used the stolen cash as leverage, she did eventually tell her stepmother that it was Gretta, not Jess, who had taken cash out of her purse. Lonnie had promptly hired the woman Jess back onto the team, and had been in quite a spat with Gretta over the whole fiasco for a good long stretch of time.

  “I think they patched things up,” Cinda said. “But since I’m not working for her anymore—or ever again, for that matter—I don’t see her that often. But you know what? When we do see each other, we’re on better terms than ever. She’s not trying to take advantage of me anymore. I finally stood up to her, and I think she respected that.”

  “Good for you,” Sara said with a nod. “She probably also is impressed by your know-how as a businesswoman. You have one of the most popular online dress shops these days! Lonnie could learn a thing or two from you.”

  “I don’t think ‘stop a killer and make it onto the news with your product’ would really qualify as a smart marketing strategy,” Cinda said. “Though it worked wonders for me! You’re right... She never thought my dress shop would take off, so I think she is pretty impressed that I’ve made a name for myself. Did I tell you I’m going to expand, and start carrying accessories?”