A Billion Little Clues Read Online Free Page B

The man had kept up with it, and he now reached out and opened my door for me. I climbed out, making sure my clutch was under one arm, but wasn't quite sure what to do next. Was I supposed to tip the fellow? I hadn't come with a bunch of cash; I wasn't prepared for this at all. I definitely had some learning to do about how to act around the upper crust.
    The man hopped into my car as soon as I was out of the seat, and it went puttering away a minute later. I looked after it for a second, wondering whether he had been supposed to give me some sort of receipt or ticket. How would I get my car back? What if, even at this very moment, my poor little Camry was headed off to some nasty chop shop where it would be disassembled, shipped overseas, welded back together, and sold to foreigners as "quality secondhand, only one previous owner"?
    A moment later, however, another car came peeling into the driveway with a screech of tires and raising a small cloud of smoke, and my worry faded. I wasn't any sort of expert on cars, but I could definitely recognize the insignia of a Lamborghini. It looked exactly like a bull, with the word "Lamborghini" written right above it."
    The man in the Lamborghini didn't even look at the other red-jacketed man who hopped into the car. Instead, he immediately strode in towards the house, not even bothering to glance over one shoulder as his car vanished with another squeal of tires and puff of smoke.
    I was already starting to feel outclassed. Before any other million-dollar cars showed up, I decided to head in to the house.
    As it turned out, that wasn't the best choice for my ego.
    Before coming to this party, I had been picturing a rather upscale house party, maybe with some of those little plastic swords stuck into the cocktails. To me, getting a little plastic sword skewered through my martini olive was a sign that I was someplace classy. I also knew to look for other signs, like people actually ordering wine by type instead of just saying "white" or "red," and music playing in the background that hadn't been produced by some guy with a synthesizer in a garage somewhere.
    But this party was far beyond any of those signs. Heck, this wasn't even a party any more. This was a full-on soiree.
    The open front doors of the mansion led into a gigantic open area, a ceiling two stories above us and with twin staircases sweeping up to a second floor at the back. I felt like I had accidentally taken a wrong turn and wandered into some sort of royal palace. In the middle of the room, a massive fountain sent a jet of water nearly up to the ceiling.
    Stepping closer, I caught movement in the pond at the base of the fountain. It took me a moment before I realized what I was seeing, and my mouth fell open. There were flamingos, actual live flamingos, wandering around in the fountain's water!
    There was also music wafting in to my ears - live, performed music! I cast my eyes around the room and spotted four musicians sitting on a raised stage off to one side, each one holding a string instrument. They were rocking gently back and forth as they sent strains of soft, lilting orchestral music drifting through the air.
    "Excuse me, miss, may I bring you a drink?"
    I jumped at the sudden voice, which sounded as if it was about four inches from my left ear. When I turned, a waiter in a full-on tuxedo was standing beside me, a round silver tray balanced on one hand. "A drink, miss?" he repeated.
    Oh goodness. I had no idea what I was supposed to order. "A martini," I finally managed to get out. I didn't really drink martinis. I preferred drinks with lots of little pieces of fruit in them. But this sort of party seemed like the type of place to sip on a fancy drink like a martini.
    "One martini, very good, miss. And what type of gin would you prefer?"
    This is where I'm supposed to know gin brands. Does Smirnoff make gin? If I say one that isn't right, the waiter will totally judge me. Probably won't even bring me any