Spoiled Rotten Read Online Free PDF Page B

“SUCK ME” was the latest in a series of rude suggestions. Others are too foul to repeat aloud.
    As I rounded the lake, a tip of a wing appeared first, then the rest of her majestic figure loomed into sight. High atop a colossal arch, an angel fanned alabaster wings across two wrought-iron sentry gates flanking both sides of her perch. The theme song “Let’s all go to the Ex” cued automatically in my mind.
    The “Ex” or “C.N.E.,” short for Canadian National Exhibition, opened in 1880. When the summer fair is on during the last three weeks of August, you can’t get near the place. You have to park two miles away and walk in the blistering heat to the gate entrance. I remembered begging my parents to carry me, crying shamelessly until they did.
    The ticket booths surrounding the entrance to the grounds had been removed, the massive gates opened wide to allow traffic through. I looked up at the angel as I drove under her wings. Still a thrill!
    Cars parked bumper to bumper along the empty midway filled the massive void left by carnival rides and game booths. Except for white lines painted like hopscotch patterns fading on the tarmac, it was hard to believe that less than a month ago the grounds were swarming with thousands of visitors.
    A steady stream of trucks and vans passed me on both sides of the main avenue of the grounds. Following the line of traffic to the convention centre, I passed a newly erected grey box of a building contrasting starkly with its historic neighbour, the impressive horse pavilion. A noticeable group of cable television trucks and a news van were on the sidewalk. More noticeably, two police cars and one unmarked beige cruiser idled beside them. I slowed down and recognized Detective Winn climbing the front steps of the hall. I parked in an illegal space that miraculously opened up, and then I joined a small crowd filing determinedly through a side door near the rear of the building. I didn’t want to bump into the detective if I could help it.
    I stepped behind the others into a small, utilitarian lobby from which several hallways sprouted in different directions. No one was lingering. Most likely they were responding to a call for an important staff meeting. I hesitated, trying to decide which group to follow, when a voice in the fast-moving crowd behind me sounded familiar.
    â€œLiz Walker, are you taking tables tonight?” I turned, recognizing Martin Wright, a former waiter of mine, and jostling shoulders affectionately, we walked together, keeping pace with the others.
    â€œMarty, how are you?” I exclaimed. “How’s the band? I saw you in that beer commercial,” I rattled on while taking in his new look. “You were fabulous, dahhling.”
    Martin had let his hair, once a closely shorn crew cut, grow out into a mass of blond curls, which I actually thought suited him better, and, without wanting to stare, picked up on a hint of eyeliner.
    â€œThanks, Liz, we made a few bucks, but the band broke up. We argued all the time. Stardom didn’t suit us, I guess. That’s why I’m here, I’m pulling a double. I need the money. What are you doing here?”
    â€œI’m trying to find someone,” I answered truthfully. “I know you usually work the big winter fair in November, but I didn’t know there was a show in April, too.”
    â€œThis is strictly a cattle show, kind of a prelim to the winter fair. First one, very United Nations, you know.”
    â€œIs that being held here? I thought it would be somewhere ritzy like the Sutton Place.”
    â€œNot if you want to bring your prize bulls with you, baby. Hey, one of your chefs is working the show.”
    I knew it. Daniel was moonlighting and standing me up at the same time. I could feel my temper rising and realized Martin was asking me something.
    â€œHe’s adorable. Is he single?”
    â€œNo, Martin. He’s