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I gave a last look around at our setup and ran through the pre-concert checklist I always kept in my brain. It helped me to make sure everything was perfect. It also helped calm the jitters I always felt before every show. I heard someone approach, and I turned around and saw Brantley Wilson standing before me in the most outlandish getup I’d ever seen. The first thing I noticed were the knee-high leather boots, followed by the olive pants, green and brown tunic, and a green felt hat with a long red feather stuck on his head. Over his shoulder he carried a quiver, and in his left hand, he clutched a longbow.
I giggled. “Who are you supposed to be?”
Brantley rolled his eyes. “Robin Hood. No one mentioned that this is a costume party?”
“No. Had someone told me, I dress up like a spot-on Janis Joplin,” I said.
“Doesn’t matter. You won’t be interacting with the guests much. If you and your compatriots would follow me to the main dining room. The caterer will feed you there, and you should stay there until it’s time for the show.”
We followed Brantley from the room and within two minutes he stepped aside and waved us into the dining room. Compared to the ballroom, the dining room seemed tiny, but it still held a table large enough to seat sixteen without touching elbows. At one end of the table, three place settings were waiting for us. Laurel and Bozeman took the seats across from each other, which left the head of the table for me. Since I was uncomfortable in that position, I gathered the dishes, silverware, and glasses, and moved them to the spot next to Laurel. I had just finished resetting the table when Heather entered, pushing a cart.
“Hello, again,” Heather said to me as she stopped the cart near the table. She removed domes from the plates on the top shelf of the cart and placed salads before each of us.
“It looks much better on a plate,” I said.
Heather slid me a sly smile. Since neither Laurel nor Bozeman knew the context, neither reacted to the comment.
“What would you like to drink with dinner? The other diners are having a specific wine with each course, but I can offer you about anything you’d like.”
Although the wine sounded nice, all three of us opted for water. Heather had a pitcher on the cart’s second shelf, and she filled Bozeman and Laurel’s glass. She was filling mine when a loud gong reverberated throughout the room. Heather, startled, overfilled my glass, spilling the liquid on my lap.
“Oh my. I’m so sorry, again. I can’t believe I did that,” Heather said as she put down the pitcher and retrieved a towel from the cart. She started patting at my lap, but I took the towel from her.
“It’s okay,” I said while I sopped up the liquid. “It’s only water. Hopefully, my pants will dry off before we hit the stage. What was that, by the way?”
“The gong? It’s Hawthorne’s way of letting everyone in the state of California know that he’s ready for the next course.”
“How many courses are they having that they need a gong?” Laurel asked.
“Six. Hors d’oeuvre, soup, appetizer, salad, main course, and dessert,” Heather said without thinking about it.
“How many are we having?” Bozeman asked as he picked up his fork.
“Three. Salad, main course, and dessert. Sorry about not giving you all six. Hawthorne likes to cut corners where he can.”
“Not a problem,” I said. “I never like to eat a lot before a show.”
Heather smiled. “In that case, I’ll make sure you have plenty to eat afterward. Would you like some fresh baked bread?”
That got Bozeman’s attention. “How is that a question that anyone ever says no to?”
“This is California, honey. It would astonish you the things that people turn down. The one nice thing about Hawthorne Harris is that he always decides the menu, and it’s always things that he likes. There are no special options for vegan, or gluten-free, or low-carb, or anything else. If a guest doesn’t like what’s being served, they either eat it anyway, or they’re not invited back to any future parties. I have to go and supervise the service, and afterward I’ll be right back with the bread. Again, I’m sorry about the water.”
I smiled. “I’m just happy there’s no soup course for us.” Everyone laughed at that line, and Heather’s cheeks turned pink with embarrassment. She dipped her head as she pushed the cart from the room.
Left alone, Laurel and I dug into our salads, even though Bozeman was already most of the way through his plate.
“Not a fan of olives?” I asked as I watched Laurel pick them from her salad.
“Not especially. As a kid I used to love them, and would eat them right out of the can, but one time I got a bad batch and got sick from them and haven’t touched them since.”
“That’s fair,” I said. “Do you mind if I take them?”
Laurel slid her plate over so it touched mine, and I used my fork to push the little pile onto the edge of my plate. When Laurel retracted her plate, I added my olives to her pile, and as I did, she watched with interest.
“What are you doing?” Laurel asked as I moved the last of them to the stack.
“I don’t like olives either, but Dolly loves them.”
Laurel and I both looked over at Bozeman, who was just putting his fork down on his clean plate.
“What? I like olives, too,” he said as he wiped away a spot of dressing from his chin.
I heard the door open, and I looked over, expecting Heather with the bread, but it was Brantley.
“Mr. Harris has requested that you come and meet the guests,” he said as he approached.
I wiped my mouth with the napkin and pushed my chair away from the table. “Okay. Let’s go, gang.”
Brantley cleared his throat, then leaned in toward me. “I’m sorry, he requested only you come and meet the guests.”
I made a move to sit back down again, but Laurel stopped me by putting her hand on my arm. “Go ahead. I’m not big on schmoozing, and we both know how Bozeman feels about it.”
I glanced over at Bozeman, who hadn’t moved a muscle, other than to place his salad plate to the side to prepare for the next course.
“All right,” I said, “let’s go.”
I followed Brantley back to the ballroom, and I had to stop for a moment when we entered the space so I could gather my thoughts and take in the sight. There were ten people seated around the giant table, and three steps behind them were what I assumed were servers, but they all seemed to be the same person. Each of them was female, had brown hair worn in a ponytail, and wore tuxedo pants, a stark white shirt, a purple cummerbund, and white gloves.
As I took another step toward the table, the gong rang out. It resounded even louder in the ballroom than it had in the dining room. With military precision, the servers stepped forward and cleared the hors d’oeuvre plates and silverware and left the room, silently, in a single file line.
“Hold up here for a moment,” Brantley said to me. “Mr. Harris is particular about the service.”
As requested, I stayed where I was and waited without speaking. Within three minutes, the server army returned, each carrying a large bowl of soup. I caught a glance at one of the bowls, and to me, it didn’t even look appetizing. I always believed a soup needs either be hearty, like a nice stew, or needs to invoke memories, like the tomato with grilled cheese I got when I was a kid. The plain looking consommé looked like only the base of what a soup should be. The servers approached the diners, placed the soup before them, and stepped back to their original positions. To my amazement, concurrently, like they shared a hive mind. I noticed they changed the cummerbunds as well, from purple to a deep pink.
Once the sound of spoons contacting the bowls started up, Brantley took his seat at the table. I approached Hawthorne Harris, who sat at the head of the table. He dressed, of all things, like Julius Caesar. When he saw me coming, he stood, and I observed the full regalia he was wearing, from the laurel crown on his head, to the toga, to the leather sandals on his feet.
“Everyone. Everyone, your attention please. I’d like to introduce you to our entertainer for tonight, Codi Cassidy. She’s a famous country star.”
I heard one person applauding, and when I looked at the opposite end, I saw it was Jackie, who wore the outfit of Cleopatra. Right down to a rubber snake that she attached to her right shoulder. Hawthorne sent her a glare, so Jackie stopped the clapping and picked her spoon back up.
“Would you mind going around the table and saying hello to my guests?” Hawthorne asked.
He took his seat without waiting for an answer, and I knew then he was one of those people who just expected people to do whatever was requested of them.
I slipped into performer mode, as easy as putting on a pair of shoes, and started making my way around the table.
Seated directly next to Hawthorne was someone I recognized right away. He wore a black Victorian high collar coat, black pants, red vest, and a black cape with a red border. It was the black slicked-back hair, pointy ears, and pointy teeth that gave it away.
“Count Dracula, I presume?” I said as I presented my hand.
The count stood, snapped the heels of his dress shoes together, took my hand, and kissed the top of it. “It’s a pleasure to meet you Ms. Cassidy,” he said in his best Bela Lugosi impression that, to be honest, wasn’t that good. “My name is Claude Garrison. And may I present my friend, Amelia Brown?”
Amelia was in conversation with the person to her left, so Claude bent over and nibbled on her bare neck. That got her attention.
“Hey!” Amelia turned and slapped Claude playfully across the cheek. “Would you please stop doing that? It’s getting annoying.”
Dracula took his seat. “I just wanted to introduce you to Codi Cassidy.”
“Charmed, I’m sure,” Amelia said as she redirected her attention back to the man sitting next to her. Based on the pigtails, blue gingham dress, and the picnic basket at her feet with a toy cairn terrier sticking its head out, I assumed she was Dorothy Gale from The Wizard of Oz. Although upon first meeting she lacked any of the warmth that I associated with the character.
I moved on to the person she was talking to, who dressed as Frankenstein’s monster. The monster, Danny Ewing, introduced me to his wife, Amy, who dressed as the Bride of Frankenstein. Based on the way he looked at me and paid more attention to Amelia than to Amy, I could tell he was a player. I made a mental note to not get involved in his game, which wasn’t hard since I didn’t care for men with green skin and rubber bolts attached to their necks. I found Amy to be more interested in the alcohol that surrounded her place setting than she was in me. Based on her pout and glare, she wasn’t happy with her husband, either so I moved toward the other end, where Jackie was excitedly waiting for me.
She took both my hands in hers and gave me the air kisses that the Europeans prefer, and when she did, the snake on her shoulder nuzzled my cheek.
“Thank you for coming to say hello. My outfit is out there, isn’t it? Can you guess who I am?” Jackie said giddily.
“Yeah. You look great. Just like the real Cleopatra. I’d better say hello to the others so I can get back to my band. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
Jackie let me loose from her grip, so I moved onto the next person, who, out of everyone, looked the least like she was at a costume party. She wore a long white dress, and a white shawl covered her shoulders.
“Hello, I’m Codi Cassidy,” I said as I offered my hand.
“Helen Troy,” the woman said as she put down her soup spoon and gave me a quick shake.
“Helen of Troy? That’s a pretty obscure costume, I might say.”
The redhead laughed, then dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “No. My parents, Deana and Armond Troy, were both history buffs and thought it would be hilarious to name their only daughter Helen. I hate costume parties, so I just throw on a nice dress and go as my namesake. Saves me a lot of effort.”
I nodded, and Helen returned her attention to the soup, so I assumed the conversation between us was over. I said a brief hello to Brantley, who was next in line, then I moved to the woman seated to his left. Before I got there, she stood.
“Codi. It’s so good to see you again. It’s been a long time. You don’t recognize me, do you?”
She was a black woman and was a good six inches taller than me. Since she wore dark blue sorcerer’s robes adorned with stitched silver stars, a tall, pointed hat to match, and a long white beard, I couldn’t pinpoint if I’d met her before.
“You’re a wizard?” I asked.
“Merlin. It was Loren’s idea.” She pointed a thumb at Loren, who, I guessed, had decked out like King Arthur. The woman took off the hat, then removed the beard. I saw she was a pretty woman, but other than that, I didn’t recognize her.
“Viola. Viola Park. I was your dad’s partner in Denver for a couple of years. Don’t you remember me?”
I reached back into the recesses of my mind, trapped a memory, and grinned.
“You used to sneak me chocolate bars all the time.”
Viola nodded, then pulled me into a hug. “It’s so good to see you again. How are you?”
“I’m good. What are you doing out here? Are you not with the Denver Police Department anymore?”
“No. Once I got my detective’s shield, I hit the glass ceiling, so I went searching for other positions. I’m the head dog out here.”
“No kidding?”
“That’s right. Police chief,” she said.
“That’s amazing,” I admitted.
“How is your dad?”
“Good. He retired from the force a few years ago.” I was about to expand on the small talk when the gong rang. Without a word, Viola retook her seat.
“You can go.”
I turned around and saw it was Brantley speaking to me.
“Go. Back to your friends. We don’t want to keep you any longer.”
I hesitated for a moment, then stepped back from the table. The servers had waited for me to leave, and as soon as I headed toward the door, they progressed through the act of clearing away the soup bowls. By the time I got to the door, the servers were only a step behind me, so I moved to the side and let them pass. I didn’t want to impede whatever the next course was.
I backtracked my way back to the dining room, where I found Laurel and Bozeman in the middle of their main courses. At my place was a stainless-steel dome, under which I assumed my dinner was.
“There you are,” Laurel said. “We didn’t know when you were coming back, so we dug in. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course not.” I lifted the dome. Underneath was a Cornish game hen, a bed of wild rice, and two roasted carrots. “Did Heather ever bring the bread?”
Bozeman grunted and passed the plate on which sat three dinner rolls. I took one, found the butter, and lathered up the roll. Then I went to work on picking apart the miniature chicken.
“What’s it like in there?” Laurel asked as she scooped up a forkful of rice.
“Just your average costume party for rich people,” I answered.
Daintily, I removed a leg from the hen and took a bite. I wasn’t normally one for fancy food, but I had to admit, it was delicious.
“I’ve never been to a costume party,” Laurel said. She was only half finished with her meal but pushed her plate away. “I don’t know why people think these mini chickens are so great. I think they’re way more trouble than they’re worth.”
“Bozeman didn’t have any trouble with it.”
Laurel and I looked at Bozeman, who was nibbling away the last of the meat on a tiny wing. On his plate was a small pile of bones. He looked at us, then added the wing to the pile, wiped his mouth, and drank some water.
“They’re all right by me,” Bozeman said. “Although I’d prefer it fried.”
The gong sounded before anyone could say another word.
“That’s a little much,” Laurel said.
“You should see what it triggers. The servers have this well-coordinated dance they do to remove the plates and bring in the next course. It’s quite fascinating to see, like they’re all programmed robots. Although, it’s also a bit disconcerting. Trust me, though, I’d rather have dinner with the two of you.”
I finished half of my meal and pushed it aside. Although everything was delicious, I didn’t want to fill up too much before the gig.
“I wonder how much longer we’ll be stuck in here,” I said.
Neither Laurel nor Bozeman answered me, but fifteen minutes later, the gong sounded. I had lost track and didn’t know if it was the fifth course or sixth, but I was certain someone would come to tell us at some point or another.
