I take a few steps. He follows. “If you hold the tray on your right-hand side, you’ll be able to navigate this crowd better. Like this.” Before I can stop him, he grabs my tray and starts to prove his point by hoisting it over his right shoulder. A guest takes a canapé from the tray.
“Excuse me! My job is to serve you,” I say, pulling the tray away from him. “Not the other way around.”
“Don’t get bent out of shape. Just trying to help.”
What is Blue Velvet Suit talking about? I’m doing a great job. I give him a curt nod and stomp back to the kitchen.
“I can’t believe it. The nerve of that guy!” I huff as I pass through the doors.
Cheryl is right behind me, about to grab a tray of food. “Who are you talking about?”
“The one in the velvet suit. Have you seen him? He won’t stop telling me about fondue and pigs in a blanket. He really teed me off.” We look through the circular window, and I point to Blue Velvet Suit. “That guy!”
“Nice suit,” Cheryl says.
“Well, yeah, of course he’s wearing a nice suit. It’s the words coming out of his mouth that have me blowing my cool,” I explain.
“He’s probably just trying to be helpful, that’s all.” Cheryl shrugs.
“Funny. That’s basically what he said to me.”
Another bell rings to alert the guests it’s time to sit down for dinner. We each grab a pitcher of water and head out. I try my best to ignore Blue Velvet Suit, which is not an easy task. He keeps finding excuses to be by my side, offering unsolicited advice on the best way to pour a glass of water.
“And you don’t want to pour too many ice cubes because it makes it really difficult for a person to enjoy their drink,” he says.
“Thanks!” I say with a big smile, although what I really want to do is pour this pitcher over his head. But that’s not the Crossed Palms way. I take a deep breath and carry on. I won’t have a cow. Maybe he just can’t help himself. Who am I to judge?
I continue to fill glasses as he rattles on about tap water versus mountain spring water. I simply nod politely.
Luckily, Blue Velvet Suit’s running of the mouth is interrupted when Rob heads over to us. “He’s here!” he says breathlessly.
I look toward the door and see that a huge crowd of guests have left their seats to gravitate around a cloaked figure. The whole room is abuzz with excitement now, not just Rob. Every single person in the ballroom is on their toes, trying to get a glimpse. There is absolutely no question—Dr. Von Thurston has entered the Sugar Maple Ballroom.
“Make way, people!”
Mr. Maple tries to take control of the scene, but even he is no match for these fired-up Dr. Von Thurston fans.
“The hotel should have hired a dedicated security detail.” Blue Velvet Suit is back at it. “Dr. Von Thurston is the greatest magician of all time. He’s smart, brilliant—some would even say a legend. You simply can’t expect him to enter a room and not be accosted.”
“You seem to know a lot about Dr. Von Thurston,” I say.
“Of course I do. Don’t you?” he asks. “Isn’t it your job to know about the guests at your hotel?”
Why does Blue Velvet Suit feel so compelled to explain things to me? I would just ignore him in normal circumstances, but he’s a guest, so I turn things around and ask him questions.
“Do you need help finding your seat number?” I ask, hoping it will deter him. “Cheryl would be more than happy to assist you.”
Cheryl walks over to us with the biggest smile. “I sure would. How can I help?”
“You can’t. Whoever made these seat assignments should have paid closer attention to where Dr. Von Thurston prefers to sit,” Blue Velvet Suit says. Cheryl’s smile slowly dissolves. “His best angle is his right side, and these seats are not facing the correct direction.”
Now Cheryl sees what I’ve been complaining about. Rob, on the other hand, doesn’t seem fazed by what Blue Velvet Suit’s said. Not one bit.
“Do you think we should move the tables?” Rob asks. “We don’t want Dr. Von Thurston to be seen from his bad side, do we?”
Cheryl glares at Rob for a full minute. She’s been working nonstop to figure out the best seating arrangements. To rearrange them now would be a disaster.
“It’s too late,” Blue Velvet Suit says. “Dr. Von Thurston doesn’t believe in sudden changes. He says it disturbs his equilibrium.”
This guy takes being a fan to a whole new level. “How could you possibly know so much about Dr. Von Thurston?” I ask.
Cheryl and Rob tilt their heads to the side, waiting for his answer.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Blue Velvet Suit replies. “He’s my father.”
Rob gasps and then starts coughing uncontrollably.
“Dr. Von Thurston is your dad?!” Rob exclaims. “How did I not know that?”
“I should probably take my rightful seat. Here’s my card.”
Blue Velvet Suit digs in his pocket and hands me a business card. The crowd has somewhat dissipated by this point, so he walks over to Dr. Von Thurston’s table and takes the seat to his father’s right. I hear Dr. Von Thurston proclaim to his tablemates how talented his son is.
When I finally gather my jaw off the floor, I read the card he gave me.
DEREK VON THURSTON
PART-TIME MAGICIAN/PART-TIME DETECTIVE
FULL-TIME EXPERT
Part-time detective?!
Chapter Four
I CAN’T BELIEVE IT. BLUE VELVET SUIT IS DR. VON Thurston’s son. I’m not sure whether I should be flattered he wanted to explain things to me or just as annoyed. I think I’m sticking to the latter.
“Wow. We’ve been standing here talking to Dr. Von Thurston’s son the whole time?” Rob says, unable to contain his excitement. “We practically rubbed elbows with the legend himself. We are this close to a genius.”
As the guests start to settle in again, we diligently wait for Evan, who is busy as ever, to fill our pitchers. Rob stares longingly at Dr. Von Thurston.
“What if I serve table one?” Rob asks. Both Cheryl and I shake our heads. As much as I want Rob to meet his idol, I’m worried he’ll trip and pour iced tea all over the magician’s face.
“I don’t know, Rob,” Cheryl says. “You might get nervous.”
“You’re probably right,” he says. “I’ll just wait for a better opportunity. Now that Goldie’s pals with Derek Von Thurston, I’m sure I’ll be exchanging charming stories with Dr. Von Thurston in no time.”
I hate to burst Rob’s bubble. I am definitely not “pals” with Derek. Not even one bit. Once our pitchers are filled, we head back into the now-seated crowd.
A man wearing a top hat has taken the stage. He welcomes the guests with a story about the League of Magical Arts and how membership has grown from a paltry five magicians meeting in a basement to thousands worldwide. I can’t help being impressed that so many people love magic enough to meet like this to perfect their art and exchange ideas. I wish again that there were a detective club where I could connect with like-minded sleuths.
I lean over a woman seated at table one and fill her glass. Derek nods at me. I hope he’s not planning on also teaching me the proper way to pour iced tea. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to want to interrupt his dad. Dr. Von Thurston is ignoring the current speaker onstage and telling a very long tale about the first time he performed a magic trick. Those seated at the table are completely enraptured by Dr. Von Thurston, including Mr. Maple.
“I was only five years old. Even back then I knew the magical arts were my true calling,” Dr. Von Thurston says with an emphatic nod. “I’ve never once turned my back to it.”
I fill Dr. Von Thurston’s glass with iced tea. As soon as I pull away, he drinks the whole glass and nods for me to fill it again.
“What do you think about St. Pascal?” a lady wearing a giant feathered hat asks. Mr. Maple leans forward.
“It’s very quaint. It has a certain
je ne sais quoi,” Dr. Von Thurston says. “Charming.”
Mr. Maple sits back in his chair with an air of approval. Of course St. Pascal is brimming with je ne sais quoi. We practically invented the phrase.
“If you have a moment, you should make the trip out to Diaz’s Grand Illusions,” I say, filling his glass once more. The table turns to me. I guess they’re not used to penguins speaking, but I continue nonetheless. “It’s a magic shop. It’s filled with great stuff.”
“Dr. Von Thurston won’t have time to do that,” Derek says. He lifts his glass for me to refill as well. “But I will. It’s always good to check out the competition.”
I note how Derek doesn’t call him Dad. It’s sort of what I have to do when I’m working at the hotel with my own dad. I make sure to call him Mr. Vance so I don’t confuse anyone.
“We own at least ten magic shops around the world,” Dr. Von Thurston explains. “We are never not within reach of a trick or two.”
“Well, if you’re interested in opening another shop, let’s talk location,” Mr. Maple says. “The Crossed Palms Resort would be the perfect spot for a new store.”
Dr. Von Thurston addresses the woman with the feathered hat. “Talking business is such a cliché thing to do at a convention. Wouldn’t you agree?” The lady laughs gaily while Mr. Maple bristles in his chair. I guess it must be hard for him not to be in command of things. After a long pause, Mr. Maple laughs so loudly it breaks the tension. Dr. Von Thurston joins him, and soon the whole table is cackling enough to disturb the poor guy onstage. Thankfully, that magician is finished with his speech and welcomes out another master of ceremonies.
“And now please join me in welcoming St. Pascal’s very own magical enchantress—the beguiling Angela, the Sorceress of Wonder!”
Guests erupt in applause. Angela looks radiant in a formfitting sequined gown. Everyone is so in for a treat. To start off her set, Angela does card tricks. Although card tricks are usually hard to follow in such a large ballroom, Angela manages to capture the room’s attention with ease. She’s quick-witted and funny, and she selects audience members to join her onstage.
“Now, who wants to be my next victim—I mean, volunteer?” she asks with a wink. The guests are a little nervous, but eventually a couple of people take Angela up on her offer.
As Angela continues with her show, I refresh Dr. Von Thurston’s glass yet again. I don’t get it. He’s drunk so many glasses of iced tea but hasn’t once left the table to use the restroom. He must have a strong bladder. Or this is all part of an elaborate magic trick. I’m kind of in awe.
Angela’s next trick involves large silver rings. She’s so graceful onstage, like a ballet dancer. I get so caught up watching her I fail to notice Derek raising his glass for me to refill. He’s holding the glass so high it obscures my view.
“Sorry,” I whisper, and replenish his drink.
“Can you direct me to where the restrooms are?”
Well, at least Derek isn’t like his father. I ask him to follow me.
“The real trick in performing with the ol’ linking rings is to make sure you don’t make any noise when you link them,” he says. “If you do, then you clearly have not been practicing.”
“There you go.” I point to the restrooms, but Derek is not done explaining the trick.
“And you have to find ways of directing where the audience should look. That’s called a ‘misdirection’ in the biz—”
“Thanks for the tip, but I’m not into magic tricks,” I finally interrupt. “My thing is detective work. I’m a detective. The Crossed Palms Resort’s assistant house detective, in fact.”
Derek raises his eyebrow.
“I find that hard to believe. It looks to me as if you’re just serving drinks,” he says. “Not many of the waitstaff are solving mysteries.”
“Well, if you must know, I’m actually working undercover.” This is technically not a lie. Even though I’m serving drinks, I am still working the room, scanning for anything out of the ordinary. “Besides, plenty of people are skilled in multiple ways. I can serve a drink while also noticing what color tie a man seated at the far end of the ballroom is wearing and how he wears one dangling earring on his left earlobe.” I pause for effect. “It’s purple-gray. The tie, that is. Take a look.”
Derek has a few things to learn. The waitstaff are skilled workers. They have to anticipate needs way before a guest even has them. Some of them walk around in heels. I refuse to wear heels and instead wear my comfortable penny loafers with my tux.
“Working undercover? Really?” Derek asks with a lilt in his voice, implying he doesn’t believe me. “What’s your name?”
“Goldie. My name is Goldie Vance.”
“Goldie?” There goes the lilt again.
I nod. “That’s my name. Don’t wear it out!”
“Well, Goldie Vance, unlike you, I’m an actual detective,” Derek says. Then he pulls out another business card, as if I didn’t already have one in my pocket from our conversation fifteen minutes ago.
“It says part-time detective,” I remind him.
“That’s correct. I am what you might call a Renaissance man,” he says. “I dabble in a lot of things. Magical arts. Mystery solving. I even write my own poetry. Let me recite my last poem. It’s titled ‘Ode to the Cantaloupe.’”
Before he finishes clearing his throat, I put a stop to his performance.
“I have to go back and serve more drinks, but thank you. I’ll make sure to catch your poem next time.”
I rush back to the table before Derek can open his mouth again. Boy oh boy! I had no idea I would spend tonight dodging poetry and explaining the importance of hospitality to a hotel guest, but here I am.
“Goldie, you’re muttering to yourself,” Cheryl says.
“Sorry, I didn’t notice,” I say. I need to pull myself together. Can’t let Derek ruffle my feathers.
Angela performs the grand finale where she makes eight doves appear out of nowhere. She incorporates Antonio Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons into the show to heighten the drama. The audience claps with glee as she produces one dove after another. Although I’m busy making sure everyone’s glass is full, I’m glad I’m able to catch glimpses of the finale.
“Let’s give another round of applause to Angela, the Sorceress of Wonder!”
Angela returns to the stage and takes one more bow. A guest hands her a large bouquet of roses, a much-deserved gift for such a wonderful act. I’m glad Angela’s getting the recognition she deserves in front of her peers.
Mr. Maple now takes the mic.
“Welcome to Crossed Palms Resort, the hotel where everything is at your disposal. I am the owner of this establishment. You can call me Mr. Maple.”
Well, duh. That is his name.
“Please join me in a toast,” he says. The entire audience raises their glasses, which signals for Cheryl, Rob, and me to run around and do our job. We’re speed racers, eyeing glassware like they’re sparkling diamonds to take. Being a server is not a job for turtles.
Once all the guests’ glasses are ready, Mr. Maple continues: “May you enjoy your magical oasis, and may your tricks stay within your mind and not in your wallet.”
I think most people in the audience don’t quite understand what Mr. Maple is saying, although they clink their glasses anyway. Oh, Mr. Maple. I guess not everyone is meant to captivate an audience on the stage like Angela.
I head to the kitchen and start handing out dinner plates. From that moment on, the night moves quickly. I don’t have any more encounters with Derek. In between dinner and dessert, we’re allowed to take a mini break, and I couldn’t be happier. My feet are killing me. Rob, Cheryl, and I collapse outside the ballroom, plates in hand. Angela spots us and wanders over to chat.
“You were great, Angela,” Cheryl exclaims before shoveling a big heap of lasagna into her mouth. “I love your doves so much.”
“Thank you! Everyone seemed to enjoy it!” Angela say
s with a smile. “By any chance, have you seen any of my silver rings? I seem to have misplaced one of them.”
“Not at all,” we say in unison.
Angela shakes her head. “So strange. I’m sure it’s here somewhere.”
“After the party, we’ll take a good look,” I say. “Promise.”
Soon enough, the bell rings and we’re off to clear the plates. Before the rest of the guests can rush to vacate the ballroom, I see Dr. Von Thurston and Derek whisked through a side entrance.
What a night! I am officially wiped out.
“Darling Goldie.”
I notice the familiar whisper-talk right away. Miss Dupart sits alone at a table, wearing a very glamorous floral dress and what seems like all her favorite pieces of jewelry. “Can you do me the honor of walking me back to my room? I must tend to my beloved Clementine.”
“Sure thing, Miss Dupart. Clementine didn’t want to be your date?”
“Clementine simply refused to make an appearance.” She wraps her ringed fingers around my arm. I’m surprised to see Miss Dupart at this type of event. It’s a bit late for both of us.
“Didn’t take you for a lover of the magical arts, Miss Dupart.”
“Oh, darling, I am well versed in the arts of illusion and mysticism,” she whisper-talks. “When you’ve been an entertainer as long as I have, you must be skilled in many different mediums, if you will.”
“That’s funny! I was explaining that to someone earlier tonight,” I say as we walk past the crowded lobby filled with magicians. “What do you think about Dr. Von Thurston? I met his son, and boy, he’s quite something.”
Miss Dupart pauses by the elevators. When an elevator arrives, we let a group of guests enter ahead of us and wait for the next one.
“I worked with Dr. Von Thurston briefly many, many years ago, long before the appearance of his son,” she says. “He had this wonderful act out in the Catskills. I was his assistant back then, but I was too much of a presence for him. When I refused his requests to keep in the background, my assistant role went poof! Gone! Just like magic!”
I chuckle. I can’t imagine Miss Dupart staying quiet for anyone, even Dr. Von Thurston. Miss Dupart is meant to be seen and heard.
Goldie Vance--The Hocus-Pocus Hoax Page 3