by Ani Gonzalez
No, he corrected himself, when he won.
"Caine says they are called Old Ones," Zach replied absently. "I don't think they'll appreciate you calling them 'squids.'"
"I calls them as I see them, boss." She handed the tray to a waiter and returned to chopping dry ice for their "spooky" Campari cocktails.
Everything seemed to be going well. The library was full of people, costumed and otherwise, happily drinking and chatting. Their theme had worked out even better than he'd hoped, as the PRoVE guys walked around showing off the various artifacts and explaining the newspaper cuttings. Caine held court next to the Mothman statue, and a group of young women listened, enthralled, as he described the latest sightings.
The food was mostly untouched. As he'd predicted, this crowd was mostly interested in the drinks, but he didn't care. Their resident ghost was behaving and there hadn't been a single electrical malfunction so far. The customers were happy and they had plenty of alcohol left.
The Banshee Creek Explorer's Club was a rousing success.
But the tight knot in his stomach hadn't loosened. That's because it had nothing to do with his restaurant venture. He looked at the antique clock on the wall.
Showtime in thirty minutes.
"Remember when I told you that you were ordering too much hideously expensive Absinthe liqueur?" Sarah asked, filling a tray with steaming, blood red cocktails in highball glasses.
"Yes."
"I was wrong."
He laughed. Sarah never admitted being wrong.
"I think it's because everyone's nervous," she continued. "The prizes haven't been announced yet."
"They won't be until after the Space Cowboys perform."
Zach could sympathize with the urge to anesthetize the nerves with hard alcohol. He himself was sorely tempted.
But he abstained. The last thing he needed was a drunk performance.
"Looks like you have everything under control," he told Sarah. "If you need me, I'll be with the band."
"Wait," Sarah said, reaching for a napkin-covered plate next to her. "Baker girl left this for you. I think it's supposed to bring you good luck."
Zach grabbed the plate, a feminine porcelain concoction with a pastel-colored vine pattern, feeling pleased and amused at the same time. That Patricia sent him a good luck gift was touching, that her good luck gift was a piece of pastry was disturbing.
He uncovered the sweet. It was a cardamon carrot cupcake.
Who'd come up with a good luck cupcake? Patricia O'Dare, that's who.
But maybe not. The cupcake was accompanied by a gold-edged card with an inscription. The card informed him that the cupcake recipe was an adaptation of one of Millicent Danver's "healing" recipes. The ingredients -- cardamon, carrots sugar and cinnamon -- would revitalize his system, keep him alert and allow him to take full advantage of the opportunities granted by a kind and loving universe. The result would be good luck.
"That Mrs. Danvers was a real loon, wasn't she?" Sarah said.
"Don't say that out loud. She founded the Banshee Creek Theosophical Society and believed that certain practices – eating particular foods, yoga-like exercise, and meditation – would align mind, body and spirit, and lead to a healthy, productive live. That's the program she followed at the Rosemoor."
Mrs. Danvers was also a teetotaler and would have strongly disapproved of the use of alcohol on the premises.
"She also believed that electricity leaked from the lightbulbs and caused anxiety and menstrual disturbances. So, yes, you have a point. Just keep it to yourself."
"Well, it was the nineteenth century." He grabbed the cupcake and took a bit. It was delicious. "The theosophists believed in a lot of strange things." He glanced at the herbology tomes that graced the library shelves. "But she did turn the Rosemoor into one of the premier health institutions of its day. People came from all over the country to participate in her cures."
"And baker girl says this is based one of Mrs. Danver's recipes?" Sarah asked.
"Yes." He ate the rest of the cupcake. "Mrs. Danvers was a devout yoga practitioner and she used a lot of Indian spices in her food. She believed they cleaned your system or something like that. I don't think she did cupcakes though, so there must have been a fair amount of creative license involved."
Successful license at that. That cupcake was a masterpiece. It was even better than the one he'd tasted in the barn. Patricia must have tinkered with the recipe.
"Really?" Sarah looked thoughtful. "Let me show you something."
She reached for another plate, one wrapped in aluminum foil and quite a bit bigger, and uncovered it. There were several food samples on it, and she picked one.
It was a cupcake with cream cheese frosting.
"Did Patricia send those too?" he asked, eyeing a very familiar cup of rice pudding.
"No," Sarah's expression turned dark. "Diego got them... from the drawing room."
"Diego?" All the samples in the plate were familiar. They were pretty much the same ones Patricia had him taste a few days ago at the barn. "Why?"
"He wanted to know what the Big City Chef was up to so he had one of the horsey girls --you know, the ones with the tails on their bums? -- steal some stuff for him. I think he was hoping to pick up some new tricks." She took a breath. "I admit it. I first I thought Patricia must have used the recipes from his show, but she has one of these," she picked up the gold-edged card, "for each of her dishes. They all talk about how Mrs. Danvers came up with her crazy recipes based on her time in India studying yoga. The recipes all manipulate your chakras and om and whatnot, and they all should lead to fortune or fame or even romance." She frowned, looking troubled. "That kind of crazy has Banshee Creek written all over it. So they must be her recipes. But how did Mr. Big Time Cooking Guy get them? And why?"
Zach frowned at the plate in front of him. "We need to talk to Elizabeth."
"She's nowhere to be seen," Sarah said.
"And I have a performance in ten minutes." He handed the plate back to Sarah. "Keep this. I'll figure out what to do."
He glanced at the clock. "After the performance."
He stepped away front the bar.
"Hold the fort for me, Sarah."
He walked off to find the rest of the band. He avoided the ballroom, taking a short-cut -- long cut would be more accurate -- around to end up in a large butler's pantry between the kitchen and the ballroom.
Abby was there, dressed in a short cocktail dress and insanely high heels, along with the rest of the band... but no Elizabeth.
"Have you seen our master of ceremonies?" he asked.
Abby waved toward the ballroom. "She's already out... mastering the ceremony like she's supposed to do. Where have you been? We're on in a couple of minutes."
"I have to talk to her," he replied.
But a technician was pulling up his shirt, and strapping a microphone box around his midriff and an all-too familiar adrenaline rush swept through him.
The musicians went first, and the crowd applauded as they walked in. The sound made him lightheaded. Abby followed after a slight pause and the applause grew louder.
He waited, rubbing his scarred arm, for Abby to run through her monologue. He smiled when he realized that her intro hadn't changed in the past three years. It made sense, though. Abby had crippling stage fright. She forced herself to overcome it, but, still, coming up with a new monologue for every performance was probably beyond her capabilities at this point.
He mouthed the words with her. So happy to be here... back home... signature sound... ghost stories and legends... love that never dies. Then their hit single from last summer came on. That was the smart thing to do... get the old song out there first and get the audience pumped up.
The hometown crowd didn't disappoint. They all knew the song by heart and followed along, shouting the lyrics.
And so did Zach. The tragic song about the two golden-haired sisters was one of his favorites. He remembered working on the melod
y with Abby, trying out different chords, staying up all night to get a particular phrase right....
But that was before the accident.
His arm hurt, a feeling which, he was willing to concede, was probably at least partly psychosomatic. The throbbing pain, he told himself, was all in his head.
As was the cold, clammy knot of fear in his stomach.
And the tight, clenched muscles in his jaw.
All in his head.
That's what Patricia would say. She'd scoff at his lame list of symptoms and scold him onto the stage. He could almost hear her now, telling him to get over it and get his ass into the ballroom. Telling him that this was his home and these were his friends and his old bandmates and they loved him and supported him.
Telling him he could do it.
The staffer woke him from his reverie. The band had finished the first song and Abby was introducing him.
He took a deep breath and took a step.
It was showtime.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
"THE CONCERT started," Laurie exclaimed. "Hurry."
Patricia glanced around the conservatory. The concert was starting and the place was emptying out. Everyone was heading for the ballroom.
Almost everyone.
Her dad sat at a table with Mr. Franco and Dr. Lebensburg. The men were drinking tea and the good doctor had one of Zach's colorful, and extremely potent, potions. This was actually the first time she'd seen her dad sit down all night. He'd arrived with Cassie and Marcus right before the start of the ball and had spent the evening serving cakes and pouring tea. He'd been happy and productive.
That made it a good night. So, there, at least she had a silver lining.
She really needed it.
The night had not gone as planned. Oh, the conservatory was a success. People loved the decor and the different kinds of herbal teas and agua frescas. A gaggle of girls in pastel-colored gowns commandeered the room and spent most of the night trying out different drinks and reading the recipe cards out loud.
Those cards were a big hit. Laurie had written little stories, inspired by Mrs. Danvers' treatments, each paired with a specific type of food. The Rosemary Pink Lemonade for memory enhancement, the Indian Spice Crème Brûlée for energy, the Gingerbread Plum Pudding for focus, and the Lavender Tea for restfulness. All were accompanied by a small vignette from Mrs. Danvers' autobiography, the trip to India to study yoga, her medical school years in England, the day she opened up the Rosemoor Institute for Rest and Recuperation...
And then there were the ghost stories.
Cassie and her PRoVE minions helped out on that end. They arrived, picked up the cards, and got into character. Cassie, in her loud professor's voice, told everyone about the robed lady who haunted the herb gardens and reorganized all the medicine cabinets in the house. She described every single manifestation, even the one where one of the guests found the ingredients for homemade hemorrhoid cream on his nightside table.
The stories had been a big hit, as had the drinks and the souvenir tea packets.
The food, however, had not been as well received. She stared at the half-full plates on the serving tables. No one disliked the dishes...it's just that they didn't eat them.
Maybe they were already full? Maybe they ate Zach's food instead? Laurie had peeked into the library and reported that Zach's crowd looked very happy, tipsy but happy. Apparently his cocktails were spectacularly well received. That was probably her death knell.
Death by Devil's Mint Julep, which apparently consisted of crème de cassis, gin, simple syrup and mint. One of the girls in pastel ball gowns had raved about it.
She should have gone for the red velvet. She should have stuck to the safe recipes. She shouldn't have tried out her old Rosemoor-inspired stuff. It was too weird.
And it could have cost her dream. She could kick herself. She'd had a chance to get her dream location, to build the kind of superior, enchanting establishment she'd always wanted, and she'd failed.
It was a bitter pill.
Well, no use crying over spilt frosting, she had a concert to go to. She was determined to be happy for Zach. True, it was a bit unfair that he would have both a music career and a thriving restaurant, but those were the breaks. He'd earned it fair and square.
She walked out of the conservatory and into a deserted hallway. Everyone must be in the ballroom. She turned to head that way and almost bumped into Sarah, who was carrying a plate with food. She smiled at Sarah and kept on walking, eager to get to the concert.
But Zach's restaurant manager grabbed her arm.
"Have you seen this?" she asked, holding up the plate.
Patricia grabbed the offering, frowning in confusion. She recognized her crème brûlée and cardamon-carrot cupcakes and was that her pistachio cotton candy?
But she didn't make any cotton candy. Zach's warnings and the Rosemoor's electrical problems had dissuaded her. She'd decided she didn't really want to know what Mrs. Danvers could do with a cotton candy machine.
"Where did you get that?" she asked.
Sarah opened her mouth to answer, but was interrupted by a resonant baritone.
"She got them from me," Trevor said, stepping forward.
Patricia stared at the bright blue eyes that had made her melt not that very long ago, the perfectly coiffed hair, the quirky half-apologetic smile. Oh, she remembered that smile. It was his "I've been a bad boy smile" and he used it whenever she was angry at him over something. It always made her feel guilty and uncertain. He was accompanied by a pair of suit-clad executives and a couple of assistants wheeling...
Was that a cotton candy machine? Yes, an enormous, industrial-sized one, by the looks of it. She'd never seen a bigger cotton candy machine in her life. The sugar container alone could fit a small elephant. With its colored lights and garish paint, it looked like it belonged in an old-fashioned circus.
But she didn't have time to focus on that. Sarah's face was contorted in an uncomfortable expression of sympathy, and it really was not a good look for her.
The infamous Brit Bitch was actually sorry for her. Things must be really bad.
"I'm sorry, Patricia," she said. "Everyone wanted to see what the fancy Manhattan chef was doing. They tasted his stuff first."
An unfamiliar feeling washed over Patricia. It was fiery. It was strong.
It was rage.
Rage that was fermented and aged like a fine scotch. Rage that had remained bottled for years. Rage like she hadn't ever felt before.
Trevor turned toward Sarah and smiled. "Would you mind giving us some privacy?" He looked at the guys with the cotton candy machine. "You need to take that inside, make a couple of samples and hand them out. The cameramen will film the segment."
"During the concert?" one of the servers asked. "It's pitch black in there."
Trevor sighed. "That's the point. The stuff glows in the dark."
The servers nodded and left for the ballroom. The suits followed them and Patricia stared at their retreating backs, thoroughly confused. Why did her glow-in-the-dark cotton candy merit an audience?
Trevor looked at Sarah. "If you please..."
Zach's termagant of a manager hesitated. She apparently wanted to stay, but hesitated when faced with Trevor's exquisite manners. Yep, that was Trevor, cool and collected, even when caught in the act.
Sarah aimed a questioning glance at Patricia. Patricia nodded, gritting her teeth. She didn't need any help.
And she didn't want any witnesses.
Sarah opened the doors to the ballroom and disappeared inside. A familiar melody could be heard through the doors.
Great, she was missing Zach's concert. Could this night get any worse?
"I wanted to explain..." Trevor started.
Patricia interrupted him. "Again, Trevor? You did it again?"
"I didn't realize..."
"Didn't realize what?" her voice rose. "That this was my hometown? That my recipes were based on work done by the ow
ner of this building? Are you trying to tell me that this was all a big coincidence?"
Trevor glanced at the two executives, who were listening to the conversation with undisguised interest.
"Of course it wasn't by chance," he hissed. "Do you think I'm stupid? I couldn't believe it when they told me the promo would be filmed here. I spent days looking for the recipes..."
"They were in your e-mail." Patricia's voice dripped acid. "You were supposed to erase them, correction, you swore you erased them."
He raised his hands, trying to calm her down. "Patricia..."
But she refused to play along. "You said they were silly and gimmicky. You felt they were unsophisticated..."
Her voice trailed off as the hallway lights flickered. She frowned at the ceiling.
"Listen to me..." Trevor interrupted.
"I don't want to listen to you." The lights flickered again. "I just don't understand why?"
"Because it's what people want." His voice was a sharp hiss. "You don't understand. There's an investors' consortium desperate to get into the spooky mumbo-jumbo market. They tried buying someone's serial killer restaurant..." His laugh was tinged with bitterness. "Can you imagine someone putting up a slasher movie pizzeria."
Yes, she could. She stood, paralyzed, as her busy mind connected the dots.
"A successful one, apparently," Trevor continued. "And one that is, fortunately for me, not for sale."
A picture emerged. One she did not like at all. The people who wanted Zach's restaurant had not been happy with his refusals.
So they came up with a Plan B.
Trevor went on. "They asked my agency if they had any alternatives and they called me up. I had to think up something quick."
Patricia glared at him. "'Think' doesn't strike me as the right word. 'Steal' seems far more appropriate."
Trevor's jaw clenched. "They're offering a franchise, Patricia. A fully funded one, and those don't come easy. We just have to come up with a new concept. They liked the herbal thingie, which does," he grudgingly admitted, "have a certain vintage charm. But it's not enough. We need to come up with a better theme."