A Masquerade of Muertos (Wisteria Tearoom Mysteries Book 5) (3 page)

She stopped in the doorway, perhaps for effect. Her eyes widened like a little girl’s and her mouth opened in a beestung “O,” then she turned her head to look up at the chandelier. I began to think there was a discussion I had missed.

“Hello, Margo,” Cherie said. “Dale, you look so mainstream. Are you feeling all right?”

Dale shot me a self-conscious glance. The dining parlor was getting full, so I slipped out to do a last minute check on the food.

“Mrs. Olavssen left,” Rosa said, coming up to me. “That was a mean trick she played on you!”

I waved a dismissive hand. “No harm done.”

“Well, it was in bad taste. After all you’ve been through...”

“Thanks, Rosa, but it’s all right. She didn’t mean to be rude.”

“You’re so good to forgive her,” Rosa said with a rueful smile.

She took off her apron and put it in the laundry hamper in the little hallway outside the butler’s pantry. In its place she put on a raincoat from one of the coat hooks there, pulling her hair free of the collar. “You sure you’ll be all right?”

“Yes, Dee’s here. And Ramon. Go on home and have a nice evening.”

She glanced toward the dining parlor. “Same to you,” she said, not sounding very hopeful about it.

Dee was in the pantry arranging food on two three-tiered tea trays, frowning in concentration behind her dark-framed glasses. Pots of tea sat ready under cozies.

“Can I help?” I asked.

“Just waiting for the scones. Go be the hostess.”

“Kris is the hostess tonight,” I said, picking up one of the teapots and setting it on a tray. “I’ll take this on in.”

The last two attendees had arrived in my absence and stood talking with Cherie and Margo: a tall, ethereal blonde dressed in layers of white gauze, looking like a dove in a flock of crows, and a devilishly handsome Hispanic man in a tailored black suit. Their body language—subtle touches, elbow brushes, frequent glances—suggested that they were a romantic couple. I edged my way past them and set the teapot on the sideboard.

“Ah, here’s Ellen,” said Kris, turning to the room. “Has everyone met Ellen?”

“I haven’t,” said the blonde, turning wide, pale blue eyes toward me in open curiosity.

“Ellen, this is Gwyneth Bancroft, and that’s Roberto Chavez,” Kris said.

“How do you do?” I said, shaking hands. Gwyneth’s hand was cold, Roberto’s almost hot.

“Shall we sit down?” I added. “The food is about to come in.”

The group milled around the table, finding their names on the place cards. Gwyneth paused before taking her seat, looking up at the chandelier.

The crystals remained still. At last Gwyneth gave a little sigh and drifted into her chair.

Nine chairs pretty much filled the room. Kris had drawn up the seating chart, and had honored my request to be near the door in case Dee needed help with anything. The empty chair across from me was for Ramon.

I uncovered the teapot and poured: Assam, a rich and malty tea, at Kris’s request. Dee came in, followed by Ramon, who had removed the hairnet and let down the ponytail, black hair not quite brushing his shoulders. They each carried a tiered tea tray, and as they set them near either end of the table a murmur of approval went up from the group.

Smiling, I filled my own cup and Ramon’s, then returned the pot to the sideboard and took my seat. Roberto, seated beside me, picked up the printed menu by his plate.

Afternoon tea, which was technically what this was even though it was evening, was a substantial meal. I had skipped lunch, and was thankful to start passing the savories at my end of the table. I took a cucumber sandwich, a pumpkin fritter, and a cream-cheese-and-pistachio-stuffed date, then passed the plate to Roberto.

“Thanks for coming, everyone,” Kris said from the opposite corner. She had placed Gabriel at the head of the table instead of herself, which was interesting. Kris was not the sort of person who generally deferred to others.

“And thank you for being willing to help with All Hallows Eve,” she added. “It should be a smashing party.”

Ramon shot me a glance as he slid into his chair. Gwyneth, beside him, gave him a winsome smile.

“Did everyone get Gabriel’s email?” Kris asked.

I hadn’t, but I supposed that didn’t matter. My function at their Halloween party would be behind the scenes. Kris had suggested I didn’t need to be there at all, but since the house was my home, I was not going to vacate for an evening party, particularly this one. I’d decided to help serve and keep an eye on things.

“Which email?” Margo asked, pausing with sandwich halfway to her mouth.

“The one about the theme.”

I glanced at Ramon, who shrugged. Most of the others nodded. Gwyneth added a lump of sugar to her teacup.

“OK, then,” Kris said, “I’ll let him explain what he’s got planned.”

I watched her trade smiles with Gabriel. His gaze lingered on her just a second longer than necessary, then he turned his attention to the table.

“Has everyone read the story?” he asked.

“Story?” Gwyneth said. “There’s a story?”

“’The Masque of the Red Death,’” said Kris.

“Oh, that.”

“If you haven’t read it, please do,” Gabriel said. “It’s the basis for the theme. It’s not long.”

It had been years, but I remembered reading it. Edgar Allen Poe, one of his more picturesque tales. A prince, fabulously rich, throws an elaborate party for his noble cronies while a plague rages outside the castle walls.

“So, we’ll be using seven of the alcoves as the seven chambers of Prospero’s abbey. The food will be finger food, like this,” he said, taking a deviled egg from the tray in front of him, “a different item in each chamber, presided over by one of us. Here’s a map.” Gabriel handed a stack of paper to Cherie, who took one and passed the rest to Margo.

“These alcoves are pretty small,” Cherie said.

“Yes. People will go through as they arrive, in shifts if necessary. Four at a time, probably. Since we can’t have stained glass windows and braziers, we’ll have candle lanterns with glass of the right color in each chamber.”

When the maps came to me, I saw that it was our floor plan for the tearoom’s ground floor. Kris had copied it, and Gabriel had made notes on the alcoves—white, blue, green, orange—and drawn in a crisscrossing traffic pattern. Seven of the eight alcoves were labeled with colors; the smallest, Poppy, would serve as an entryway.

“The final chamber is the one called Rose,” he continued. “We’ll decorate it all in black, and the lamps in there will be red.” He glanced at me, watching for objections. Kris and I had already talked about what kind of decorations were OK and what I preferred they leave alone. I nodded.

“There’s a mantel clock in that room already, so it’s perfect,” Gabriel said. He turned his gaze on me and I found myself straightening my shoulders. “The clock is accurate, right?”

“It keeps time pretty well,” I said. “I can set it that day.”

“And it chimes every hour?”

“Yes. Also on the quarter hours. It’s the Westminster chimes, and at the top of the hour it’s followed by gongs for the hour.”

“Only the top of the hour matters. Ramon, when the gongs start, you pause, no matter where you are in the music.”

“OK,” Ramon said.

“And everyone stops what they’re doing, wherever they are, and stands still until the chimes end. Then the music starts again.”

This was beginning to sound familiar. I’d have to dig up that Poe story and read it again.

I cleared my throat. “I don’t think the clock can be heard in the south side of the house,” I said apologetically.

“I’ve got that worked out,” Gabriel said. “I’ll put a wireless mic under it and a speaker in the gift shop. I brought them with me tonight, to test.”

Dee came in with fresh tea and started filling cups. Gwyneth offered hers with a charming smile. The one savory she’d taken—a deviled egg—sat untouched on her plate.

Gabriel went on, saying he wanted each of the people around the table to wear the color of one of the seven chambers. He assigned them all: white for Gwyneth (obviously), blue for Cherie, orange for Margo.

“I look terrible in orange!” she said, pouting.

Gabriel’s brow creased slightly in exasperation, but his voice was gentle. “No, you don’t.”

“I
hate
orange!”

“I’ll switch with you,” Roberto offered. “You can be green and I’ll be orange.”

“Thank you, Roberto,” Margo said, turning to him with a sudden, sweet smile.

“You still haven’t explained how you’re going to manage the ending,” Cherie said, helping herself to a scone.

Gabriel looked at her, eyes narrowed a little in mischief. “You can’t guess?”

I reached for my teacup and found it empty. Poe’s story did not end well, as I recalled.

“Doesn’t everyone wind up dead?” I asked in a small voice. “In the story, I mean.”

“Yes, of course,” Gabriel said. “We’ll be doing that symbolically.”

He signaled to Ramon, who stood and headed for the kitchen. Julio had said there was a special item for the party’s menu but he hadn’t told me what it was.

“We’ll need someone to play the role of the stranger,” Gabriel said, giving me a glance. “Someone who doesn’t mind being in costume.”

“I could do it,” said Dee from the doorway. She had a teapot in her hands, and her eyes were bright with interest.

Gabriel gave her a long, speculative look. I felt a stab of worry; she was just twenty-one, and Gabriel’s personality was decidedly magnetic.

“As the clock strikes midnight,” he said, “the stranger appears in the blue chamber. The prince challenges him, and he makes his way through each of the chambers in turn until he reaches the black chamber. There the prince confronts him. In the story, the prince dies, and his followers tear off the stranger’s mask, only to find nothing underneath the shroud. Then one by one they fall dead. What we’re going to do is symbolize that. When he gets to the black chamber, the stranger will serve everyone this.”

Gabriel gestured toward the doorway. Ramon came in past Dee, carrying a tray of small cordial glasses filled with a clear, bright red liquid. It didn’t look like blood, but somehow it looked sinister. As Ramon passed the glasses around to the silent guests, I saw them sparkling subtly.

“We drink, then we all unmask,” Gabriel said, raising his glass.

Ramon reached the foot of the table with two cordial glasses left. He gave one to me, took one for himself, and set aside the tray.

I was distinctly reluctant to taste what was in my glass. It was definitely glittering; someone had added some of the edible glitter that we used for decorating. I frowned, and sniffed at the liquor. A faint smell of spice reached me.

“What is it, Gabriel?” Gwyneth asked. She looked angry, and her voice trembled a little.

Gabriel smiled. “Cinnamon schnapps, and a little food coloring. Cheers.”

We all watched in silence as he knocked back his glass. He set it on the table and regarded us.

I realized I was holding my breath. Gabriel’s storytelling had affected me. I gave myself a mental shake and a silent scold.

Kris sipped from her glass, eyes on Gabriel. He smiled.

“Schnapps. Ugh,” Cherie said. “Why not absinthe?”

“Because it’s green, my dear. This is the Masque of the Red Death, not the Green Death.”

“What about sloe gin? That’s red,” said Gwyneth.

“That’s even worse!” Cherie protested.

“I agree,” said Margo. “Not that I care for schnapps.”

“You might as well just make it a Bloody Mary,” said Dale with a wicked grin, prompting immediate, indignant protests.

Gabriel shrugged. “If you all object to schnapps, then it can be vodka. It’s the color that matters.”

“Or lack thereof,” said Cherie.

Margo shrugged. “At least with vodka, you can choose from more flavors.”

“Pumpkin spice vodka,” Ramon murmured, making me grin. I sniffed my glass again, then took a sip. Definitely cinnamon-y.

“I thought cinnamon would be appropriate,” Gabriel said. “Red death.”

“So that’s it?” Roberto asked. “We drink a shot of vodka and take off our masks?”

Gabriel nodded. “The enchantment ends at midnight. So does the story. The party can continue, of course.”

Again, he glanced at me. Kris had asked about running late, and I’d agreed to it for an additional fee. I had drawn the line at two a.m. I’d have to get
some
sleep that night.

“So, you get to be the prince,” Roberto said with an edge of bitterness, “and we’re all supposed to bow down to you.”

“Would you prefer to be Prospero?” Gabriel said, a clear note of challenge in his voice. “It doesn’t matter to me.”

The tension in the room cranked up a notch as they stared down. Finally Gwyneth’s bell-like laughter broke it.

“Really, Roberto. It’s Gabriel’s idea, and he’s clearly put a lot of planning into it. He should be the prince.”

Roberto glowered at her across the table. Interestingly, rather than reacting meekly, she fixed him with a clear do-what-I-say glare.

“If you don’t like the theme, you can always put forward an alternative,” Gabriel said.

There was a long silence. Apparently no other themes were forthcoming.

“It’s a charming conceit, I’ll give you that,” Cherie said. “I can’t think of a better one.”

“I think it’ll work,” said Dale, nodding. “We’ll all be pretty stoked by midnight.”

I grimaced, picturing forays into the garden for recreational smoking. I’d been explicit with Kris: no drugs of any kind on the property, no underage guests since there would be alcohol, no smoking in the house including vapor cigarettes, which I thought foul. She had promised me she’d make sure of these conditions, that anyone who smoked outside would use an ash tray, and that there would be no minors at the party. They’d ordered cases of champagne and red wine to go along with the menu that Julio had created for them, and there would be other drinks including absinthe.

I looked at Dale, hoping that it was the wine he’d referred to. Maybe I’d hold off on the job offer until after the 31st. He’d done well at his interview, but I couldn’t deny being curious to see how he behaved at this party.