“Mr. Maple, we’re just about done with the ballroom,” Cheryl says. She clasps the clipboard to her chest, almost like a shield. It’s times like these I try to yield the floor to Cheryl. She often works closely with Mr. Maple and his massive entourage. I rarely get the pleasure because I’m usually busy parking cars. Even though I’m good at it, everyone knows what I really want to be is the house detective. I’ve been training my whole life, ever since Mom gave me my first magnifying glass when I was seven.
“Humph,” Mr. Maple grunts. He strolls steadily around the tables, inspecting our work. I get an itchy feeling inside, an urge to say something. It’s hard to suppress it but I must, especially since Mr. Maple’s entourage contains two very important people. First is the hotel’s actual house detective, Walter Tooey, who’s currently looking a bit nervous and wiping a bead of sweat from his brow. Walt is my mentor, and I’m his assistant. In between parking cars, I help him solve mysteries. Walt says I have a good eye for it. And I do! Just the other week I helped solve the case of the missing Bejeweled Aqua Chapeau, and then there was the case with that Soviet spy. It was kind of a big deal, which I guess makes me kind of a big deal, too.
“Hi, Walt!” I say, waving. He in turn flashes me the “look.” I respond with a grin. Walt does not return my smile. As Rob said just minutes ago, Oh boy.
Right behind Walt is my dear ol’ dad. Dad is the manager of the Crossed Palms Resort. He’s really good at what he does. He’s patient and calm, the two things you need when working at a very busy and popular resort. There’s always a crisis that needs to be averted, and Dad does so with ease.
Dad sees me and gives me a wink, which is all it takes to make me feel better.
“You!” Mr. Maple points to Evan.
“Yes, sir?”
“These are very important clients,” Mr. Maple barks. “When table one is seated, make sure the drinks are flowing, and don’t skimp on the powerful stuff. I don’t care about the rest of the tables. Keep your eye on table one.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll make sure the glasses are filled to the brim on table one,” Evan says. “Any special drink orders?”
Mr. Maple swivels over to his crowd of people pleasers, and they start to whisper among themselves until his secretary eventually steps forward. She whispers something to my dad, who also steps out of the blob of people.
“Dr. Von Thurston is set to be seated at table one like you requested, Mr. Maple,” Dad says.
“Well, of course he is!” Mr. Maple yells. “Dr. Von Thompson is the top headliner. Where else would he sit?”
“It’s Von Thurston,” I say.
My comment hushes the entourage. You can practically hear Walt’s heart thrumming against his rib cage. No one corrects Mr. Maple, especially not a short girl with a yellow headband.
“That’s what I said—Von Thurston,” Mr. Maple says, totally ignoring my existence. Then he goes right back to addressing the whole ballroom. “What about it?”
“He will only drink iced tea with a slice of lime,” Dad says.
“Then make sure he gets his iced tea!”
Evan nods and goes back to standing like a statue behind the bar. Mr. Maple continues his inspection.
“What is this here? What is this?” Mr. Maple picks up a woven finger trap and everyone freezes again. I see Cheryl grimace while Rob stares at the carpeted floor. When no one pipes up, Mr. Maple prods again. “Well?”
“I would be careful if I were you, Mr. Maple,” I say, breaking formation to walk over to him. “It’s a woven finger trap, and I spent the last half hour trying to extract my stuck fingers. If you look closely, you can see it’s still red.”
I show him my finger, and Mr. Maple steps back as if I’d shown him a broken body part.
“Whose idea was this?”
Now it’s Cheryl’s turn to step up to the plate.
“The League of Magical Arts sent us party favors,” she says. “They wanted to make sure the guests leave with a little token for their continued support.”
“A trick?” Mr. Maple says with disgust.
At the far end of the ballroom, the doors swing wide open.
“Good morning!”
Angela Diaz enters, wearing a pretty, yellow fit-and-flare dress. “I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille.”
Angela Diaz goes by the name of Angela, the Sorceress of Wonder, and she’s St. Pascal’s very own magician. I love watching her work. Angela tells me it’s rare to see a female magician grace the stage. Women are usually relegated to assistant positions, but the Sorceress of Wonder comes from a long line of magicians, so she accepts nothing less. Her father is a magician. Her grandfather is, too. As a kid, Angela toured the states with her family, performing at various festivals and county fairs. Her father now owns a small magic shop here in town, where you can pick up all types of tricks. It’s a pretty fun shop.
Angela is set to entertain the group tonight.
“Where would you like me to be?” Angela asks in a boisterous yet blunt tone that doesn’t quite match her petite frame but immediately turns heads. I think Angela’s real trick is how she appears meek and demure offstage but commands attention onstage and backstage. She loves performing in glamorous gowns, and her signature act includes beautiful doves that magically appear out of thin air. I ask her how she does it all the time. But true to the magician’s code, Angela never tells. She doesn’t even give me a hint.
“We’re almost done here, and then we’ll be able to do the rundown of your show,” Dad says. “Just a few more minutes.”
“Whatever you say.”
Angela tugs a chair from one of the tables, sits down, and pulls a deck of cards from her pocket. She smiles at me before she starts to shuffle.
After a few strolls around the ballroom, Mr. Maple seems content enough with the decorations. Cheryl lets out a sigh of relief as Mr. Maple and his entourage gather themselves to head to the exit.
Just when Mr. Maple is finally about to leave, a bellboy runs into the ballroom, out of breath. He walks over to Dad and whispers in his ear.
“Are you sure about that?” Dad asks. “Ummm, Mr. Maple, there seems to be an issue.”
Mr. Maple places his hand on the door. Cheryl moans quietly beside me. This can’t be good.
“It appears three of our servers have contracted the stomach flu. We will be short-staffed tonight.”
“Short-staffed!” Mr. Maple yells. “Short-staffed. That won’t do!”
He turns around and his eyes land on us.
“You two.” Mr. Maple points to Cheryl and then to me. Rob tries to hide behind me, which is ridiculous. He’s bigger than I am. “And you. You are now on for tonight.”
I can’t work today. This totally can’t happen to me. I’m not scheduled to work tonight. He can’t do this. Please, no.
“Excuse me, Mr. Maple,” I say. Doesn’t he understand I have a very important date with Diane? I plead with him. “I can’t possibly work tonight. I have a date.”
Mr. Maple twirls like a tornado to face me directly.
“Excuse me? You didn’t actually just tell me you can’t work tonight because of a date, did you?” he asks.
Walt is giving me the “look.” Cheryl is giving me the “look.” Heck, even Dad is giving me the “look.”
I sigh dejectedly. “No, Mr. Maple, I didn’t.…”
“This is a Crossed Palms Resort team effort. Everyone’s on deck!”
“Yes, Mr. Maple.”
With that, Mr. Maple and most of the entourage walk out of the ballroom. Dad stays behind.
“Sorry, Goldie,” he says. “You’ll have to reschedule your plans.”
He gives me a quick hug before trotting off to join the rest of the pencil-pushing gang. I slump into a chair beside Angela. I can’t believe it. My first official date with Diane is over before it could even get started.
“And I thought I had it made in the shade,” I say.
Rob and Cheryl gather round, offering me condo
lences.
“Sorry about that, Goldie. But does this mean I’ll be in the same room as the Dr. Von Thurston? And do I have to wear a tux?” Rob asks. “It’s my least favorite part of being a valet. I hate bow ties.”
“We’ll not only have to wear bow ties, but we’ll also have to make sure the drinks are flowing on table one. What a nightmare!” Cheryl jots down the changes to the schedule on her agenda. “I gotta alert the rest of the staff.”
Cheryl runs off, leaving me to mend my broken heart.
“Sorry, kid. As they always say in the biz, the show must go on,” Angela says. She spreads her deck of cards in front of me. “Pick a card. Any card. Make sure not to show me.”
I do. To my surprise, it’s the queen of hearts.
“Now put the card back, anywhere you want.”
I do.
“Now try to think about your card. Make sure you tell me your card, telepathically, so it will connect to my noggin right here.”
Angela taps her forehead. I close my eyes.
“Tails, you pull out the wrong card,” Evan says, and he flips his lucky coin up in the air and catches it.
“Aren’t you the nonbeliever?” Angela says. “I don’t think we’ve met.”
“Evan, this is Angela. Angela, Evan.” Rob does the introductions.
“Now, is this your card?” Angela asks.
She pulls out a joker, and I can’t help appreciating the irony. This is a complete joke, my having to work. But it’s the wrong card. I shake my head.
“Of course not. That’s not what you are magnetically sending to me.” Angela closes her eyes. “No. No. No.”
She opens her eyes wide. “Actually, Rob, can you check your pockets? I think you have something that belongs to me.”
Rob quickly does as he’s told and discovers the queen of hearts in his left pocket. He gasps.
“I love this trick!” Rob exclaims.
“Magicians.” Evan snorts behind us and tucks his coin away.
It’s a great trick. It is! But it doesn’t erase the fact I’ll have to let Diane down.
Seeing my frown, Angela does a bit of a flourish with her hands and makes a rose appear out of thin air.
“Here you go, sweet Goldie.”
“Thanks.” I hold the rose to my nose and think of Diane.
Chapter Three
I THINK MY BOW TIE IS TRYING TO STRANGLE ME.
“I don’t know about this, Cheryl,” I say, trying to loosen it up. It’s so tight and the outfit goes against my whole fashion persona. I live for chinos and sweater-vests. These tuxes are just way too stiff. My magnifying glass can barely fit in the pants pockets!
“Stop fiddling,” Cheryl says. “You look great!”
“Well, at least your suit fits you,” Rob says. “Look at me!”
Rob had to borrow a tuxedo from the regular staff. We all did. Unfortunately, his jacket is a size too small, and there wasn’t enough time for us to find a more suitable replacement.
“Just leave it unbuttoned and make sure to move quickly whenever you get too close to Mr. Maple,” Cheryl says.
She walks over to Rob and straightens his tie. Cheryl and Rob smile at each other. They’re cute, but I’m reminded of my love predicament and get sad.
Earlier in the day, I had to call Diane at Wax Lips to cancel our date.
“It’s okay. We’ll try again soon,” she said.
Her reaction sprung hope and made me even more determined. I promised her I would reschedule the dinner reservations for tomorrow. I can’t be on call all weekend long. Aren’t there laws against working a person to the bone?
“I need to button this jacket because I don’t want anyone to see this.”
Rob opens his shirt to reveal his copy of Dr. Von Thurston’s How to Be a Magician in Thirty Days. No wonder his suit jacket won’t close!
“I figured when there’s a lull in my shift, I might be able to get his signature,” Rob says sheepishly.
“Smart,” I say. “See, I have my pad and pen, just in case.” I show them my tools so Rob doesn’t feel as embarrassed. Always be prepared is my personal motto.
“Our job is to serve food to these magicians, not to see if they’re up to any foul play or to bother them for autographs,” Cheryl says. “Can you both promise to focus? I don’t want Mr. Maple to get mad at us.”
“No sweat! We’ll blend in like the rest of the penguins,” I say. “Just us penguins serving food. Waddle. Waddle. Waddle.”
I do my best penguin impression and Rob follows my lead. Cheryl laughs. Soon, three penguins are waddling in the kitchen. As much as Chef François, the Crossed Palms Resort’s head of culinary everything, is happy to see us working tonight, he’s not super excited about penguins waddling in his place of work. He flashes us a look, which is not to be confused with the “look.” This one is more of a universal “cut it out.” We stop.
The doors to the ballroom haven’t been officially opened, but they will be soon. In the meantime, the sweet aroma of Chef François’s amazing cooking is making my stomach growl and my eyes water.
“Petite fille, would you like to try one?” asks Chef François in his awesome French accent.
“Oui,” I say.
He offers a tray of French cheese puffs, or gougères, as he calls them. I eat one and immediately want to store another in my pocket for later. A little cheese puff can do wonders for a person. After two quick bites, the tux doesn’t feel so bad. It also reminds me that I do get to work with my two best friends tonight.
The cooks are lining up the trays of various snacks that we’ll be circulating to the crowd of magicians before they take their assigned seats. Chef François runs a very tight kitchen. If you’re ever lucky enough to find yourself in a kitchen as professional as the one in the Crossed Palms Resort, you’ll see a true work of art. Every single person has a job to do, and they do it with precision and love. Like a dance, the cooks work in unison, calling out to one another if someone is missing an ingredient or a garnish of any type. I can watch them work all day, especially if I get to sample the wares.
Just as I’m about to pop another one of the cheesy cheese puffs, a bell goes off. It’s our cue to take the many delicious treats out to the ballroom.
“All right, penguins,” I say as I grab a tray. “Let’s go waddle with the magicians!”
The Sugar Maple Ballroom is slowly filling up with pretty dresses, suits, and dazzling capes. It’s a slow surge and not too intense. People are making their way in, matching their names with their assigned seats. Rob is beside himself with excitement. I bet I would feel just like he does if I were in a ballroom filled with detectives. Just imagine the possibilities. We could exchange detective tips, like, What are the best gadgets to use? The appropriate binoculars? Huh, maybe I should push for a detective convention. Does that even exist? Mental note to find out.
Speaking of detectives, Walt is here. Like a good detective, he totally blends in: He’s wearing a tux, like the rest of the staff. Nothing out of the ordinary in his attire. I mosey over to him while guests grab cheese puffs off my tray.
“Care for a gougère?” I ask.
Walt shakes his head. “No eating while on the job.”
“Don’t worry, Walt. I’m following the detective rules even though I’m starving,” I say. “Anything I should be paying attention to?”
I scan the ballroom like Walt. As a detective, your eyeballs should always be moving. It’s quite a skill to pay attention to a conversation while tracking the actions of those around.
“This is just your standard observation. You know the drill. Survey the room for any unusual occurrences.” Walt tugs a bit at his tie. “You just stick to making sure these guests are well fed and the iced tea flows.”
“Flowing iced tea,” I say. “Got it!”
The key to being a strong detective is being a keen observer. For example, as I walk across the ballroom, offering cheese puffs to guests, I notice a magician pulling a coin from behind
a young woman’s ear. Next to him is another magician, not impressed by the trick. But the woman sure is. She is laughing with glee. Is the frowning magician jealous, is he a rival, or is this his usual demeanor and my first reaction isn’t quite right? As a detective, you have to consider all the possibilities, make a note of them, and press on.
When I run out of cheese puffs, I head back to the kitchen to reload. This time Chef François hands me a tray of salmon mousse canapés.
“Salmon canapés? Salmon canapés?” I say as the ballroom becomes more and more crowded. I spy Angela Diaz commanding a group of people. Rob is across the way, looking nervously at the ballroom doors. He’s waiting for Dr. Von Thurston to appear. Cheryl is off helping a group of guests find their seats, while Walt cases the room. Everything is moving along.
“Do you have anything else besides canapés? How about pigs in a blanket or fondue? Don’t you have fondue?”
A boy about my age with curly dark-brown hair is suddenly standing beside me, asking questions at a rapid speed. Unlike the rest of the attendees, he’s not dressed in a tux. Instead, this boy wears a bright-blue velvet suit.
“No, we don’t have any fondue. Would you like to try the salmon canapés?”
“Salmon canapés are a major snafu. The last convention we attended struck canapés off the menu and ordered extra pigs in a blanket,” he says. “People may scoff at pigs in a blanket, but why meddle with a good thing? That’s what I always say.”
I nod at him, smile, and walk over to another group. To my surprise, Blue Velvet Suit follows me. I’m not sure what’s happening. Maybe he’s bored and wants to continue to extol the virtues of pigs in a blanket? I can’t say.
“Fondue is the epitome of gourmet cooking right now,” he says.
“I’ll make sure to relay the message to the chef,” I say. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
Goldie Vance--The Hocus-Pocus Hoax Page 2
