All eyes turned to the front. An elegant Queen Guinevere stood at the microphone, her green velvet gown and floral head wreath belying the professional garb she usually wore at the office.
“Welcome to the first annual Inspiration Valley Book and Author Festival. I’m Bentley Burlington-Duke, owner and founder of Novel Idea Literary Agency, the main sponsor of this event. I must say, I am overwhelmed with the success of the festival. Attendance is beyond our expectations, and I hope you are all enjoying yourselves as well as acquiring useful information and contacts.”
People began clapping, and Bentley waited for the clamor to quiet down before continuing. “The festival offers something for everyone, and tonight’s masquerade party is a wonderful bridge between the workshops and sessions for authors that were held yesterday and today, and tomorrow’s classes on book repair, preservation, and illustration. In the vendors’ hall I’ve had the pleasure of speaking to authors and editors, librarians and bibliophiles, and, most important of all, readers.”
A thunder of applause interrupted her once again. She held up her hand. “I won’t keep you from your revelry too much longer, but I’d like to thank my agents and all of our helpers who transformed this town hall into a Halloween ballroom. They did a marvelous job. In a few minutes, the tapas stations will be open, and afterward, our local band, the Valley Warblers, will entertain you. Enjoy yourselves tonight.”
Throughout Bentley’s speech, I kept glancing around, feeling as if I were in a magical library in which characters in the books had stepped out from the pages. The enchantment was marred, however, by my uneasy awareness that Kirk Mason was one of the black-shrouded individuals in this very room and I couldn’t recognize him.
Dinner was a delicious romp through different taste experiences. The tapas stations set up by the Nine Muses Restaurant presented a fantastic feast. I filled my plate with shrimp satay and a dollop of peanut sauce, a quinoa salad with tomatoes and a hint of cilantro, sliced sirloin with capers and onions, little fresh spring rolls with fresh vegetables, and grouper in a tantalizing curry sauce. I relaxed my no-alcohol resolve to complement the meal with a dry, crisp Riesling, and for dessert I simply could not resist a chocolate orange pot de crème.
After dinner, Sean and I went from table to table under the pretense of chatting with the guests, but we had no luck finding Kirk Mason. Even as we spun on the dance floor, we both kept a lookout for the sinister man, noting every Edgar Allan Poe who passed by. Still, Mason eluded us.
As the evening drew to a close, the last dance was announced. The Valley Warblers, who were surprisingly good at jazzy numbers, crooned out Nat King Cole’s “The Party’s Over.” Sean took me in his arms, and I molded into his embrace. For a brief time the synchronized swaying of our bodies allowed me to forget about Kirk Mason, Edgar Allan Poe, and everything else. There was just my Greek warrior.
The dance ended all too soon. Almost instantaneously, it seemed, we were saying good-bye to the partygoers, blowing out candles, and taking down decorations. The hall had to be ready for tomorrow’s workshops, and although the maintenance staff would do the cleanup, the decorations were the responsibility of the agency.
I gathered the pumpkin candles into a box. Sean started taking down the bat and cat streamers. Still humming “The Party’s Over,” I began daydreaming about what might transpire later when Sean took me home.
However, I was startled out of my reverie by Vicky, who was dressed like Virginia Woolf. At her side was Franklin, looking remarkably like an older Sherlock Holmes.
“Lila, did you move those barriers to the restricted section?” Vicky stuck her hands in the pockets of her long sweater and eyed me accusingly.
“The hallway where Kirk Mason came after me? No way.” I put down the box I was holding. “Why?”
Alerted by our conversation, Sean came over. “What’s up?”
“The barriers have been pushed aside. I know for a fact they were in place when I draped those cobwebs over the doorway earlier.”
“And I swear they were still in position during dinner,” added Franklin.
“But not anymore,” insisted Vicky. “Come along, I’ll show you.”
Sean followed Franklin and Vicky, and I stayed close behind him. My earlier uneasiness returned, and the image of Kirk Mason came to the forefront of my mind.
“See? It’s as if someone hurriedly pushed them out of the way.” Vicky pointed to the opening that led into that dark hall. “Even the cobweb is torn.”
The two wooden barriers had been roughly shoved clear of the doorway, one rammed up against the other. And the large synthetic cobweb that hung across the entry had been ripped in half, unveiling the portal into the black passageway that had been the site of my encounter with Mason.