No Return: A Contemporary Phantom Tale by Christine Pope Read Free Book Online Page B

break room looked like an explosion in the costume closet at the Met. Everyone appeared to have taken George’s instructions seriously, and there wasn’t a cheap satin-draped Dracula or bunny-eared leotard in the bunch. Probably a lot of people had done the same as I had—called in favors from the drama departments of their respective schools, since most of the wait staff were struggling students like myself.  
    “Wow,” Michael, one of the waiters, said at my ear. “Who are you supposed to be?”
    “Marguerite,” I replied, then added, at his blank look, “From Faust .”
      “Ah. Better watch out, then, because I think George is dressed as Mephistopheles.”
    “Great....” It made sense, though. George resembled Goethe’s dapper version of the devil even in street clothes, with his carefully groomed goatee and slicked-back dark hair.
    Michael himself was wearing some fancy toreador-style outfit that looked as if it had come straight from Olvera Street. It went well with his dark hair and olive complexion, but he didn’t look very comfortable in it; he kept hitching his shoulders under the heavy embroidered jacket and pulling at the tight collar of his high-necked shirt.  
    “Don José?” I asked, and he nodded.
    “I couldn’t think of anything else, and then when I heard that Meg was dressing as Carmen...”
    Poor boy. Meg probably couldn’t remember his name from one day to the next, but I wasn’t about to tell him that. I smiled and said, “Well, just remember that Don José ends up knifing Carmen at the end!”
    He looked stricken. “Are you kidding?”
    It was amazing how many people worked at L’Opera without knowing anything about the real thing. Michael was a musician, but strictly of the rock variety, and didn’t seem to be too concerned about furthering his college career, since he was now in his fourth year at Pasadena City College.
    “It’s okay, Mike,” I said. “We’re just supposed to dress like them, not act like them.”
    “Oh, right, yeah.”
    I looked up at the clock. “Oh, heck, I need to get out there. If I make it through tonight without spilling a plate of marinara on this gown, I’ll be totally shocked.”
    I picked up a menu pad and a pen—George had told us it was all right to go without the aprons tonight—and went on out into the dining room. Looking around, I had to admit that George and the staff who’d been on earlier in the day had done a nice job of decorating the place. Cobwebs festooned the heavy wrought-iron chandeliers, candelabra flickered on the tables, and interesting gargoyle fixtures had been placed at strategic spots around the restaurant. It wasn’t overdone, but the additions definitely made the restaurant—already highly atmospheric, with its stone walls and floor, iron light fixtures, and mural of the façade of La Scala on the far wall—look gloomy and haunted.  
    The real festivities wouldn’t start for another hour or so, but we had early diners who were grabbing a bite before moving on to their own parties or concerts. Some were in costume, but not all. Everyone seemed to be in a cheerful mood, however, and I hoped the evening would continue to run smoothly.
    Not for the first time, I found myself wishing Randall could have come. He had a paying gig to play at a private party in Bel Air, though, and I hadn’t been about to ask him to turn down five hundred dollars just so he could watch me wait tables all night. He’d wanted to see me in the Marguerite gown, but I’d promised to take lots of pictures—a promise I was miserably failing to fulfill right now—and we had made tentative plans to go to the Day of the Dead festivities in Olvera Street in two days as a sort of compensation for not being together on Halloween, since neither of us had ever been.
    I’d always loved Halloween growing up; we’d lived in a quiet family neighborhood where kids could roam safely in search of treats, and my mother, a talented seamstress, had