Dinner is Served

The side door opens quietly, and the cook steps into the dining room carrying a silver serving tray balanced carefully in both hands. The warm glow of candlelight catches softly against her dark hair and the pale apron tied neatly over her black dress. Up close, she looks younger than I first expected, with intelligent dark eyes and the tired posture of somebody who spends more time taking care of other people than herself.

Ingram notices me watching her and gestures calmly in her direction with his wine glass. “Our cook, Briana,” he says. Briana gives a small polite nod without fully meeting my eyes before moving carefully around the table to begin serving dinner.

Briana serves dinner with the quiet efficiency of somebody who has spent years navigating tense rooms without drawing attention to herself. She moves carefully around the massive table carrying silver platters heavy with roasted beef, garlic potatoes, buttered vegetables, and fresh bread still steaming from the kitchen.

Candlelight flickers softly across the polished serving trays while rain lashes the tall windows beyond the portraits watching us from the walls. Nobody speaks much at first. The Crawfords dine calmly and neatly, quiet enough for silverware against china to sound unnaturally loud. Even Brandon behaves himself once food appears, though he still looks vaguely offended by the concept of vegetables.

I, meanwhile, am trying not to inhale my entire plate like a starving raccoon. Briana pauses briefly beside me while refilling wine glasses around the table. Up close, I notice flour still dusted faintly along one sleeve near her wrist despite the formal apron. Her dark eyes flick toward me for only a second before returning immediately to her work.

“So,” Griswell says finally while cutting into his steak, “Miss James. What exactly brings a woman like you wandering through the Blacklands during a thunderstorm?”

I swallow carefully before answering. “Truck trouble mostly. Bad timing second.”

“A woman alone carrying a revolver usually suggests a more interesting story than truck trouble.”

“That depends how upsetting you find transmission failure,” I reply.

A faint smile touches Ingram’s mouth while Roseanne looks distinctly less amused. “And what is it you do for a living, Miss James?” Ingram asks. Every face at the table turns toward me again.

“I’m a private investigator,” I answer carefully.

Brandon immediately perks up. “Like Batman?”

“Lower budget,” I reply. “More motel coffee.” That actually earns a laugh from Alisha.

“A private investigator,” Roseanne repeats slowly, clearly uncertain whether to find that nefarious or merely trashy. “What sort of cases do you work?”

“Missing persons mostly. Fraud sometimes. Domestic work occasionally.” I take another sip of wine. “Every now and then something stranger.”

Griswell leans back slightly in his chair. “Stranger how?”

I glance briefly toward the rain-streaked windows. “Depends whether you believe in ghosts.” That changes the atmosphere around the table immediately. It is subtle, but noticeable. Alisha becomes more interested, while Roseanne more uncomfortable.

Ingram Crawford becomes very still. “I take it,” he says calmly, “that you do.”

“I believe people are capable of convincing themselves almost anything is supernatural if it scares them badly enough.”

“That is not an answer.”

“No,” I admit lightly. “It usually keeps conversations shorter though.” Across the room, Corbett silently refills my wine glass while pretending not to listen.

Griswell chuckles softly. “I like her.”

“You like everybody who carries a gun and talks back to you,” Roseanne says.

While they bicker softly, I study the family more carefully over the rim of my glass. Ingram watches everyone at the table constantly, even while speaking. Roseanne watches me. Brandon watches absolutely nothing because he has discovered mashed potatoes. Alisha watches everyone while pretending that she is not.

Corbett steps silently to Ingram’s side once Briana finishes serving the first course. The old butler leans down just enough to murmur something quietly into his employer’s ear before straightening once more. Ingram gives a faint acknowledging nod without changing expression.

“If you will excuse me,” Corbett says calmly to the table, “I need to attend to several matters elsewhere in the manor.”

“Of course,” Ingram replies. For the briefest moment, Corbett’s eyes flick toward me, not long enough for anyone else to notice. Then the butler disappears once more through the side door, leaving the family alone beneath the candlelight and looming portraits.

“Well,” Griswell says after a moment, cutting into his steak again, “now that the vampire has departed…”

“Griswell,” Roseanne sighs.

“What? You’re telling me Corbett doesn’t look like he sleeps upside down in a coffin somewhere?”

Brandon immediately lights up. “Does he?”

“No,” Ingram says flatly.

“That sounds exactly like what somebody protecting a vampire would say,” Griswell replies. To my surprise, Alisha snorts softly into her wine glass trying not to laugh. I smile despite myself. The tension around the table loosens slightly after Corbett leaves.

Conversation begins moving more naturally now, less formal and carefully measured. Roseanne starts discussing an upcoming charity gala in Charlotte while sounding deeply offended by the existence of some of the members on the planning committee.

Griswell interrupts repeatedly with sarcastic commentary just to irritate her. Brandon complains about boarding school. Alisha quietly apologizes to me for Brandon without him noticing. Meanwhile, Ingram watches all of it with the calm distant expression of a man sitting slightly outside his own family.

“You never answered Griswell’s question fully,” he says eventually, turning back toward me. “What sort of strange cases does a private investigator encounter?”

I take another sip of wine before answering. “The kind where people call me instead of the police because they already know the police will laugh at them.”

Outside, thunder rolls once more through the Blacklands while rain rattles softly against the towering dining room window. The potraits around us seem to watch disapprovingly while candlelight flickers across the faces gathered around the Crawford family table.