Deceiving Mr. Bevison

  ****

  The Refectory looked great. There were lit candles in the cast-iron wall sconces along the east wall, and the old wooden paneling glowed in the soft light. Each table had a white cloth, a small votive candle, and a centerpiece with sprigs of lavender and mint. The scent of the flowers and herbs mingled with the aroma of the roast and fresh vegetables that were waiting in the kitchen. After an exhausting day visiting their kids, the parents were sitting down to enjoy some real food without the student body present. And, while they were tired and mellow, there was a good chance the teachers would take the opportunity to do a little fundraising.

  The students were all in St. Rupert’s dress uniform, navy jacket and tie with gray flannel trousers. The parents were dressed to the nines. We servers, however, had on long black aprons over our dress pants. Only Ms. Kent and Ian were in full Highland dress kilts and jackets.

  Brother Matthew started the evening with a greeting and prayer. Thankfully it wasn’t too long, so the food wouldn’t get cold. He ended, “And now, let me present the St. Rupert’s Pipe Band.” He turned toward the kitchen door, clapping.

  On cue, Ms. Kent winked at Ian and straightened her jacket. She and Ian fired up their drones and marched into the dining room playing a rousing version of “Scotland the Brave” as the rest of us marched behind—me, Brookie, Mort, Pete, Jerrod, Prakash, and Eric, carrying large trays of food on our shoulders. Eric was pretty steady, considering his size, as he precariously balanced his tray on one shoulder. He heaved a sigh of relief as he made it to his table in one piece.

  The bagpipe music was pretty loud indoors, even for me. Brookie gave the crowd a wicked glance.

  “A captive and deafened audience begs for mercy. Maybe Ms. Kent and Ian will promise to stop playing as soon as there is enough money raised to repair the chapel roof?”

  “Yeah. I can’t believe they gave me a tray with food on it.” I was balancing it delicately, hoping I didn’t drop the whole thing down somebody’s neck.

  We put the big trays down on stands and handed out plates to each parent. It was agony to serve all that good food—roast beef, red potatoes, peas, and salad—because we hadn’t eaten yet, not since the green eggs and ham at the brunch. Some of us hadn’t eaten much of that.

  As I handed around the plates, I looked up briefly, and I stopped short. My mouth must have been hanging open wide enough to drive a truck through. Doggone if that wasn’t Harley. Brilliant. Who’d let him in? He was at it again.

  It was torture, but I kept my cool, didn’t shout or run out of the room screaming. I smiled and gave out plates and responded in a dazed fashion to the parents’ questions, until I had handed all the plates around to the parents, teachers, and monks and filled their water glasses. I hurried back to the kitchen, my hunger forgotten.

  “Harley Bevison alert, guys,” I gasped as I burst through the swing door.

  “What . . . ?” Everyone rushed to the swinging aluminum door to peek out into the room. Ms. Kent and Ian were just heading back toward the kitchen after playing their set, and the people were starting to eat.

  It was the first time the other band members had gotten a close look at Harley, and they were practically fighting for a closer look. Prakash got them in line in short order. “Ten seconds, and then let the guy behind you through to see him. Hear ye, hear ye, step right up. Only a quarter and you can have the chance to witness the jerk eating his dinner, just like he belongs here.”

  Harley wasn’t playing the part of the humble monk tonight. Instead, it seemed he was being the jovial businessman. His gestures were expansive, and he was busy making sure everybody had the salt and pepper, and he was flattering all the ladies. You could almost hear him offering to sell you that oil well that wasn’t producing yet but was guaranteed by his good friend in the business. Yuck.

  “Look over there in the corner, Ms. Kent,” Prakash whispered as she came up to the door. She and Ian looked puzzled as they tried to get past us into the kitchen. They turned and looked. Ms. Kent spotted The Bevison right away, even in the low light.

  “That . . .” Ms. Kent bit her lip to keep from saying more, probably a bad word. She looked pretty grim; her lips were pressed together in a thin line. “Okay, what’s he doing here?”

  “To tell you the truth, we think he’s got an accomplice in the school or monastery, getting him into these buildings, Ms. Kent,” Ian said carefully.

  She groaned. “Like life isn’t complicated enough?” Her lips were even firmer now. “I’ll go out and talk to him.”

  Ian stepped in front of her and waved a hand at us. “No, no, let these guys handle this. They’re waiters and have an excuse to strike up a conversation with Harley.” Besides, I was already out the door.

  The crowd was finishing up their meal and starting to mingle, parents asking the teachers questions we probably didn’t want to hear. We hurriedly cleared the tables and went back for the wine and dessert trays. We were supposed to carry our little trays and offer glasses of St. Rupert’s Best Dandelion Wine and slices of Abbot’s Choice Gooseberry Tart to the clusters of parents. The Bevison was standing with a group of parents. Unfortunately for me, there were none of the monks or teachers anywhere near him. If I was going to spot the accomplice type working with him, they would have to hang out together, right? Maybe somebody else at his table was his accomplice. Everyone looked up as I hurried toward the group. I was almost tipping the tray. I smiled my best smile.

  “Hello, Mr. Bevison.” I shoved the tray under his nose. “It’s good to see you . . . here.” He took a tiny glass of wine from my tray.

  “Thanks, son. I don’t seem to recall the face.” His eyes narrowed a little, and he looked just a little paler. He remembered me, all right.

  “I’m Charlie MacDonough, one of the St. Rupert’s Pipe Band members.” Harley turned from the group to look intently at me.

  “So you’re one of the boys who like to dress up in skirts, like the Ladies from Hell,” he said a little maliciously, sneering.

  Some members of his group laughed nervously. Maybe they sensed the veiled venom, but I burned inside at his attempted putdown. Nobody in our band was dressing up. We were a serious band. Many brave Scottish soldiers had been called “Ladies from Hell” because of their ferocity toward the Germans in World War II. Bagpipers had been the first ashore on D-day. I took a deep breath to tell them all about it, but instead I said, “Have a gooseberry tart, Mr. Bevison,” through my clenched teeth.

  A nice lady saved me by frowning at Harley’s joke and turning to me very graciously. “You boys certainly work hard, then, all that practice and study.”

  “Yes, ma’am, we do,” I said proudly. I gave her an appreciative smile; she had obviously noticed I was uncomfortable with Harley’s remark.

  “Well, cheers then, everyone,” said Harley, toasting everyone with his glass.

  How could Harley look so much like a profiteering Santa Claus, everybody’s good friend? I guess he must have had a good side at some point in his life. He just had a greedy side as well. I took a good stare at him as I served the rest of the group.

  As soon as my group was all served I headed for another, looking for Brookie. We met at the table that was set up for refilling our trays with the little glasses and plates.

  “I called him by name, Brookie, and he recognized me.”

  “Do you think that’s scared him off?”

  “Who knows? I doubt it. Look at him,” I said, pointing. “The man is unlimited bonhomie.” I nodded toward Harley, who was laughing at what another diner had said.

  “Well, let’s keep an eye on him to see if he ever gets alone with any potential accomplices.”

  “Ms. Kent is phoning Officer Landers again.”

  “Maybe she can find some way to tell the brothers about Harley without tipping off his accomplice. At least tonight Harley has been trespassing, so the police will have to get rid of him.”