― Kacen Callender
Loyalist Lodge
I see society as a Neapolitan layer cake with three distinct layers―chocolate, vanilla and strawberry―with vanilla on top and chocolate on the bottom. The strawberry is the bland middle ground where everyone blends in the mix. Say what you will, but that's how it always turns out...sadly.
It's kind of like river sediment where everyone finds their level and are pressured to keep their place. It makes me sick, but as Orwell says, there's always been a low, middle and high and when it comes to the elite, the Loyalist Lodge is the creme de la creme in Willow Creek.
Pardon me while I puke.
I guess I'm my father's son. He was a hippie and very egalitarian―not a privileged bone in his body. Same with me.
So, why the hell am I going to the Loyalist Lodge, the bastion of white privilege? The things I do in the name of justice―I'd go to hell and back to catch a killer.
Hmm, I think I did that in Afghanistan. Yeah, mission accomplished.
We pull up in my Ford 150 pick-up and I'm feeling pretty chintzy considering the Rolls and Porsches and the passable Lexuses. Not a Buick to be seen, but then, there's my Ford F150.
They'll park it in the overflow lot―a tiny field out back. As I hand the car jockey aka concierge my keys, I say, "be careful with it."
He smiles and we share a moment where we're communicating something more recondite than Lodge management can imagine.
I'm surprised to say the least―judging by Main Street, Willow Creek is an aw shucks clone of Green Acres, but not within these walls. This is where the power elite meet.
To be fair, the Lodge is a magnet for three or four communities, some more prosperous and laid back, others exclusive enclaves for the wealthy and reclusive families.
This is a community within the community where the power brokers come to meet, socialize and reinvent the world around them. It's not any place I'd choose to be and I'm already feeling distinctly uncomfortable.
Fortunately I'm passably attired in a dark business suit but Ella looks stunning in a black gown that looked over-stated sitting in the pick-up truck but looks completely appropriate here. Inside knowledge, I wonder, or a skillful reading of Flora's tastes and preferences?
While we're waiting for the Maitre'D to seat us, I spot a printed sheet on a silver tray that's entitled, Lodge Culture and intrigued, I pick it up and read it:
Dress Code
Business-casual attire, as described below, is permitted throughout the Club, except for the Front Dining Room.
Regular business attire (Jacket for men and appropriate attire for women) is required in the Front Dining Room.
Club Sponsored events will stipulate dress attire.
Business-casual Attire for Gentlemen
Tailored trousers
Shirts with Collars and Sleeves, turtleneck sweaters
Dress/designer jeans with sports jacket or dress sweaters
Business-casual Attire for Ladies
Tailored pants
Skirts
Shirts, blouses and sleeveless summer dresses and tops
Dress/designer jeans with jacket or sweater.
Not permitted anywhere in the Club
Jeans torn or frayed
Athletic wear (including shorts)
T-shirt apparel with slogan or commercial advertising
Sweatshirts
Beach Sandals
Running Shoes
Yeah, neither I nor my dad would ever fit in here.
"You two look like you belong," says a voice behind me and I turn to see Harold Franklin extending his hand to greet me.
"Looks can be deceiving," I smile, clasping his hand and shaking it.
We're white anglo saxons, I muse in my head, but that's about where the similarities end.
From out of the shadows, Flora appears, taking advantage of subdued lighting to make a dramatic entrance.
"You clean up well," she smirks, leaning in to give me a chaste kiss. The fragrance of her perfume is intoxicating―no doubt what she intended.
"I'm sure you both know Ella Wiltshire," I segue, to avoid commenting on her remark.
"Of course," Harold beams, "We're forever grateful to Neil and Ella for their contributions to the community."
"Thank you for inviting us," Ella smiled graciously.
"Not at all, Dear," Flora replied haughtily, "it's a perfect opportunity for you two to join polite society."
I wondered what the townsfolk would think of that remark but wisely kept silent.
"I want Scott to meet some of our distinguished members, Flora―perhaps you could give Ella a tour of the premises?"
"Of course, Dear, I think Ella will be pleasantly surprised when she learns about the achievements of Loyalist women in this town."
Somehow I doubt Flora's optimistic view of Ella's mindset. I figure Ella knows exactly what to expect but will endure it for the sake of the case and any gossip she might overhear.
As for me, exchanging vacuous sentiments with portly gentlemen is not exactly thrilling, but chances are beneath those tuxes beat the heart of a serial killer.
And I intend to flush him out before the evening is over.
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