Page 31 of Blue Jeans in Low Beams

Brenna doesn’t hesitate to answer though, that palpable excitement now sheer joy that is radiating off her in waves. Tidal waves.

“Of course!”

“Wonderful,” Edgar responds. “And I have just the role for you, madam.” He hands her an envelope, the name Anna Caggiano printed across it. “And you, sir, tell me, what do you do for a living?”

“I own a brewery.”

“Oh, how fortunate. I have something extra special for you.” He gives me a wink as he hands me an envelope matching Brenna’s, mine reading Oscar Buchanon. “Enjoy the evening.”

The banquet room is set up similar to a wedding, with a large parquet floor in the center, a bar off to the far side of it, and tables of all sizes surrounding it. A band sits in the corner, playing twenties jazz, a tall, beautiful Black woman in a sequined dress crooning softly. Her voice reminds me of Ella Fitzgerald—maybe better—giving the room the perfect ambiance.

“Who are you?” Brenna asks, about to burst out of her skin.

“Ladies first.”

“Anna Caggiano. Wife to Leo Caggiano Jr., or Junior for short, the club’s owner, and daughter-in-law to Leo Caggiano Sr., infamous crime boss.”

“Oh, well, it’s nice to make your acquaintance, Anna,” I play along. “I’m Oscar Buchanon. Bootlegger, responsible for supplying not only your husband, but most of the speakeasys here in town.”

I leave out the special note at the bottom of my card, not wanting to give away the surprise. It’ll come out in time. Plus, I’m sure Brenna has info on hers that’s top secret as well.

Brenna giggles, bouncing up and down. “OMG, that’s so perfect.”

“It is. Drink?”

“Yes, let’s. Lead the way, Oscar.”

I hold out my arm again, leading the way to the bar. Grabbing our drinks—a Party Mode for me and a mojito for Brenna—we mingle with the rest of the group, everyone already in character, getting to know each other based on what our cards say. In total, there are about twenty guests, a wide variety of ages. The oldest couple here, a Mr. And Mrs. Walsh, who are playing the roles of Leo Caggiano Sr. and his wife, Lucy, have a few years on Auggie and Miss Belle, but there are plenty of others closer in age to Brenna and me.

“Welcome, welcome,” Edgar greets once everyone has arrived. “As all of you know, this is a murder mystery party. During the party, you will be playing the roles of staff, entertainers, and guests at a private club in 1920s New York. All of you were assigned a role when you arrived and have a character sheet that details special knowledge that only your character has, along with certain instructions for ways that your character should respond to specific situations. Other than that, there are no specific instructions for the night. So, let me get started by introducing you all.”

He works his way around the room, introducing each character, which includes not only those we were told about at the start, but a Broadway producer called Henry Palmetto, a club singer who goes only by Etta, a loan shark affectionally called Al the Bookie, and three members of the Caggiano family organization, Mushy, Fingers, and Bumbilino.

“Wow, they went all in on the funny names,” I mutter so only Brenna can hear me.

“You know these are really someone’s family’s names and that they are laughing every time this gets played.”

I shake my head, because she’s probably right. Although, Lord help whomever it is out there who has an Uncle Mushy.

Edgar continues, setting the scene. It is the height of Prohibition, with plenty of bootleggers and gangsters afoot. Fashion, music, and morals are all changing at a lightning pace. Club owner Leo Caggiano Jr., the son of successful bootlegger and crime boss Leo Caggiano Sr. —and a successful businessman himself—is throwing this private party for a group of select friends.

But then, he ends up dead.

Found in his office, a drink still in his hand and a wound to his head, Junior’s body is slumped against his desk. But who could it have been?

Brenna starts to buzz with ideas as we’re instructed to continue to mingle, working in the information that we were given on our sheets, while appetizers are passed out by waiters. It’s all I can do to concentrate on my character. Not because the idea of pretending to be a bootlegger isn’t fun or interesting—especially with the secret I’m hiding for the sake of the game—but because I can’t look away from Brenna. Every other second, she’s stealing my attention.

The light radiating off her is bright enough to blind you. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen her this happy, and I can’t help but feel more than a little proud that it’s me making her feel this way. Or at least my date idea. She moves gracefully from person to person, gathering her clues and making little notes on her paper. I’m not sure where she even found a pen, but I shouldn’t be surprised.

The only thing that does surprise me is the pang I feel as I watch her flirt. It hits me out of left field, same as it did the other night watching her with Nick Scarborough. The guy playing Al the Bookie is closer to Brenna’s age than mine and good-looking. Really good-looking. Actually, in the words of Zoolander, this guy is really, really ridiculously good-looking. And I don’t like how he’s looking at her.

She’s not yours to get jealous of…

She’s not. At least not in the way I’m jealous. These are not big brother, overprotective feelings. They’re keep your hands off my girl feelings. Same as they were at Pour Decisions. No matter what I try and tell myself.

“If you will all find a table and take a seat, dinner will be served momentarily,” Edgar announces.

I leap at the chance to intervene, sliding my hand into Brenna’s like it’s my job. Oddly enough, with our palms pressed together like this, they do feel like they belong, a fact I ignore as I lead her over to a table for two.