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“Forty-two wristbands as of ten minutes ago, and apparently the online sales stay open until noon tomorrow.”

That was enough to turn a small discrepancy into a real service problem.

I asked him to text me the current food-prep sheet and told him not to have the kitchen start doubling anything until I could see what had already been ordered.

“You’re coming back?”

“I’m looking at the sheet first.”

Case lowered his voice. “How did the call go?”

The question carried none of his earlier theatricality.

I looked at Rex.

“We learned enough to know the old story is missing something. I’ll tell you what I can later.”

“That’s enough for me. Handle what you need to handle. The restaurant will remain standing for at least another fifteen minutes.”

After I ended the call, Rex was already reaching for his jacket.

“You don’t have to come back with me.”

He glanced toward Gavin’s file before closing it. “I know.”

There was no more discussion than that.

***

The Lantern House had changed character by the time we returned.

Dinner service was in full swing, filling the room with layered sound: silverware against plates, low conversation from the booths, the clatter of glassware behind the bar, bursts of kitchen voices each time the swinging door opened. Warm air carried the smells of browned butter, roasted meat, cinnamon, and orange peel. Rain streaked the front windows behind the jack-o’-lanterns, turning the streetlights outside into blurred gold halos.

Case had changed from crisis caller to bartender before we reached him. His sleeves were rolled above his forearms, and he was pouring wine for two customers while explaining the difference between the regular cider and tomorrow’s spiked version.

He pointed at a clipboard waiting near the service station.

I took it and stepped out of his way.

The numbers took less than five minutes to untangle.

The problem was not that they had too little food overall. The prep list treated the party like an ordinary dinner service with a late bar rush attached, when the wristband crowd would graze for several hours. Too much of the party food was concentrated in large hot platters that would disappear early, leaving the kitchen scrambling later.

The owner joined me near the end of the bar, wiping his hands on a clean towel as he came out of the kitchen.

“I can order more tonight,” he said. “Or bring the prep crew in earlier.”

“You may need some additional product, but I wouldn’t start by buying forty-two more full portions of everything. Most of those guests aren’t going to eat dinner twice.”

I showed him where the counts diverged and how much of the cold prep could be extended without sacrificing quality. We shifted part of the plan toward smaller replenished platters, added one simple item the kitchen already had ingredients for, and reduced the quantity of a more complicated appetizer that required too much last-minute assembly.

The owner listened instead of defending the original plan.

That alone made the conversation move twice as fast.

“What about the kitchen on Halloween?” he asked when we had the food quantities close to reality. “They’re already stretched before five.”

“Then don’t make five o’clock worse. Move the first round of cold prep earlier and keep the hot food staggered. If everything is finished at once, you’ll lose quality and storage space before the crowd even arrives.”