Mystic Mayhem (3 page)

"I've a favor to ask, m'dear," he began.

I smiled at him over my cup. "You know I can't refuse you."

He patted my hand. My grandparents took care of me when I was a child. They were aging flower children and encouraged me to express myself in whatever way I wished. My grandfather owned a detail shop where he painted cars and motorcycles with flames, buxom women, and skulls. It was where I learned about design. He died when I was eighteen, and I still missed him every day.

Fabrizio looked just like him, right down to the longish, grey locks he sometimes slicked back and put in a ponytail.

Being a gay man and only recently liberated, Fabrizio was never blessed with offspring. He and I had sort of adopted each other.

"The séance Mrs. Elway booked to contact her deceased husband, Theodore Elway, is set for seven thirty this evening."

I nodded. We had all been told why Cecile Elway and her family had come.

He went on. "I was hoping you'd consent to staying over tonight to sit in on it."

Hmm. "Well…why?"

"Mr. Stockton…"

My heartbeat quickened. Really? Did I have it so bad that just the mention of Cap'n Jack's name got me going?

"…has declared there's a good deal riding on my performance tonight. He's indicated that Mrs. Elway and her psychic adviser, Ms. Devere, are in a position to bring a goodly amount of business to this fine establishment—that is, if all goes as they expect. And I worry for Harry's investment, as I'm sure you're well aware." His eyes went soft when he said Harry's name. The two had only been a couple a short while but seemed totally devoted to each other. "Not only that, but Mrs. Elway has promised me personally a bonus of a hundred thousand dollars if I'm successful in…" he paused, "…contacting the late Mr. Elway."

Everyone who worked at The Mansion knew all the supernaturalists hired by Harry Villars were just actors.

A hundred grand? Wow. "Well, that's a good thing. Isn't it? But," I asked, "what does that have to do with me?"

He pulled back his shoulders and raised his chin. So dramatic. "I've prepared for tonight as much as I possibly can. It will be one of the premier performances of my career. While stage fright has never been a malady with which I'm afflicted, I would be uttering an untruth if I denied that I'm bloody well scared to death."

He lifted his eyes to mine, eyes just like Gramps's—eyes I knew I couldn't deny.

"I need your moral support, my dear. It's that simple."

I reached across the table and covered our two hands with my other. "Of course," I said. "I'm yours for the evening, sir."

*   *   *

In the afternoon, I took the ferry back across to the Big Easy. If I had to spend yet another night at The Mansion, I wanted to have a change of clothes, my cell phone charger, and an assortment of all the other little things a girl needs to make it through the night. I packed a bag for Catalina as well. If I had to stay over, I wanted sympathetic company.

As the ferry carried me back across to Mystic Isle, George slipped up beside me. "Y'at,
Melanie?" he said. "You flying solo today? Where's your partner in crime—Miss Cat?"

The hope on his face was a beacon.

Cat was a good person, one of the best, and consciously never did anything to hurt anyone's feelings, so she'd never consider shunning George. She said it would "harvest bad karma."

But it made me sad that he wore his heart on his sleeve when he had absolutely no chance of winning her. "You know, George," I began, "Catalina has been seeing someone for quite a while now. They're very close. He's just gaga over her,"
Like everyone else.
"And she's just as crazy about him."
Even though that cocky Cajun can be more pain in the patoot than he's worth sometimes.

He smiled that big old Howdy Doody grin and bobbed his head. "Oh, yes, dawlin', I know. Deputy Quincy Boudreaux, he comes around all the time just to make sure I know Miss Catalina's well-being is real important to him, and I best be payin' all kinds of attention to my job while she's aboard."

"Oh," I said. "So you know about Quincy and Cat?"

"Aw, hell, Miss Melanie—pardon my language—ain't nobody in N'awlins don't know 'bout Deputy Quincy."

*   *   *

It was after six o'clock by the time I'd dressed in what I hoped was appropriate attire for a séance—long-sleeved, V-necked black dress. I put my hair up with an elaborate comb studded with fake emeralds I'd found at a secondhand store in the Quarter. The room phone rang, and I was summoned to the kitchen by Chef Valentine Cantrell.

Curious as hell, I went straight there.

The Mansion's kitchen had been added on around the turn of the century. Once there were no more slaves to haul the food from the original kitchen located in an outbuilding, the plantation owners added a regular kitchen on to the house. It had been updated through the decades, the most recent renovation only a couple of years earlier when The Mansion was converted to a hotel, and expanses of stainless steel surfaces and commercial appliances became the dominant elements.

The lovely Valentine Cantrell ruled over it like a Creole queen, a soup ladle her scepter, her crown the elasticized plastic cap over her Afro.

I walked in to find her chastising a kitchen worker for under seasoning the crawfish
etoufee
bubbling on the stove.

"Miss Melanie, my favorite skin-painting woman, yes?"

I curtsied. "At your service, Lady Cantrell."

She waved a hand at me. "You go on with yourself, now." Ladling stew into a clay bowl, she sprinkled cayenne on top and set it on a nearby stainless steel table beside a basket of fresh cornbread. "You eat now, girl. Can't be conversing with no spirits on an empty stomach."

I didn't hesitate but sat down and dug right in. Valentine's crawfish stew was legendary. "How'd you know about the séance?" I asked.

"Oh, Fabrizio, he come down here a while back and say he need you to take something with you when you go dere."

I looked up at her. "What?"

"Never you mind," she said. "All in good time."

I sopped up the stew with the crusty bread and watched her work. It had been a real coup for The Mansion when Valentine Cantrell signed on, and from what I knew, she could pretty much write her own ticket. At thirty-six, she was famous among culinary circles. Her golden eyes were always crinkled and plump cheeks always creased in a pleasant smile. Skin like butterscotch satin gave her the exotic appeal of a movie star. A kind and generous nature made her as beautiful inside as out.

And the food. Nothing else like it inside the sixty-four parishes. For some of the hotel employees, the food and a chance to sit down to leftovers was why they came here to work. A true
lagniappe
, as Valentine herself would say, a bonus.

Jack walked in just as I was finishing. I looked up at him. The bright kitchen lights bounced off his dark hair, bringing out auburn highlights I'd never noticed before.

"Miss Hamilton," he said softly. How the heck did my name turn into an aphrodisiac coming from his lips? "You look amazing."

I'm embarrassed to tell you I batted my lashes. "Why thank you, Mr. Stockton."

"Did Chef Valentine talk to you about the clams?"

"Did you say…?" I looked over at Valentine, who was slaving over a chopping block, her knife reverberating like a machine gun. She didn't look up. She didn't dare if she wanted to keep all ten fingers.

"Clams," he repeated.

"Oh," I said. "No, she didn't get around to it yet."

He turned his head and lifted his chin, a New York gesture if I'd ever seen one, toward a stainless-steel kitchen cart against the wall. A clear glass dome covered a good-sized platter. Clams on the half shell sat atop a generous bed of salt crystals on the platter. Parsley and lemons decorated it.

"Clams?" I said again. "For the séance? I don't—"

"I didn't either at first," he interrupted. "But Fabrizio insisted Mrs. Elway asked for them specifically. A dozen fresh clams on the half shell. It seems they were her husband's favorite dish, and she is convinced having them there will encourage his—I can't believe I'm saying this—his spirit to manifest."

"Oh." What else was there to say? I glanced at my watch. "Well, looks like it's getting to be about that time." I stood.

He didn't step back from the table, which put me right next to him. I could have leaned over and laid my head on his shoulder. I sighed.
Better not
.

But Cap'n Jack seemed to have something similar on his mind. He laid his hand on my shoulder and leaned over me. I closed my eyes and held my breath, anticipating…what?

A soft cloth caressed my upper lip. I opened my eyes.

He smiled down at me. "There you go," he said and laid the napkin down. "You just had a little sauce there."

Of course I did. "Thank you," I said. "I'll just…"

I crossed the room, took hold of the cart's handle, and pushed it from the kitchen.

*   *   *

Séances were held in a small but lovely room where Miss Marple might serve tea. Burgundy drapes swagged corner to corner. Blue flames flickered low in the fireplace courtesy of a special-effects chemical log Fabrizio swore would bring up the ambiance.

A medium-sized round table sat smack in the middle of the room, seven chairs around it and a purple cloth covering it. The lights were low. So many candles were lit that the place was warm enough for bread to rise.

Fabrizio was already there, looking nervous as a crawfish next to a pot on the boil. He knew, and I knew, and he knew I knew he wasn't exactly what you'd call a genuine medium, but I had to give him credit. He looked like one, every inch, from the top of his turbaned head to the bottoms of his white patent-leather boots. His long face glistened with perspiration.

"Fabrizio," I said. "Why don't we blow out a few of these candles? Your makeup and eyeliner are going to run."

He nodded, and I set about doing it. The poor guy had to be pretty warm. His long-sleeved white jumpsuit was layered under a full-length sequined white cape. A cross between the Great Houdini and Liberace.

Within a few minutes, Mrs. Cecile Elway and company arrived. Five in all, just like at dinner the night before. There were low murmurs of appreciation as they glanced around the room, taking in the whole experience.

Fabrizio opened his arms wide. His bellowing voice carried all the drama of his training at the Royal Academy. "Welcome—welcome, all."

The group circled the room, all heads swiveling this way, that way, taking in the authentic ambiance the hotel owner's checkbook—fortified by a winning streak Harry and his cousins enjoyed on
Family Feud
—had bought.

 Fabrizio lifted fingertips to his temples and closed his eyes. "Come, my friends, let us be seated. I sense the spirits gathering."

Glancing around nervously, they all converged on the table where Fabrizio stood in front of a high-backed chair with a red velvet seat that looked more like a throne than anything else.

"Hey, I remember you." Billy Whitlock, Cecile's stepgrandson, peered at me in the semidarkness. "You're the girl from last night. Right?" His eyes dipped below my chin to my cleavage. "I see you're not wearing the soup tonight."

Well, wasn't that special?
Nice to be remembered
. I tried to smile.

Cecile seemed to have just noticed me. "Who is that young woman, and what is she doing here? This is supposed to be an exclusive affair."

Mrs. Elway looked doubtful until Fabrizio took her hand and patted it. "Miss Hamilton is here at my invitation. She's been known to be a soul sympathetic to the world beyond the veil, an asset when summoning spirits. Mrs. Elway, if you would sit to my right, please. Miss Hamilton to my left." He glanced around to the others and spread his arms to indicate the empty chairs.

Cecile took the chair to Fabrizio's right. Terrence Montague, who I'd decided was shacking up with Mrs. Elway on behalf of his caterpillar conservancy organization, took the chair next to Cecile.

Rosalyn, the stepdaughter, twittered like a nervous little bird as she sat down beside him.

Penny Devere, the psychic, was opposite Fabrizio. Billy Whitlock flipped the next chair backward and straddled it. The remaining chair looked like it had my name on it.

The look on Billy's young face said a lot about his attitude, and his words only served to confirm it. "Really? This is uberlame."

"Billy, shush." His mother put a finger to her thin lips.

Fabrizio clasped a hand to his forehead, his expression pained. "We must all be of like mind as we call on your grandfather's spirit. We must have harmony, or the psychic energy will not flow freely."

"Harmony? What a crock."

"That will be enough, Billy!" Mrs. Elway said.

When it came to séances, I pretty much agreed with Billy.

Everyone settled in.

"As you glance around the room," Fabrizio began, "you'll be aware of the tools required to summon your loved one." He rolled his hands over his "crystal ball." I was pretty sure it was a big snow globe he appropriated from the reading room. "A bell for Theodore to signal us when he's arrived." Fabrizio's eyes cut over to me then back to Cecile. "Did you bring a picture of Theodore with you as I asked?"

Cecile fished in her big purse and pulled out a small photo, which she handed to Fabrizio.

He laid it on the table beside the crystal ball. "Everyone must join hands, close your eyes," he said, "and open your minds."

As silence settled over the room, Penny Devere looked around the table. "Do we have everything we need?"

Cecile spoke suddenly. "Oh," she said, "the clams. Don't forget the…"

I disengaged from the minor tussle with young Billy, who'd been trying to stroke my palm when our hands were clasped, and stood, went to the trolley, took the cover off the tray, and picked it up.

"Where should I…?"

Fabrizio glanced up then over at Cecile. "Put them in front of Mrs. Elway, please."

I carefully set them before her.