Mystic Mayhem (8 page)

She nodded slowly. "And on TV that person doesn't stop at stealing. On TV, there's always a homicide."

We looked at each other, and it wasn't even necessary to say it, but I did anyway. "Like the homicide that happened here, like maybe the murderer was after the money all along."

"That's right," she said, "and I'm hoping Quincy doesn't make that connection before we can find out who really took all that money and framed Fabrizio."

It hit me then. "You think Quincy's trying to pin the murder on Fabrizio too?"

She gave me a look. "Mel, he so much as said so."

A wave of anger washed through me. "What's wrong with that boyfriend of yours, anyway? He must be some kind of bully to go after a helpless older guy like Fabrizio. How can you be with someone like that?"

Cat looked stunned. "Bully? Mel, it's his job. Someone was murdered, and he's just trying to see poor Mrs. Elway gets justice."

Okay. So, yes, I was being unreasonable. But my friend was in jail. I staunchly supported my own theory he was innocent and had been set up, and Deputy Quincy Boudreaux was a good target for my anger. "Well, he just oughta back off."

Cat's voice was on the rise too. "Back off? What the heck are you talking about? He can't back off. He's the law."

I didn't want to fight with her. And as much as I didn't want to admit it, she was right. But I was scared for my friend. And I didn't see the sheriff's office making it a point to look beyond Fabrizio for a suspect.

"I just hope Quincy doesn't find anything to make him think it was Fabrizio who fooled with those clams."

Cat didn't look at me when she said, "I don't suppose you've considered that maybe the entity who tainted those clams that killed Mrs. Elway might not be among the living."

I snorted. "Yeah. Right."

But she looked so serious, it gave me pause.

"It was a séance,
chère
," she went on. "There were more beings in that room than the seven living, breathing ones."

"Oh, come on, Cat. You don't really think Fabrizio could have conjured up a spirit? I mean, Fabrizio? He's about as real as those knock-off Rolexes they sell down on street corners in the Quarter."

But Cat wasn't so easy to convince. "You just ask your grandmama, Mel. She'll tell you. If a ghost has an axe to grind,"—nice turn of phrase, don't you think?—"he can cross back over. No problem. I think it was Theodore Elway himself who did the old girl in."

I really wish she hadn't said that. Even someone as sensible as I could get the heebie-jeebies when you started talking about spooks on a rampage.

"Go to sleep, Cat. You're giving me the shivers."

She shook one finger at me knowingly, lay back, and switched off the lamp.

I tried to stop the crazy thoughts running rampant through my poor, tired brain. Vengeful ghosts. I replayed the séance scene in my head. It was true. The door was shut, and nobody went in or out. Light from the hallway would have bled if the door was opened. Either the clams had to have been poisoned before I brought them into the room or someone brought the toxin to the party and dumped it on when things got a little crazy as Fabrizio conjured up the spirit of Mr. Elway. Or, maybe Cat was right. Maybe the phantom reached out from beyond the grave and knocked off his widow.

Maybe she should have brought the hot sauce after all.

Lots of maybes.

Somewhat lulled by the sound of rain spattering the window, I drifted off into a troubled sleep, strange visions filling my head.

For no apparent reason, I jerked awake. What caused it? Was there a noise? Did something move?

The portrait of Alphonse Villars was bathed in eerie night shine coming through the window. The rivulets of rain on the window reflected on the glass and made it appear as if tears ran down Alphonse's face. But what really bothered me was that it hung at an odd angle.

Had it been that way when I went to sleep? I couldn't be sure, but I didn't think so. Unable to resist, I got out of bed and crossed the room to straighten it.

Back in bed, I rolled over. But turned back at a high-pitched sound like fingernails scraping along a blackboard. Alphonse was cockeyed again.
What's up with that?
I refused to believe anything supernatural was going on. I obviously hadn't centered it when I straightened it the first time.

Cat's breathing was soft and even. It seemed Alphonse's gyrations hadn't bothered her. Not so,
moi
. I got out of bed a second time and tilted the portrait back to even. I stood there a couple of minutes, waiting to see if it was going to slide off-center yet a third time. When nothing happened, I padded back across the room and got back into bed.

I was just drifting off again when the most God-awful crash brought me straight up out of bed and onto my feet. This time Cat didn't sleep through it.

"What the heck was that?" she yelped.

"I believe Harry's ancestor is trying to tell us something."

Cat switched on the bedside lamp.

The portrait had fallen (or was yanked) completely off the wall this time.

It lay face down on the floor. Other than the levitating painting, everything else in the room seemed normal.

I got out of bed a third time, lifted the heavy painting, and carried it to the closet, slid it inside, shut the door. For good measure, I slid a chair up against the closet door.

"Take that, Alphonse," I said, crawling back into bed. "You spend some time in the locker, old boy."

Cat rolled over and looked at me before she reached to turn off the lamp. "Maybe Alphonse Villars has been hanging with Theodore Elway."

I closed down Dragons and Deities at two forty Tuesday afternoon, later than I expected due to an unfortunate clog in one of my ink guns, which held me up about twenty minutes while I changed to another. I used the privacy screen to change out of my costume into a pair of crop pants and a camp shirt, locked the door, hung the closed sign, and scurried—like one of those awful swamp rats chasing us the night before—to the Presto-Change-o Room, where Jack sat waiting on a barstool.

After I banished Alphonse Villars to the closet, I'd slept like a baby and was feeling pretty good.

Jack was going to help me in my quest to get Fabrizio out of jail. It was as if a huge load had been lifted off my shoulders. Cat had good intentions and all, but I didn't think blaming the homicide on a pissed-off specter was going to be much help to Fabrizio. Besides, Deputy Quincy Boudreaux was a force of nature, and if he figured out that Cat was trying to dip her toe into his case, it would be like two storm fronts converging when they butted heads. This way she didn't have to worry about it, and I got to spend time with the rakish and intrepid Cap'n Jack.

My last thought before walking into the Presto-Change-o Room was,
I can't believe I called him Cap'n Jack to his face.

*   *   *

The Presto-Change-o Room was a combination bar and restaurant. It took the place of a coffee shop in the morning, a café during the day, a restaurant in the evening, and a club at night. Blues and jazz bands were often brought in to liven the place up on Friday and Saturday. The walls were a combination of wood painted turquoise with bright-yellow accents, and heavily stained oak around the bar and back bar. Tables with red-and-white checked tablecloths were set up all around a big open dance floor. Art posters of Louisiana food and drink lined the walls. At the far end of the room, a mural with a "Cajun" magician pulling a gator out of a hat covered the whole wall behind the bandstand.

Jack had changed from his suit to a pair of khaki twills, a navy T-shirt, and pair of navy boat shoes. I'd never seen him dressed that way before. He was always Mr. Manhattan in his expensive business suits. But this way, he looked more like the buccaneer of my fantasies. The T-shirt showed off his tanned arms and fit like a glove, clinging to his lean torso and broad shoulders. The man somehow even managed to make khakis look good. It was going to be hard to concentrate on the investigation with him hanging around looking more delish than my grandmama's pecan pie with whipped cream on top. But I'd muddle through somehow.

He swiveled on his stool when I walked up. "Hello." He managed to make it sound like, "Come with me to the Kasbah." I would have gone even if I didn't know where or what the Kasbah actually was. "Did you take time for lunch yet?"

I shook my head.

He picked up his drink, a tall iced tea with a sprig of mint, and led me to a nearby empty table, where he pulled out a chair and handed me a menu before sitting down across from me.

Such a sweetie.

When I expressed my preference for the crabmeat po'boy, he hopped up out of his chair, went to the bar, and put the order in. Couldn't ask for better service.

I admired the rear view as he stood waiting, chin resting on one hand, one foot resting on the footrail.

At the far end of the bar, a middle-aged guy with fairly new hair plugs, wearing a pair of cargo pants and a golf shirt, was reading the riot act to the bartender, a new hire I hadn't met yet, probably hired on because he was the right fit for the wizard costume. "My wife says this wine sucks! It's gone to vinegar. What the hell you gonna do about it?"

The bartender's smile never flagged. "I'm sorry for the inconvenience, sir. Let me get your wife a fresh pour."

The man obviously seemed to feel a fresh pour wouldn't do the trick, because he flung the wine on the bartender's wizard robes. In my book, that was like a slap in the face. It would cost a heckuva lot to dry-clean that outfit.

Jack ambled over to the irate guest. "I couldn't help overhearing, sir. Is there—"

Mr. Generally Pissed Off sized up Jack then blurted, "Mind your own beeswax, pretty boy."

Jack nodded, a look of contemplation on his face. "Beeswax, eh?" The man thrust out his chin, while Jack just ran a hand over his own. "I like that word a lot. You wouldn't mind if I use it myself every now and then, would you?"

Good old Pissed Off stared at Jack for a beat, two—then he smiled—then he laughed. "No sir, I reckon you can use that word all you like, mister. No charge, either."

The two shook hands then Jack said, "My name's Stockton. Jack Stockton. I'm the hotel's general manager. How about you let us buy you and your wife a new bottle, and we'll make sure there's no charge for the first one."

Mr. Generally Pissed Off seemed to like that idea. He clapped Jack on the back and headed off to a table by one of the windows.

Jack and the bartender shared one of those moments of relief—a problem had been averted, and without bloodshed too.

That was Jack's way. He seemed to take everything in stride. And it wasn't the first time I'd seen him take lemons and make Arnold Palmers.

When he returned, he mentioned he'd made arrangements for George's poor old Volvo to be towed back to the dock and had called George to let him know.

While I waited for my sandwich, it seemed like a good idea to launch a plan.

I couldn't help leaning on my elbow and staring at him—dreamy eyed, I'm sure. "What did you have in mind?" Those probably weren't the best words, but he didn't seem to notice. Looked as if I was the only one at the table who heard a double entendre.

"Me? I'm the sidekick, remember? Watson to your Sherlock?"

Oh, right. "Well…" I began then stopped. Maybe I was more like Inspector Clouseau than Sherlock Holmes. "Okay. The cops took Fabrizio because they said they found a lot of cash hidden in his room. Right?"

He nodded.

"And they
couldn't
find the hundred grand this Terrence guy told them Mrs. Elway brought with her."

Another nod. He leaned forward and rested his chin on his fist. I sighed, lost my train of thought, and had to look down at my hands to get it back. "So I was thinking maybe we ought to follow the money."

He looked up at the ceiling a while then smiled. "Brilliant."

That was when it occurred to me that the money might also have something to do with Cecile Elway's death, and that maybe if we figured out who took the money, we might also figure out who killed the old girl.

I said so, and that made Jack smile. "Hmm, elementary, my dear Sherlock."

I smiled back. "Isn't that my line? But, where do we start?"

"You were there. Why don't you tell me what you remember."

I began at the beginning and ended with, "The door was locked. As far as I know, no one went out or came in once the séance began." Thinking about it gave me the shivers. "Golly, Jack, if I didn't know she was murdered, I'd say she died from natural causes…" It just popped into my head and out of my mouth before I thought about it. "Or maybe supernatural causes."

*   *   *

After I scarfed down the po'boy—and by the way, if you ever stop over at The Mansion at Mystic Isle, I highly recommend you give one a try. It's the kind of food that makes you want to stand up in church and testify—we headed out to the tennis courts where Jack said Terrence Montague, the tagalong
friend
of the victim, had an appointment with the resort tennis pro.

It had rained all the previous night and well into midday, but it looked as if the weather gods had taken pity on Terrence and cleared things up just in time for his tennis lesson. From my perspective, the gods would have been kinder to conjure up a thunderstorm and keep him off the court.

We stood and watched the fiasco for about fifteen or twenty minutes. While Terrence looked sleek in his white shorts and polo, he got around the court like a hippopotamus. He even tripped on his own shoelace once. When he held up his hands and his racquet in surrender, by my clock he still had ten minutes left on his lesson.

Panting like a sixteen-year-old with a pinup of Jennifer Aniston, he bent and placed his hands on his thighs, sucking in deep breaths. "Ah, my dear." He straightened and smiled at our gorgeous blonde two-time French Open–winner tennis pro, a big draw for the resort. "In my opinion the best strategy is to regroup and live to fight another day. It would seem tennis isn't my game." He wiped the sweat from his brow so dramatically, I truly believed it was something he might have practiced in front of a mirror.