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  Copyright © 2017 by Sally J. Smith & Jean Steffens

  Cover design by Janet Holmes

  Gemma Halliday Publishing

  http://www.gemmahallidaypublishing.com

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  FREE BOOK OFFER

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  BOOKS BY SALLY J. SMITH & JEAN STEFFENS

  SNEAK PEEK

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The authors wish to thank Wendi Baker for her hard work and guidance in maintaining continuity and tying up loose ends (God knows we need it). Also, our thanks go out to Kristin Huston for her careful copy edits, as well as to Janet Holmes who continues to amaze us with her charming cover art.

  To Denise, Dan, and Tom. Thanks for your loving support and encouragement. —Jean

  Mystic Mischief is for my sweet pirate wench, Carrie Sue. Yo-ho, yo-ho. —Sally

  This is a work of fiction, a "what if" that messes with history. Privateer and smuggler Jean Lafitte existed in this nation's history as did his role in the War of 1812 and the Battle of New Orleans. The pardon that was granted him, his brother, and other Baratarians by President Madison was also a part of history. Much of the remainder of this tale with regards to the theft of the Letter of Pardon, its reissue, and the descendants of Lafitte are figments of the writers' imaginations.

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  CHAPTER ONE

  I was grumpy.

  I was airsick.

  And I was going crazy at about five hundred miles per hour.

  Grumpy, airsick, crazy—and we were still an hour away from landing in New Orleans.

  Crazy because we got stuck sitting in the back of the plane where a high school glee club was seated en masse. They'd been singing their little hearts out from the minute we were wheels up. It was to the point where if I heard one more chorus of "You Can't Stop the Beat"—complete with clapping, snapping, and hand choreography—I might have to ask for a parachute.

  Airsick because our Delta flight from Palm Beach to New Orleans was rough. A late-season tropical storm had whipped up off the Gulf Coast of Florida and stayed with us all the way to our stopover in Atlanta. We were now on the last leg of our trip back to New Orleans. Jack Stockton, my boss and boyfriend, was weathering the dips and drops much better than I was. Having to keep the airsick bag close at hand never made for a great flight.

  And lastly, I was grumpy because my introductory visit to Jack's parents in Florida couldn't have gone much worse. The air tickets had been Jack's Christmas gift to me, and I'd been so excited to meet his folks.

  But Jack's mother was standoffish from that first awkward moment at their front door when I had gone in to hug her and she ducked away, presenting her hand for a cool shake. It had gotten so bad that when I couldn't take the cold shoulder any longer, I'd begged Jack to cut the trip short and fly home with me three days early. He had, and I was at least grateful for that.

  I'd tried my best not to be childish about it and take it out on him. Jack couldn't help it if his mother was the Wicked Witch of the West, but from my point of view, he could at least have stood up more for me. Her little innuendoes about my less-than-desirable background and inappropriate profession were hurtful. And when Jack's old girlfriend Sydney had shown up for Mrs. Stockton's dinner party, good old Elphaba had seated the two of them together. And where was I? At the other end of the table beside Jack's dad—who, by the way, was funny and real, a sweetheart of a guy.

  Mr. Stockton kept apologizing, and so did Jack, but neither one of them called her on the carpet for the snub—at least not in front of me. Jack swore he'd taken her aside and asked her to cool it, but I never saw it, and I'm a "show me" kind of girl. Besides, if he did ask, she'd ignored him.

  As the wannabe cast of Glee rolled into yet another round of the song from Hairspray, I plugged in my earbuds to listen to the monitor in front of me, immediately recognizing an up-and-coming New Orleans boy wonder from one of the local TV stations. He was broadcasting from outside, and the area behind him looked an awful lot like the bayou near The Mansion at Mystic Isle where Jack and I both worked—Jack as the resort's general manager and I, Melanie Hamilton, as the resident tattoo artist. Yes. That was what I said, a resort that employed a tattoo artist.

  But that wasn't as off the wall as it sounded. The Mansion at Mystic Isle wasn't like any other resort—that I knew of, anyway. The place was solely dedicated to fans of the supernatural, paranormal, and other offbeat, often-creepy elements. My job was to design otherworldly tattoos that would help resort guests commemorate their visit to Mystic Isle—our patrons were understandably not the kind of travelers who'd be content to pick up a refrigerator magnet or a couple of postcards in the gift shop.

  I turned up the volume so I could hear what the TV reporter had to say over twenty kids in four-part harmony.

  The handsome creole, teeth gleaming, spoke into a handheld mic. "This is Etienne Charles reporting from Barataria Preserve in the heart of the Louisiana Bayou. With me are Archie and Theresa Powell, archeologists, dealers of antiquities, and all-around adventurers."

  The reporter turned to a tall man who looked to be in his late forties or early fifties. He wore a battered fedora that I could have sworn I'd once seen on an Indiana Jones poster, along with the khaki cargo shorts and a short-sleeved shirt you'd have expected to see on safari. His face was long, his features unremarkable and a tad washed out and colorless. His eyes and mouth turned down so that even if he were smiling, I doubted he'd look happy.

  Beside the man a much younger willowy brunette with flashing dark eyes and a haughty expression had struck
a red-carpet pose. An army green tank top stretched across impressive breasts, the kind some plastic surgeon had sacrificed fifteen years of his youth to learn how to construct. Her tight low-riding shorts were belted with a utility band sheathing a knife with a handle that looked to be at least seven inches. I didn't even want to think about the length of the blade.

  The reporter went on. "I understand you've brought a film crew to document your search for Lafitte's presidential pardon—a historical document that's just recently come to light."

  Archie Powell took hold of the mic and pulled it toward himself. "Yes, that's right, Etienne. Two young men claiming to be descendants of an out of wedlock relationship between the privateer Jean Lafitte and a mixed-race slave known as Belle Villars recently located the woman's journal. In it she claimed that when Lafitte jilted her, she stole the original letter from him and hid it here in the bayou."

  The hot tamale in the tank top took over. "A document of such historical significance would certainly put a feather in the cap of anyone who'd be lucky enough to locate it." She batted her eyes and cast a sideways glance at the studly young reporter. "Don't you think so, Etienne?"

  Jack was awake and lobbing over into my space to get a look at the screen. He pulled one of my earbuds loose. "That looks like the grounds near The Mansion."

  "They're in the preserve." My tone was so frosty, wine would have chilled to perfection on that statement. "Something about a lost document."

  "And they think it's at Mystic Isle?"

  I sighed so Jack wouldn't mistake my irritation then switched the earbuds around so we could share them.

  Archie was speaking again. "Evidently the document never left the Villars plantation—the plantation currently incarnated as a resort, The Mansion at Mystic Isle."

  The reporter was positively leering at the woman. "So, Mrs. Powell—"

  "Theresa, please." I was pretty sure she was purring.

  "Theresa." He corrected himself. "You've come all the way to our little corner of the world to try to beat the Villars family, the brothers who own this so-called journal, in locating the document?"

  One corner of Mrs. Powell's full lips curved in a half smile. She nodded slowly, almost lazily, and laid one elegant hand on the hilt of that knife, caressing it. "That's right, Etienne."

  Even on the small back-of-the-seat monitor, the reporter's fluster in the presence of such sensuality was evident. Etienne turned to the camera. "We asked to interview Elroy and Percy Villars and their sister, who've brought the mysterious journal to the bayou to look for Lafitte's letter. So far, they've declined to appear." The reporter turned and graced his viewers with an engaging grin. "Wow, folks. Sounds sort of like a rousing game of Tomb Raider, doesn't it?" He ran a finger around the collar of his shirt. "I know I, for one, can't wait to see what happens."

  Jack let the earbud drop and leaned back in his seat, laying his hand on top of mine. "Huh," he said. "That's kinda cool, isn't it? What do you think, Mel? This ought to stir up a little excitement and some new business for the resort."

  "Probably."

  He cocked his head and smiled. It was nearly my undoing or at least the undoing of my bad mood. Jack's smile was like the break of dawn. It lit up his whiskey-colored eyes.

  I pulled my hand off the armrest and out from under his. "Don't think you're off the hook yet, Stockton. I'm still sore at you." The truth was, I was more hurt than angry, but opening my chest to bare my heart and let him know how wounded I'd been over his mother's rebuffs would have made me too emotional, too vulnerable—not something I was in the mood for on a crowded airplane.

  We landed almost twenty minutes late at Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport. It was a rainy and chilly fall night—matched my mood perfectly.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I spent the night with Jack at his cute little cottage at the back of the resort. I'd been staying with him the last few weeks since Quincy, my roommate's fiancé, a Chief Deputy in the Jefferson Parrish Sheriff's Department, had moved into our place to plan their upcoming wedding and (something I thought was brilliant) talk and plan about what they each expected from their married life.

  Even though my back had been to Jack all night, Jack had been calm and nonconfrontational, even seeming to understand what I was feeling. And by Saturday morning the weather had cleared up, and so had my attitude, that was, until I walked into the resort lobby to see Sydney Baxter, who'd been introduced to me by Jack's mother as "the one who Jack let slip through his fingers," apparently checking in. Well, that was certainly fast. Seeing Jack and me together must have triggered something in her—the urge to try for another shot at him or, at the very least, some vagabond itch to travel to the Louisiana bayou.

  Lurch, our monolithic seven-foot-tall doorman, stood stoically by, balancing two large and two smaller suitcases while Sydney chatted with Lucy, the front desk receptionist.

  Sydney finished and turned around, her blonde curls bouncing, her tiny hands applauding, little girl feet in knee-high black patent boots shuffling in excitement as she squealed, "Oh my good gracious, will you look at that." She took two steps to Lurch's side, her head coming only to his chest, and put one hand on his bicep. "You big strong man, you."

  An unintelligible rumble came from Lurch. It sounded like a waste management truck on a wooden bridge. Then, to my amazement, he flexed his arm, still holding the two big suitcases in a hand the size of a tennis racket head. His normally grim countenance creased in a rare smile—at least I thought it was a smile. It wasn't a pretty sight. Was Lurch actually flirting with the petite blonde? Eww.

  As Sydney led Lurch away and up the stairs to the second floor, it occurred to me that if she brought four suitcases with her, she probably was planning an extended stay. Exactly what the heck was she doing here anyway? I didn't want to dwell on the most likely answer to that question.

  Before I jumped to a conclusion that would really piss me off, I needed to talk to Jack. But first I had to go to work, so I made my way to my dominion in the auxiliary wing of the resort and planned to check in with him when I took a break in my morning schedule.

  I had three appointments scheduled at Dragons and Deities Tattoo Parlor—one in the morning, two in the afternoon. I turned on some mood music, which consisted of my rather specific playlist—the theme from the Harry Potter films, "Crystal Blue Persuasion," the Star Trek theme (the Kirk and Spock version, of course), "Aquarius," even "Love Potion No. 9"—and checked my ink guns. Since it was my first day back after my disastrous trip to Florida, I went down the hall where my best friend and roommate, Catalina Gabor, the resort's tarot card reader, worked at House of Cards.

  Cat was exotic-looking, absolutely stunning, a DNA gift from her Romanian ancestors. I stood in the doorway watching her delicate use of a feather duster look like Swan Lake, wondering exactly how she managed to be so graceful and beautiful even while doing the most mundane chore.

  She looked up and saw me. "Mel!" Her big brown eyes flashed as she threw down the duster, covered the distance between us in a few quick strides, and grabbed me into a hug. "I'm so glad you're back." She pushed back, holding me at arms' length. "Tell me everything! How was your trip to Florida? What were his folks like? Did you have a great time? Are you glad to be home?"

  I took a deep breath. "I—"

  "I have so much to tell you. The wedding plans are driving me crazy, and Quincy is worse than no help at all. Oh, and you won't believe the gorgeous water feature Harry Villars is having built out back in the garden by the pool, and we're going to have the ceremony out there. I'm just so glad Daddy's being so generous with his money for the wedding. It makes me feel real good to be able to spend it here at the resort, and—" She stopped abruptly and laughed. Then she took hold of both my hands, smiled sweetly, and said in a quiet voice. "Hi, Mel. Welcome home. Can you tell I missed you?"

  And it was my turn to laugh. "Makes me feel wanted," I said.

  "Okay, one thing at a time. Tell me about Florida."<
br />
  I frowned. "It could have gone better. But it's a long story we should save to share over a glass of wine. Or two. Or three."

  "Oh no." She laid a hand on my arm. "I can tell by the look on your face it was a disappointment."

  "You can say that again. And it looks like we brought a haint back with us."

  She cocked her head to one side? "A haint? How's that?"

  "Yep, a haint by the name of Sydney Baxter. One of Jack's old girlfriends showed up here this morning."

  "No! What's that all about?"

  "That's what I want to know."

  "Well, it's obvious we do have to talk. You won't believe all the excitement that's been going on around here. TV and film crews. Fortune hunters."

  "I saw something about that on the news."

  "It's a real tale, one even worthy of Mystic Isle. Illicit lovers, pirates, redemption, broken hearts, revenge. What more could you want?"

  "Something about Jean Lafitte, isn't it? And a missing historical document?"

  She took a few minutes to reiterate what I'd heard about the letter of pardon on the news report earlier. "And get this." She gestured dramatically and lowered her voice. "One of the twin brothers is missing. Quincy mentioned it yesterday. The other twin and the sister reported it."

  "How about that?" I said. "Until the missing person turns up, looks like this is turning into a real Mystic Isle mystery."

  CHAPTER THREE

  My morning appointment was new to me and new to Mystic Isle, a seventy-something lady with reasonably firm skin. Important to a tattoo artist. She identified herself as a geriatric fortune hunter with a psychic connection to Jean Lafitte who'd come to The Mansion at Mystic Isle when she heard about the search for the privateer's missing letter of pardon.

  She'd fixed a look on me I thought was meant to be a piercing, steely-eyed stare but actually came off more as a myopic squint. "I'm convinced if I can get my hands on that paper"—she scrubbed her hands together greedily—"the spirit of ol' Lafitte himself will hook up with me. What do you think about that?"