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  MYSTIC DECEPTION

  A Mystic Isle Mystery

  by

  SALLY J. SMITH & JEAN STEFFENS

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  Copyright © 2019 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.

  This one is dedicated to my friend Debbie, my inspiration. ~ Jean

  For my son and daughter, without whom I wouldn't have made it through these last few months. ~ Sally

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  CHAPTER ONE

  Wednesday Night

  As the slick dude in the black tux glided around the stage like Fred Astaire, a beautiful woman in a skimpy outfit came from behind the curtain to join him. He opened the lid on a big box sitting on a dais and took her hand, helping her up into the box.

  The music, Heart's "Magic Man," swelled. The stage lights flashed and bounced off the glittering sequins on the assistant's costume.

  I sat breathless and excited in the first row with my boyfriend, Jack Stockton, my Cap'n Jack, whom I worked with at The Mansion at Mystic Isle. Jack was, in my opinion, also the reigning best-looking and most awesome man in the state of Louisiana.

  Derek King, the magician everyone at the resort had been talking about all week, closed the lid with the pretty lady inside while he took hold of a mechanical arm attached to the box.

  "Oh, gosh!" I jerked and shrieked as he slammed the arm and its six wicked-looking sword blades straight into the box. Wham. The blades made a sickening sound like someone hacking into a watermelon with a machete—not good—and penetrated the box, the ends poking out the other side.

  I clutched Jack's arm. "Those weren't real swords, right? They had to be rubber or something? Didn't they? This is just an act, isn't it? She's okay?" It looked so real.

  Jack squeezed my hand. "Pretty sure they were real swords, Mel."

  The music stopped except for a tense syncopated drumbeat. Then even that stopped, and the entire Chamber of Illusion theater was so quiet, you could hear a mouse fart. The lights faded then flared. There was a moment of utter stillness while all of us in the audience held our collective breath. Derek King whirled then took one long-legged leap and sprang onto the top of the box like Baryshnikov. Have to say, the guy definitely has moves.

  He lifted a glittering gold drop cloth above his head for what seemed only a split-second. Then the drape fell away—wait a minute—it was the beautiful assistant standing there—without even a scratch from the look of things.

  Where had Derek King gone, and how had it all happened so very quickly? The assistant jumped to the floor, opened the lid, and, whoa, there was King, popping up from inside the box, arms raised. He basked in the enthusiastic applause as…

  The crowd.

  Went.

  Wild.

  All I could do was stare. "If I live to be old as Methuselah, I won't ever get how they do this stuff."

  Jack took my hand, and we stood together, applauding with the rest of the audience.

  His whisper beside my ear gave me the shivers. "It's magic, babe. Magic. You believe in magic, don't you?"

  During the break as the next act was being set up, we went backstage.

  Wide-eyed and excited, I was like a kid on her first time at Disneyland. I'd never been around magicians much before, just the odd presentation here and there at the resort. But over the past few days, illusionists, prestidigitators, mentalists, and other magical people had been everywhere.

  The Ultimate Art of Magic competition sponsored by the Federation of Magicians had contracted to hold their annual show at The Mansion at Mystic Isle. It was the first time the prestigious group had held their convention here—a feather in the caps of Harry Villars, resort owner, and Jack, the resort's manager. It wasn't always easy to lure events, groups, or conventions to the Jefferson Parish bayou across the Big Muddy from New Orleans.

  The main building of the resort was an old plantation house set among cypress trees and expansive green lawns. It had been handed down through the Villars family for centuries. Not all that long ago, owner Harry Villars had the brilliant idea to turn the place into a resort where folks dedicated to the supernatural and all kinds of magic could come and get their creep on.

  The Mansion was decorated like the haunted house at that theme park—you know the one—creepy organ music when you crossed the threshold, drafty hallways, creaky doors, secret passages, even fake cobwebs. The whole shebang, chère. Harry Villars sank every cent he had into it and crossed his fingers that the place would allow him to keep the rundown family estate. Then he hired a complete cast of soothsayers and charlatans to convince hotel guests the supernatural stuff that went on at The Mansion was the real deal. But just between you, me, and the opossums, it's not.

  In my humble opinion, The Mansion was an absolutely perfect venue for a magic event. I mean, at the resort you could get your fortune told, your astrological chart cast, buy a love potion, dress up like Harry Potter (and not look out of place), have a séance to contact one of your dear departed loved ones, or even have your favorite fantasy art tattooed onto the body part of your choice (which was where I, Melanie Hamilton, came in). Why not bring in over forty of the world's best up-and-coming magicians to compete for a one-year headliner contract in Vegas and a grand prize of $100,000?

  The forty acts who'd shown up were in the process of being whittled down to a mere final four by the panel of judges.

  Backstage swarmed with the activity of stagehands manhandling the props from Derek King's act off the stage and moving new equipment into place for the next performance.

  The head judge, Hans Ritter, a European legend in the world of stage magic, stood talking to Derek King, the performer who'd just come off stage.

  The two men were a study in contrasts.

  Hans was fit, flamboyant, and glam in tight white leathers with gold lamé trim. His wild blond hair was like a lion's mane. I remembered from when he'd performed at Mystic Isle a while back that he always seemed to be on, and tonight was no different.

  Magic contestant Derek King was the Fred Astaire smoothie who'd just finished up onstage. He was tall and lean. His short-cropped brown hair and features were so regular that describing them as anything but average didn't seem possible, but his expression and demeanor were something else. He lifted his chin and stared down his nose into Hans's face as if he were Louis the 14th looking down on a grimy peasant. But Hans apparently didn't notice.

  Jack and I walked up to them in time to see the German superstar clap Derek on the back. "Ja, my most awesome congratulations, Herr King. Wunderbar."

&nb
sp; King smoothed an eyebrow with his fingertip and nodded. "Of course. You should expect nothing less from a professional. I make it a point to give a flawless performance—every single time." He punctuated the last three words with the shake of his index finger. "Anything less is unacceptable. Don't you agree?"

  "Ja, I agree." Hans made a circle with his thumb and forefinger, A-OK.

  The Saturday night finale, when the four chosen contestants would perform again and the grand prize would be awarded, was only three nights away. I couldn't imagine how excited the participants must have been.

  Hans turned then and saw us. "Herr Jack Stockton, my favorite hotelier." He grinned, spreading his arms. "For the first time hosting the Federation, I have to say such excellent work you are making here." He thrust a hand in Jack's direction, and the two men shook.

  I couldn't help comparing Jack to the flashy European magician. It was like standing Vegas Liberace beside Vegas Sinatra—one screaming ooh-la-la look at fabulous me, the other cool, classy, and understated (and, if I may add, devastatingly handsome).

  "You remember Miss Hamilton?" Jack said.

  Hans lifted my hand and kissed it old style. "Ja, my favorite redhead, Melanie, the daunting shamus."

  "Shamus?" I repeated.

  "That's not the correct word?" Hans looked from Jack to me. "For someone like a detective?"

  "Oh." I was embarrassed, recalling how he had actually been a big help in the past when a murder had taken place at Mystic Isle and I'd been trying to find the killer. Of course that's what he'd remember about me. "That's me, all right. Shamus Hamilton."

  Jack went on. "I'm happy to hear you and the Federation like what we've done and hope you'll book more events with us. We've put a lot of resources to work."

  The MC took the stage and announced, "Ladies and gentlemen, it is my honor to present our next magician, the lovely Tantalizing Tabitha!"

  Hans turned away from us as the only woman remaining in the competition took the stage. "Aha," he said. "Time to get back to judging." He mock-saluted Jack and acknowledged me with a nod and slight bend before making his way back to the judges' table.

  Derek King moved up beside us where he had a good view of the stage as Tantalizing Tabitha, a painfully thin redhead with more wavy hair than even Beyoncé, prepared to perform her act. How could her skinny little neck hold up that head of hair? She wore a black velvet jacket with sequined lapels and a pair of black satin cigarette pants as she strutted back and forth across the proscenium in Plexiglas platform stilettos.

  Her voice was as shrill as the screech of a whooping crane. "When I was a young girl in the big city, my grandfather kept doves—magical doves. Let's see if a few of them might pay us a visit tonight here in the bayou."

  From the judges' table came the sound of applause. It was Hans Ritter in a wholehearted display of approval. "Ja!" he hollered. "Magical doves! Sehr gut!"

  "Huh." Derek King snorted. "Magical doves? Yeah. Right." He leaned toward me. "Watch this." And he hadn't said it in a good way.

  A muscular dude dressed like a Chippendale dancer—shirtless with just a bow tie and tight leather pants—skipped (I kid you not) onto the stage. Women in the audience whistled and hooted. Jack came to stand behind me and playfully put one hand over my eyes.

  I turned my face up to his. "If I bought you that outfit, would you wear it?"

  He gave me one of those easy smiles I loved so much. "Probably not to work, but I might be persuaded to don it for a special occasion now and then."

  "Wowsa." I took hold of one of his arms and pulled it around in front of me, leaning back against him. "I can hardly wait." It wasn't an exaggeration.

  Onstage, Tabitha and the chick magnet had wheeled around a decorative box-like structure about three-foot by three-foot. On it sat a birdcage the same size. Tabitha dramatically opened a door on one side of the empty cage. Hands moving lightning quick, she showed us an egg that seemed to just materialize, like out of nowhere. A popping sound. A flash of smoke and light. And the egg seemed to explode, transforming into a beautiful white dove.

  "Ahh." I caught my breath.

  Tabitha gently maneuvered the dove into the cage and onto a perch. Then she went into high speed, producing one dove after another, from egg after egg, and then sliding them in with the first, until there were eight beautiful white birds in the cage.

  It was splendid and, yes, magical. I squealed again in delight. Jack's arm tightened around me as he put his hands together to applaud her.

  The crowd loved it. "Bravo!"

  "Huzzah!"

  "All right!"

  And from Hans Ritter. "Jawohl!"

  Tabitha smiled and did a nifty little dance step to the background music playing—what else?—"Rockin' Robin." She flipped a drape across the cage, covering it.

  She clapped her hands, said, "Abracadabra," and yanked at the cloth.

  That was when something went really, really wrong and all hell broke loose. The cage seemed to shudder for a second as the structure collapsed beneath it. With a loud clank, the cage, birds and all, flipped off the stand, one side breaking away completely. It landed with a metallic clang, revealing a second Chippendale stud who had been concealed by the stand and who might have been trying to pull the cage inside the structure, making it seem to disappear out of sight. That's what they were going for—a disappearing bird cage? As it stood…it was hard to tell.

  With the clanging and the hard landing and the noise coming from the audience, the doves went absolutely berserko.

  Feathers flew everywhere.

  Most of the pitiable frightened things made a break for it. Wings beating and flapping, they swooped out from the mangled cage into the audience, a clean getaway—well, not a totally clean getaway. Several ugly spots of bird poop had landed on poor Tabitha, and some had even soiled the foxy Chippendale dude who was struggling to get the cage back together.

  Tabitha shrieked and began to bat at her hair as one of the frantic doves got stuck in the red curls (most likely all that hairspray). It kept beating its wings to free itself.

  Yelps and shrieks came from the audience as the terrified fowl flew crazily around the theater, hunting for a safe haven.

  It was like a scene out of Hitchcock's The Birds.

  Standing beside us in the backstage area, Derek King was having the best time, pointing and gasping and laughing his butt off.

  After a few minutes, everything settled down, and Tabitha, looking totally miserable, was left on stage alone, having been deserted by her magical doves and boy toys. There didn't seem anything left for her to do except shrug helplessly, smile lamely, bow, and leave the stage—tangled hair, torn and pooped-on jacket, and all.

  She came offstage, buried her face in her hands, and burst into tears. I felt so bad for her, tears started in my own eyes.

  In the backstage area that was now as quiet as a mausoleum, Derek began to clap slowly, and, his tone dry as the Kalahari, he remarked, "Yes, ladies and gentlemen, let's hear it for Tabitha and her magical doves."

  Tabitha looked up and stopped sobbing, stomped over to King, and slapped his face. "You're an ass, Derek."

  Then she ran off in the direction of the stage door—which didn't look all that easy with the Plexiglas platforms.

  Surely that wasn't the way things were supposed to go. Right? I mean…it was a disaster.

  Derek was left rubbing his cheek, but he whirled suddenly as Ken Pierce, the backstage manager, hurried to get his crew onstage and clear away the train wreck that had been Tabitha's routine.

  "Hey!" King yelled. "You."

  Ken stopped and turned toward Derek. The backstage crews didn't wear uniforms, so all that identified Ken Pierce as resort personnel was the purple T-shirt, the lanyard with its clear vinyl pocket displaying resort ID, and the retractable key ring hooked at his waist bearing a dozen or so keys to get him around behind the scenes.

  But Derek King seemed to have no trouble identifying Ken as someone who could get him
what he wanted.

  "What do I have to do to make it clear to you and your…people…that my equipment is expensive and delicate? It has to be stored all together in one place so no pieces are lost or damaged, or someone could get hurt during the performance. And it needs to be locked up when I'm not using it, to keep the rest of these bozos in the competition away from getting to it and trying to figure out how I do things. Everybody's always after my effects."

  "Okay, Mr. King." Something bordering on disrespect resonated in the way the backstage manager said mister, a sort of sneer in his tone. "So you won't have to go looking for any of your equipment again, I'll personally make sure all of it gets stored together and locked up. That way you don't have to worry about anyone stealing your tricks."

  "Just make sure you do," King called after Pierce. "And it's not a trick. It's an effect or an illusion." He removed his tux jacket and hung it on the back of a chair, muttering under his breath. "Man, I hate dealing with these low-life, ten-dollar-an-hour creeps."

  "So, Mr. King." Jack's tawny eyes were dark with disapproval. "I'm guessing you aren't out to win the congeniality vote."

  CHAPTER TWO

  Wednesday Night

  Jack and I and several others had to clear a path for the next prop being moved out onto the stage.

  It was Eli Zander's impressive glass Chinese Water Torture cell, which was modelled after the one Harry Houdini had used in his act. It was clear glass all the way around, completely filled with water, and lit from within by some form of eerie green light that made the shimmering water look like the Aurora Borealis.

  Eli, a staff magician and full-time employee of the resort, performed his Houdini-esque escape act three nights a week in the resort's big Chamber of Illusion room. After discerning that his familiarity with the resort wouldn't necessarily give him a leg up in the contest due to the unbiased judges, both the Federation and the resort's owner had signed off on Eli being allowed to compete.