Mystic Mayhem Page 11

  Jack cleared his throat. "What can we do for you, Deputy?"

  Quincy looked at me and shook his head. "I figured you'd want to hear the bad news right away, chère."

  "Why would you think that, Q? Nobody in his right mind wants to hear bad news, ever." I glared at him.

  "We got a warrant to search Fabrizio's room at Mr. Villars's residence."

  Oh, man, he was right. If he thought this was bad news, it was probably horrible.

  "We found these in your friend's closet." He held up a big clear plastic bag that contained a pair of work boots. "Mr. Villars confirmed they belong to Fabrizio. He uses them for puttering around in the garden behind the little house. The treads of the soles are imbedded up with what we're pretty sure is that toxic insecticide we found in the old boathouse. You know what this means."

  I didn't have to say anything. He could probably tell by the look on my face I knew what insecticide on the boots meant, but he said it anyway.

  "We'll be charging Fabrizio Banini with the murder of Cecile Elway."

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Talk about a mood killer.

  Poor Fabrizio. I was beside myself, and when Jack and I arrived back at the table, it must have been obvious to everyone around me.

  "What's wrong?"

  "What happened?"

  "Oh, my goodness, Mel, you look like you've seen a…"

  I stood and excused myself and headed back to the main building, Jack right beside me, holding my hand. He hadn't said a word yet, but I didn't really expect or want him to.

  My head spun with the horrible, terrible news of what was about to happen to dear, sweet, never ever hurt a fly Fabrizio.

  Coming across the lawn, we met Terrence Montague moving at a brisk clip. He seemed excited, animated. "Have you heard?"

  I didn't answer, too upset to worry about him or his worms.

  "They've made an arrest. It was the medium. The Great Fabrizio."

  "No." But it was a whisper so soft, I barely heard it myself.

  "Insecticide. They said it was all over his boots. Huh. You know that particular brand is highly toxic. It would have been like drinking Drano."

  I stared at him. "Drano? How do you know so much—"

  He spoke right over me. "About bug killer? Really, Miss Hamilton? Have you forgotten who I am, what species I champion? That's like asking someone who's allergic to peanuts what he knows about peanut butter. Well, sort of."

  Oh. Right. He was the bug man.

  "And what I know is that specific commercial insecticide is reserved for some particularly nasty infestations." He glanced at Jack. "Frankly, I'm surprised they allow you to keep it around here, the bayou environment being so delicate and all."

  Jack said, "It was fire ants. They were taking over. We had to get a special permit to use the insecticide just once to get rid of them. They're very particular about protecting the ecosystem down here."

  "At least it wasn't caterpillars," Terrence said.

  I could only stare at him openmouthed. Here was someone who knew all about the nasty stuff that had killed Mrs. Elway. I had no doubt if you asked Fabrizio about how to kill insects, he'd suggest a baseball bat. Yet the problem was the toxic substance was all over Fabrizio's boots, not Terrence's.

  Upon entering the main lobby, a tragic sight met our eyes—the usually whimsical and dapper figure of Harry Villars crumpled on the floor, his back up against the granite-topped check-in counter, crying as if his heart had been torn from him and shredded.

  Inappropriate or not, I dropped to my knees and wrapped my arms around him. He turned into me, soaking the shoulder of my dress with his tears.

  "Shush now, Mr. Villars. It'll be okay. We're not going to let anything happen to him."

  "He…he…he…" He hiccupped. "They…they…they…"

  I looked up at Jack, who paced back and forth a few feet away. "Jack?"

  He stopped pacing and helped Harry to his feet, offering him a clean handkerchief after Harry blew his nose loudly on his own monogrammed hanky.

  Harry nodded his appreciation, one hand still clutching mine. He turned watery eyes to me. "Miss Hamilton, Mr. Stockton, I must apologize for losing control of myself in that manner. The weight of those awful charges they're about to bring against Fabrizio just broke my heart right in two."

  I patted his hand. "Try not to worry, Mr. Villars. I have no intention of letting the real killer get away. I've begun my own investigation."

  Harry blinked several times. "You have?"

  I nodded.

  "With what results? Are there any leads? Any hope to exonerate the Great Fabrizio?"

  I took a breath and looked at Jack. Poor Mr. Villars was so upset, so fragile at that moment, I couldn't bear having to tell him that while I'd gathered quite a bit of information, none of it seemed to amount to anything. Not yet, anyway.

  That was when Jack's voice, soft, caring, Yankee or not, managed the tone I couldn't. "Miss Hamilton has learned a great deal, Harry. Unless I miss my guess, she's getting closer to identifying the real killer all the time. It shouldn't take much more to tie things up and take her findings to the sheriff, and with your approval, I'll help her."

  Harry drew himself up, tugged on his jacket lapels and cuffs, bent to retrieve his white straw skimmer off the floor, and nodded to Jack. "By all means, Mr. Stockton. Any assistance you lend to the release of our friend, employee, and most beloved Fabrizio will put me forever in your debt."

  "No, Mr. Villars," Jack said, "it won't. Not at all. Now that the charges are being made, I'm compelled to get involved and see what can be done. It's the right thing to do."

  Cap'n Jack. My hero. My eyes stung with tears of appreciation, mingling with tears of worry over dear Fabrizio.

  "Thank you, Jack," Harry said. "I best be getting back to la petite maison and call my lawyer. He's getting on in years, and these days he's in bed asleep by eight o'clock. He won't be happy to get the call, but he's been the family counselor for decades. He'll do what needs to be done."

  Harry Villars shook Jack's hand, laid his other hand on my shoulder, and bobbed his head in a gesture of gratitude and acknowledgement.

  People were beginning to filter in every few minutes from the back entrances. The fais-do-do must have been winding down. Even the band seemed to have kicked into a dreamier playlist. Strains of Sam Cooke's "A Change Is Gonna Come" floated in and out as the doors opened and closed.

  "Where do we go from here, Mel?" Jack asked, his voice still soft and considerate.

  I looked up at him, earnest, compassionate, and so studly. The double entendre didn't get by me. He'd been about to make a move before Quincy showed up, and I'd been ready and waiting for him to do it.

  Whenever a new "suitor," as Mama used to call them, would stroll into her life, she'd always be happy. "Timing is everything, Mellie," she'd say. And when they made their exit, she'd always be just as philosophical and utter those same words, "Timing is everything, Mellie."

  Her timing to this day wasn't worth a darn. I hoped that osculum interruptus, as Caesar would say, out under the willow tree wasn't a sign crappy timing runs in the family.

  But the good-timing theory definitely applied to more than romance. It probably had to do with turning over stones and finding a snake. If I was going to help Fabrizio, I needed to get busy flipping over those rocks and seeing just what lay beneath.

  "I believe I'll try to get to sleep early," I said. "I have a feeling tomorrow is going to be a real doozy of a day."

  He walked me to my room at the far end of the auxiliary wing. Neither of us said a word until we stopped at my door. It was an awkward moment, at least for me.

  Jack didn't seem to be uncomfortable in the least. "If you aren't too tired, I could come in."

  He caught me by surprise. "Oh," I said. "What for?"

  From the look on his face, I caught him by surprise too. He arched one gorgeous brow, "Gee, I dunno," he said, sarcasm heavy in his tone, "a bedtime story?"

>   My face warmed, and I knew I was turning pink under his steady gaze. But now wasn't the time to be a shrinking violet. I took him by the hand and led him into my lair.

  The standard double room in the auxiliary wing at The Mansion on Mystic Isle wasn't a suite at the Ritz, but for a hotel room there was more character than usual—even those that hadn't been updated yet to the haunted mansion mode, like mine. Two double beds with the resort's standard pewter-tone metal headboards in the French style. The nightstands, dresser, and sitting area were furnished in Louis XIV replicas—some of the rooms had off-white pieces, but the furniture in this one was a soft rose. Draperies and wallpaper brought to mind a gentler, antebellum era. The only jarring note was the flat-screen on the wall opposite the beds.

  Jack tucked his hand in his jeans pockets and sauntered over to one of the beds. He sat, bounced a couple of times (which made me giggle), and then patted the empty spot beside him.

  I sat down and turned to mush when he circled his arms around me.

  It was what I'd been thinking about, dreaming about for two and a half months, ever since the first day Jack walked into the resort lobby to take over after the last in a long string of failed managers. Harry Villars and his investors, his four cousins who won Family Feud and invested their winnings in the resort by paying off the back taxes, had brought in men and women—one or two of which whose gender was questionable—to try and pull the resort (kicking and screaming) into a profitable state. Giselle Martine, the resort's general manager just before Jack, had only lasted six weeks before her high-handed ways sent her packing. She came from a South Carolina bed-and-breakfast and was more interested in redecorating the place and trying out new scone recipes than she was in bringing in new business, handling the day-to-day operations, and pleasing the guests.

  Jack Stockton arrived on the scene in a three-piece suit with all that New York state-of-mind baggage. But he was a happy medium between the previously retired uninspired stiffs and Giselle's loosey-goosey style. In the ten weeks he'd been there, business had picked up, employees were content, and the hotel was humming along like a Delta Queen riverboat heading downstream.

  Oh, and I believe I've already mentioned, he was the tastiest piece of eye candy ever.

  He stretched out to the nightstand and flipped on the radio. Sarah Vaughn was "Misty," and so was I.

  Something about being there with Jack filled me with emotion.

  As he straightened up, cupped my chin in his hand, and leaned in to kiss me, I began to cry.

  Dammit.

  He didn't quite know what to do, and neither did I.

  "Oh," he said. "Is it me? Is it something I did? I thought you wanted—"

  "I do," I said. "It's not you. It's just…"

  His eyes softened. "Fabrizio," he said. "I understand." He got off the bed and walked to the dresser, snagged a couple of Kleenex, and handed them to me.

  I blew my nose. Romantic, right?

  He sat back down. "Tell me what you've learned so far."

  "You're really going to help me?" I said. "Us? You're really going to help us?"

  "Of course. Why wouldn't I?"

  I wanted to throw my arms around his neck and plant one on him. Our eyes met and held. It was one of those moments when time nearly stood still, and if it had been a scene from a movie, our lips would have met, an orchestra would have played, and sparks would have flown. But I just didn't feel like it was the right time and maybe not even the right place for our first kiss. I pulled back, and the moment passed. Regret flashed in his eyes, but only briefly.

  "I'm just so glad you're going to help us, and it just confirms what I've always thought about you," I said.

  His eyebrows shot up. "Which is…?"

  "You're a really nice man, Cap'n Jack. And I think I just might be crazy about you."

  He smiled and took hold of my hand, squeezing softly. "Aye, wench." It was a fair impression of Long John Silver. "If it's crazy yer wantin', I might be just what yer lookin' for."

  We raided the minibar and talked a while about what came from the interviews with Terrence the Caterpillar Man, Billy the grandson, Rosalyn the stepdaughter, and Penny the Psychic.

  I told him about Terrence's kept-man status and how he was about to lose his meal ticket because Cecile found out his caterpillar conservancy was a fake. I told him that after Billy's grandfather died, Cecile was named administrator of Billy Whitlock's trust-fund money until his thirtieth birthday, and the boy was impatient to get his hands on it, and that Rosalyn Elway Whitlock had absolutely no use for the money-grubbing woman who broke her father's heart, hastened his death, and was going through the family fortune like it was hot butter. Two of them, Penny and Terrence, knew Cecile had the hundred grand with her. The other two didn't know, at least they said they didn't. Penny the Psychic admitted to having suggested Cecile order the clams, but since she said she loved her like a sister, there didn't seem to be any obvious motivation.

  Jack listened intently.

  I wrapped it up and shrugged. "I don't know what to do next."

  "Money seems to loom pretty large in everyone's mind here," he said. "Don't you think?"

  "Yes."

  "And speaking of money, they found ten grand cash in Fabrizio's room at Harry's place. Where the heck is the rest of it?"

  "You're right. We kind of got derailed from that tactic, didn't we? Maybe it's time to get back to it."

  We stared at each other. I didn't know about Jack, but there were at least a million things running loose in my mind all at once. Who took the money? Did the same person who took the money poison the clams? How was I ever going to become a gumshoe and do tattoos at the same time? Would I ever see the inside of my apartment again? And if not, should I keep paying my half of the rent to Cat? But most and foremost in my mind were two things: get Fabrizio out of jail and back to la petite maison where he belonged with Harry, and find some private time with Jack Stockton where there were no interruptions or preoccupations to distract us while we explored each other.

  "Jack, I hope that once this is over, maybe we can—"

  I started as something flashed just out of my line of sight, followed by a din of noise and clatter as a painting fell—no, it didn't just fall, more liked jumped—off the wall and crashed onto the hardwood floor, the frame splitting apart.

  "Holy crap," Jack said, jumping up. "What caused—"

  My heart had jumped into overdrive and was kicking like engine pistons. "It's Alphonse." I didn't want to admit it, but the time had come.

  "It's who?" Jack picked up the impressionist watercolor of a rainy day on Bourbon Street and leaned it up against the wall. He stood, his back to me, squinting at the picture hanger, which I could see from where I sat looked perfectly fine.

  "Alphonse Villars," I said. "He keeps knocking paintings off the wall."

  "But there's no one here but us." He looked at me like a few of my cookies might have crumbled. "And who's Alphonse Villars?"

  I went to the closet and pulled the painting of the old boy out, standing it in front of me. "This is Alphonse."

  "But he's…"

  "Dead. I know. About a hundred seventy-five years or so. But it's him knocking down that painting. It just makes sense that Alphonse is unhappy about something."

  Jack looked at me. It seemed pretty obvious he thought the concept of a man deceased over a hundred and fifty years being unhappy didn't make any sense at all. "It isn't the first time, is it?"

  I shook my head. "I don't think Alphonse likes being in the closet." Hmm, in the closet. Maybe it was a metaphor. He was related to Harry, after all. "Maintenance hung that watercolor over the empty spot on the wall. This is the fourth time it's fallen down in the six nights I've stayed here. I truly think it's Alphonse."

  Jack stared at the bewhiskered old geezer in the oil. "Mel, come on. You don't really think—"

  "I don't know what to think," I said. "There are a lot of stories about Mystic Isle, stories from as far back as the
eighteenth century—about haints and voodoo conjurings, and witchcraft and goblins, and such. I never put much store in them, but when I was growing up, I hardly heard about anything else. My grandmama is a true believer, and she'll tell you straight out."

  "Why is Alphonse in the closet in the first place?"

  I ducked my head as I scooted the painting of Alphonse Villars across the floor and turned it to the wall. Maybe he'd like it better out here, even if he wasn't still hanging on the wall.

  "Mel?" Jack prompted. "Did you take it down?"

  I turned to him and nodded sheepishly. "I did."

  "But why?"

  I pulled my lips into a hard line and propped my hands on my hips. "What else was I supposed to do? The old lecher kept staring at me."

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  It was Saturday morning. I'd worked seven days without a break and needed one pretty bad. I woke up early. Fabrizio on my mind.

  Cap'n Jack, my hero, intended to spend part of his day looking into the background of Cecile's family and friends. Since I didn't really have a game plan outlined, I decided to spend the day somewhere I could do some good, namely at St. Antoine's, where a work crew planned to assemble later that morning to spiff up thirty old pews donated by a group over in Baton Rouge. A truck was bringing them to St. Antoine's about eleven. The plan was to nail and glue the pews all nice and tight then sand and refinish them. We probably wouldn't get it all done in just one day, maybe not even in two. That would depend on how many people showed up to do the work.

  I didn't have my work clothes with me, so my itinerary included a stop at my apartment to change. I'd see Cat and Satchmo and catch up on all the latest happenings in the Crescent City.

  But first I had the shuttle bus driver drop me off in Gretna at the jail and went in to visit with Fabrizio. Quincy was there working on his damn report. I could barely stand to look at him, but he took pity on me and let me sit down with Fabrizio, while the guard from the other night had only allowed the video visitation.

  The Great Fabrizio looked bad. His eyes were dull, with dark half-moons beneath them. His silvery hair, normally combed back to show off his widow's peak, lay flat and lifeless against his head. I knew he was in trouble when tears sprang up in his eyes, and he said, "Oh, my dear, don't even look at me. You know I don't wear orange well."