Mystic Mischief Page 11

  I pulled the small plate on my side of the table closer and claimed some of the cheese, two small crusts of bread, and some shreds of pancetta. Cat seemed impatient to get my attention and reached out with splayed fingers. I looked back up at her face.

  "So you want to hear about this, right?" Her eyes were bright, her features animated. "I can really see how a person gets addicted to this detective stuff. I actually got sort of a high from grilling Nancy Villars for details and trying to make sure she didn't know I was doing it."

  The goat cheese practically melted in my mouth. I swallowed then dabbed the corners of my lips daintily, as if I hadn't just fallen on the food like a vampire at a blood bank. One of the cocktail waitresses came up and set a plate of oysters on ice, a bowl of lemon wedges, and several tiny bottles of Tabasco in between us.

  "Oh my goodness gracious, girl," I said. "This is just perfect."

  "I know." Cat smiled wickedly at me, and we both attacked the offerings.

  Between slip-sliding the oysters, making mini-sandwiches of the bread, cheese, and pancetta, and sipping the wine, Cat unfurled the story of Nancy Villars' tarot card reading as if storytelling was her main occupation—which in a way, it was.

  She cleared her throat and began. "Like I said in my text, Nancy almost came running for her free reading, plopped down in the client chair, and leaned over the table like she was expecting me to hand her a fistful of cash or something. I used a marked deck of course, so even after she cut them, the cards that I wanted to come up did."

  "Aren't all your decks marked?"

  She sniffed. "Of course not. Most of the time I let the cards fall where they may—so to speak. Just on occasion do I need to manipulate the client. The very rare occasion."

  "Like this one."

  "Yes, like this one. Now. Are you going to let me tell you this, or are you going to keep interrupting?"

  "Sorry."

  She settled back into it. "I had her draw three cards, and then I sat looking at them for a long time, pondering, doing my thing." She interlaced her fingers beneath her chin and batted her lashes. "I figured I might as well give her the whole treatment, you know. First I looked at the Three of Swords."

  I could see it in my mind. The Three of Swords was a particularly dramatic card depicting a beautiful red heart cruelly pierced by three shining swords.

  "I looked up at her and asked her if she was sad," Cat said. "That the card can indicate sadness or a difficult time in a relationship. So then she tells me that yes, she has been sad."

  "Well, yeah, we know that much already. Her brother was murdered. Of course, she's—"

  "No." She interrupted me. "That wasn't why she said she was sad. She went on and on about this man she'd been seeing for the last year. This guy was a real doozey, Mel. Not only did he love her and leave her, but before he took off, he drained her of just about every nickel she'd ever saved."

  "What a prince."

  "Yeah."

  I leaned forward over the table, caught up in Cat's story of how she'd led Nancy Villars down the primrose path, trying to get information from her. "So she brought up this tragic love affair before she mentioned how sad she was at the loss of her brother?"

  "That's just it." Cat threw up her hands. "She didn't mention the loss of her brother at all—not at first, anyway. Not in relation to her sadness. Said the source of all this wretchedness I was seeing in the cards—that's the word she used, wretchedness—was the loss of her one true love."

  "Wretchedness? Her one true love? I don't know what to think about that."

  "Oh. Wait, girlfriend. It gets better. I moved on then to the next card. I'd fixed things so Nancy would draw the King of Pentacles, and I could feel her out about her finances. And since Nancy had already admitted the swine took her and her assets for one heck of a ride, it made sense for me to act as if she might be looking at a reversal of fortunes, a financial opportunity on the horizon."

  "And?"

  "And, sister, did she ever jump on that. Began singing me a song about how she just knew something good was going to come from Elroy's death. About how she and her other brother can work together on some windfall project."

  "So all she had to say about Elroy's murder was how it affected her? Nothing about being sad, how she'd miss him, or anything like that?" I was stunned to silence for a moment but took the opportunity to drain my wine glass before drawing a long breath.

  Cat nodded.

  "That's cold," I said. "If she thinks it was such a good thing her brother died and put her next to this book deal with Percy, it makes you wonder if she might not have helped it along. Nancy's a big, strong girl, and under the right conditions, I betcha she could put enough force behind a blunt object—as Quincy put it—to kill a man."

  Cat just stared at me before shivering visibly.

  "Is that all you learned?" I asked. "I mean that's plenty…"

  "That's not all, chère," she said softly. And I couldn't help but think that after spending so much time with Quincy Boudreaux, she might be turning into a little curvy, brunette version of the cocky Cajun. "Then I read the third card, The Hermit. That card can indicate a turnaround. I call it the fixer-upper card when it shows up in the right aspect. After what she'd said already, I asked her if she could imagine circumstances that would turn things around and make her happy again."

  "And she said?"

  "That with the death of her brother, maybe things had already been set in motion to fix her life—that finding the Lafitte document would validate her brother Percy's claim to the genuineness of Belle's story, and now that she'd be helping him with the book, they'd both be rich as Croesus when it hit the bestseller list, and the money would bring back her lover."

  "Oh boy," I said. "So if she manages to get any loose change out of working with Percy on this book, she's gonna call up this guy and let him know about it? She ought to just write him a check and put it in the mail. Doesn't she have any pride at all?"

  "It's obviously affected her. How could it not?" Cat said. "She was especially contemptuous about Percy's love life."

  "What did she have to say about Percy?"

  "Just that he was engaged to be married to his longtime girlfriend but just recently broke off the engagement with no explanation. Nancy says the poor girl was heartbroken and that Percy was tightlipped about the whole thing and basically told everyone his reasons for doing it were none of their business. Said, 'I don't talk about it. Percy reacts strangely if I do.'"

  "Huh," was all I could think of to say.

  We just sat there looking at each other for a while until Cat asked, "Did you and Fabrizio turn up anything over at Harry's place?"

  "Fabrizio found a receipt he was going to follow up on, and I found this." I reached into my jeans pocket and pulled out the pin. Cat leaned across and peered at it. "Here." I started to hand it to her, but she shook her head.

  "I've been with my wild Cajun long enough to know not to put my fingerprints on something that might turn out to be evidence."

  "Oh," I said. Duh. "Right. What do you think it is?"

  Cat stared at it a moment longer then pursed her lips and looked out over the main salon where the lighting had subtly changed over the last hour to a lower, dreamier level. I waited as she considered what the tiny object might mean.

  "It's obviously a pin of some sort," Cat finally said, pulling my thoughts back to the small item in my palm. "Like the Shriners wear or the Elks. And there's something familiar about it—"

  "I thought that too." I jumped in.

  She went on. "But I can't place what it is. Why don't you show it to Q, ask him?"

  "Not likely," I said. "I came across this at Quincy's crime scene when he wasn't there and I wasn't supposed to be. Your lawman wouldn't be all that receptive to the idea that I carried away what might be evidence in one of his exclusive investigations."

  Cat pushed her chestnut hair behind one ear. "You got a point there. I know I've seen that or something like it befor
e. I'll keep thinking about it. In the meantime, I have to run. Don't forget to go to wardrobe and pick up the costume I chose for you." She clicked her teeth and whistled. "It's got the wow factor. When Cap'n Jack Stockton sees you in it, he'll be so thunderstruck he won't even remember the blonde's name."

  "Thunderstruck?" I gave my head a little shake. "I'm not so sure I should have let you pick out my costume."

  Cat just laughed.

  We divvied up the check, left money on the table, and made our way outside.

  It was late Sunday afternoon, four days since Elroy Villars had been left to rot at la petite maison, two days since Jack and I had returned from Florida, and one day since Sydney Baxter had shown up and turned me into a pouty, jealous child, also one day since a body had been discovered at Harry and Fabrizio's home.

  Murder at Mystic Isle.

  I had a lot to think about.

  Murder.

  Quincy and the sheriff's office had begun to work on it, but they were late to the investigation. I felt I already had more details about the case than they did, but so far the only real suspects were Elroy's own brother and sister and the Powells, who wanted to serve billions, just like McDonald's. But they definitely weren't the only people with motive—motive being possession of the valuable historical document that everyone under the sun seemed to be obsessed with getting their hands on.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  I headed to the rear of the resort, specifically the behind-scenes area we called wardrobe. It was where all the employees' costumes were made and maintained. The resort policy was for two costumes or uniforms to be allotted to each employee along with normal maintenance and cleaning. Above and beyond normal wear and tear, any damages were our responsibility. It was a fair policy, one with incentive for us to take care of the clothing provided so we wouldn't wind up paying for mending, extra cleaning, or even a whole new costume.

  The wardrobe area was like a boutique on steroids. Everything from kitchen and housekeeping uniforms to costumes for the front desk clerks, all the way to the more elaborate getups like Fabrizio's monochromatic Nehru suits and turbans, Cat's gypsy soothsayer flowing skirts and peasant blouses, and my own dark vampiress gowns hung on racks throughout the area adjacent to the employee locker room. Keeping the apparel in shape for day-to-day work shift use as well as special occasions such as Mardi Gras, holidays, and other events was just about a 24/7/365 operation, and someone was always working in the department—even on Sunday after five, especially since it was the day before the Halloween costume ball coming up. The wardrobe division was also responsible for preparing costumes to be rented out.

  Monday night's ball was the first of four to be held at the resort during the month of October. Harry Villars did love a good party, and he kept The Mansion's special events coordinator hopping with ideas for happenings connected with holidays or the resort's magic and supernatural themes in general. Harry had always said Halloween was one of his favorite celebrations, and it was observed at the resort the entire month of October. The masquerade balls were generally geared toward resort guests, but tomorrow's was open to employees as well.

  Sugar Marchand, the hotel's head seamstress, was inside the cavernous room hunched over a sewing machine. She was working on a bright green Kermit the Frog costume.

  She looked up when I walked in. Sugar was in her mid to late sixties and was pretty dang skinny, so much so my plump Grandmama Ida would have said Sugar was a woman in desperate need of a cheeseburger. Her face bore evidence of the thirty-nine years she admitted to having smoked two packs a day. Having quit years ago, these days a full-blown campaign against cigarette smoking and its evils was the zealous pulpit from which she preached. But the years of tobacco abuse had rendered her face like cracked leather. Sugar's hair was the rich color of a good merlot and cut really short.

  "Miss Melanie Hamilton," she said, smiling and creasing her face even more.

  "Sugar," I said. "What's shaking loose over here in wardrobe?"

  Sugar stood and crossed to a rack where she took down a dark zipper bag. "Here you go, Madam Tattooist." She unzipped the bag. "This is what the doctor, well, what Miss Cat ordered for you. I used the measurements in your costume file to alter it. Should fit you like a glove."

  She pulled back the flap revealing a short dress with a brown and white ruffled skirt and a bodice that was part vest, part lace-up blouse. "Ta-da," she crowed. "Pirate wench." Laying it aside, Sugar reached to an overhead shelf and brought down a box which she set on her worktable. "These go with it."

  Inside the box was a pair of tall black boots with heavy buckles, a thick black belt, a beat-up looking tricorn hat, and a thinner belt with a scabbard. A fake-jewel-encrusted plastic handle stuck out of the leather scabbard.

  Sugar ran a hand through her hair, leaving it standing straight up. "Ironic, don't you think? I mean seeing as how it's all about this Jean Lafitte thing these days. You'll be too cute for words tomorrow night. The costume's perfect for you. Think about adding some fishnet stockings, letting your hair go all wild and curly, and painting your lips all up with some Slut Red gloss. You'll be the bell of the ball."

  I looked at the costume. It was pretty skimpy at both the hemline and the neckline, and God only knew I wasn't exactly a sexpot like a certain tarot card reader we all knew and loved. And while I wanted to look good enough to get Jack's attention, I certainly didn't want to show up at the masquerade ball looking desperate. "Maybe I should go for something less revealing," I said, looking doubtfully at Sugar.

  She nodded and winked knowingly at me. "It reveals just enough. Trust me, girlfriend."

  I had another look at the outfit. "Well," I said. "If you think so."

  I zipped the bag, tucked the box under my arm, and took the hanger in my other hand. "Thanks for putting this aside for me, Sugar," I said.

  "Oh, sure, honey. I couldn't find any more masks around here, but if you stop by the Masquerade Emporium, they'll have one for you."

  As I went to the door, I couldn't help wondering if Sydney Baxter had plans to attend the costume ball, and if she did, what she'd be wearing.

  Sugar sat back down in front of the sewing machine.

  I left her to finish the Kermit costume as something else occurred to me. It's not easy being green—with envy that is, which is what I was and had been for the last couple of days. I didn't much like the way it made me feel.

  I did stop at the Masquerade Emporium in the auxiliary wing of the resort. It was located beyond both Dragons and Deities and the House of Cards. The Emporium was where outfits for the costume balls were being rented to guests and where I picked up a shiny coppery half-mask that complimented the color of the pirate wench skirt and vest.

  Who should I run into on my way out? Cat, Fabrizio, Chef Valentine Cantrell, Stella by Starlight, and Lurch, all heading in force into the costume rental store.

  I was surprised to see them all together. "Guys," I said. "What's up?"

  "Why, nothing," Fabrizio said quickly. "Why should anything be up? Anything at all?"

  "Can't talk right now," Cat said, not even slowing down. "Running late, and I gotta get down to the ferry and head home."

  Lurch made that low moaning sound I'd come to know was his way of saying: Y'at? S'up? Or lez partay. But the gentle giant wasn't looking at me when he moaned it, and after my gaze shifted between them, I realized none of them were. Instead they were all looking back and forth at each other—nervously.

  Huh. What's up with that? But I didn't stop to find out, writing it off as probably having to do with the masquerade ball to be held tomorrow night. They were all probably just picking up their costumes or masks or something and wanted to be done before the store closed.

  Cat had said she'd be leaving the resort to take The Mansion at Mystic Isle ferry back across the river to our apartment in the city. It had only been a few weeks that Cat and Quincy had been planning their wedding and monopolizing the cute little courtyard domicile on Dumaine Street in
the heart of le Vieux Carré that Cat and I shared. And if I were being honest, up until last night when I'd slept alone in my hotel room without the warm body of Jack Stockton as big spoon to my smaller spoon, I hadn't minded being temporarily displaced from my own place—but tonight I was feeling a little homesick.

  I reached into my pocket for my phone and went to the resort website scheduling page for Dragons and Deities to check my Monday appointments. I didn't have anything that I knew about until eleven a.m. when a guest had signed on for one of the copyrighted stock Mystic Isle wizard designs. During my stint at The Mansion at Mystic Isle, I must have inked at least fifty of the way-cool Merlin look-alikes on various bodies. Since I knew the design so well, I figured the work would go smoothly and quickly. It was a good thing I'd checked. Sometime between the last time I'd looked at the schedule and now, Roger Goodwin, Mr. Hollywood himself, had booked a two-hour slot beginning at eight thirty a.m.

  "Huh," I said out loud to myself. "Wonder what kind of tattoo a movie director would ask for. This could be interesting."

  It also could be a good opportunity for me to quiz him about his clients, the ultra-ambitious, highly-motivated Powells. But how to engage him? I didn't know all that much about Roger Goodwin movies, just a few scant details.

  The sudden thought that popped into my head might have been courtesy of my Granddaddy Joe, or it might have just been a good old-fashioned excuse. Whatever. It didn't make any difference where it came from, I thought it was a brilliant idea for several reasons and decided I'd just jump right on it.

  I backed out of the internet and dialed Jack's cell.

  "Mel?" He spoke softly, his voice sounding surprised and a little confused. "Is something wrong?"

  "Nothing's wrong," I said, feeling suddenly nervous. "Do you have any plans for tonight?" I waited, holding my breath.

  "Uh"—he sounded nervous too—"no."

  "Would you mind terribly if I came over to your place later to watch a few Roger Goodwin movies on Netflix?"

  Again, holding my breath.