Mystic Mistletoe Murder Page 12

  It was early Friday morning. I'd stayed over with Jack in his "honeymoon cottage."

  When I woke up, the spot beside me in bed was empty but still warm. I found him in the kitchenette, already dressed and on the phone.

  I glanced at the heart-shaped clock on the wall. Six thirty. The sky through the kitchen window was just barely beginning to grey. The central heat kicked on, and I knew it would be a cold December day at The Mansion.

  This wasn't the first time I'd slept over with Jack—even if we never did much actual sleeping—so I was familiar with the kitchenette and where he kept everything, including the K-Cups. Lately, he'd always stocked my favorite Coffee & Chicory pods. What a man.

  While he talked, I fixed his coffee, black, and handed it to him. My guess was he was on a long-distance call with the travel agent in Dublin who was sending us a group of sixty guests in March. He lifted his cup, showing his appreciation.

  "We've lined up the speakers and entertainers you requested on the subjects of banshees and leprechauns. Our normal staff of magicians, mediums, tarot readers, and so on will be available to your group as well."

  Next, I fixed my own coffee—I liked it regulah, as we like to say in the Big Easy, with lots of cream and a ton of sugar. Mm-hmm. The best way to start any morning.

  I sat down at the small table with Jack.

  He rubbed my bare knee sticking out from under one of his T-shirts. His fingers were warm from when he'd held the coffee mug. I laid my hand on his and squeezed. My feelings for Jack were strong—fondness, admiration, and passion. Lately, he'd also become my safe haven. He'd been there for me when Fabrizio had been accused of murder, and I'd been frantic to help him. And more and more, I found myself relying on his solid judgment when I needed advice.

  I'd seen him deal with irate guests with patience and kindness, eventually disarming them with his utter charm. And I'd seen him deal with employees from high-dollar entertainers to janitors with equal respect. He was good at his job not only because of his training and experience but mainly because of his people skills and true caring nature.

  And he was a great lover, who made me feel safe and confident, and could always make me laugh.

  Love was a strong word, and one I'd never used before when relating to a man, but it was a word that came to mind when I thought of Jack Stockton. My Cap'n Jack.

  I got up, set my cup in the sink, and made a motion to him of rubbing my hands over my face and under my arms.

  "One second, please," he said into the phone and lowered it. "I'll probably be gone when you get out of the shower. Couple of more calls to make. How about meeting me for breakfast in the employee lounge in about an hour?"

  I nodded and went into the bathroom, turned on the shower, and stepped in.

  After my shower, I made my way to the main building. It was cold outside, but the walk wasn't a long one.

  My first appointment wasn't until nine thirty, the triplets with the monkeys, so before changing into my costume, I stopped in at the employee lounge where Jack and I planned to meet for a quick breakfast.

  Valentine Cantrell sat nursing a cup of tea at one of the tables. Her long, elegant fingers ran over the handle of the cup. Even sitting down, she was as graceful as a ballet dancer.

  "Mornin', Mel." Her low, sultry voice and laid-back style always calmed me. "Time for breaking that fast." She shoved a plate full of fragrant cinnamon buns in my direction. The pastries were thick with cream cheese frosting and so spiced with sweet cinnamon, you could taste them long after they'd been chewed and swallowed.

  Even though I tried restraint, I nearly launched myself at the plate. This wasn't my first Valentine Cantrell Sinful Cinnamon Roll. And, dear Lord, don't let it be my last.

  I bit into it and chewed, trying hard to keep the saliva from dripping out of my mouth. "I see you're back in full force." I gave her a thumbs up.

  She sighed, circling her tea mug with both hands. "I'm so grateful Louise covered for me. And she did a darn fine job of it too. Don't have even the faintest idea how things would have gone without her."

  I waited. From her tone, I knew more was coming.

  It came. "But I can't find hardly even a single thing in that big old kitchen. It's like someone came through and just waved a magic wand, and everything switched itself around."

  "Really?" I said. "Louise reorganized your kitchen in just one day?"

  Val shrugged. "Either that or I went senile sitting in that jail."

  Sobering thought. Valentine Cantrell in lockup? "Was it terrible?"

  "Oh, sweet girl. Not so bad. I had the place all to myself pretty much, and people kept coming in to check on me. They were downright accommodating. But I missed my boy something awful."

  "I know you did." There wasn't much left to say except, "We're trying to help figure out who the real killer is so you don't have to go back there. It just broke my heart thinking about you in that place."

  "Are you maligning the outstanding facility provided by the good taxpayers of Jefferson Parish?"

  We both looked up.

  It was Quincy.

  I thought I saw something that might be labeled fear flash briefly in Valentine's golden eyes. But it was gone in an instant. "Why if it isn't Chief Deputy Boudreaux." She got to her feet and went to the counter. "Let me get you a cuppa Joe, child."

  "No, thank you, Valentine. I'm here on department business. There's been a development."

  "Oh?" was all she said, but her hand found mine and latched on. I curled my fingers around hers.

  It was obvious by the concerned look on Quincy's face, the development he'd mentioned wasn't going to be good news.

  And it wasn't.

  "For the sake of due diligence, we been checkin' into a few things, Chef Cantrell."

  She didn't speak, but her eyes begged him not to go any further. I couldn't blame her for being worried about the news he was about to deliver.

  He was doing his best to sound casual. "The folks over at the Childress Music Academy, don't ya know, they been tellin' us 'bout this little miracle. Seems like out of a clear blue sky somebody up and paid $65,000.00 so your boy, Benjy, can become a piano virtuoso. An anonymous cash delivery was added to Benjy's account on Wednesday, the day after the murder, the day after the donations were stolen." He let it hang there a bit before, "You wouldn't happen to know anything 'bout that, now. Would you, Chef Cantrell?"

  "You said what now?" Valentine let go of my hand and stood. "I have no earthly idea where that kind of money would come from all in one chunk. Last I heard they were working on setting up a payment plan for me, and that was gonna be a stretch. Since you been checkin'…" Her emphasis made checking sound more like snooping. "…I'm sure you're just all over my $58,000.00 a year salary. And I'm betting you even know I won't be coming up for salary review for a few more months yet."

  He didn't speak, but his brown eyes were alert.

  Valentine went on. "So you comin' on in here and getting' all up in my face 'bout where did that $65,000.00 come from is just a load of…" She stopped. "Well, it just don't make much sense." She sat back down and drummed her fingers on the tabletop.

  Quincy scratched his chin, twisted his head, swung a chair around backwards, and straddled it. "I take that to mean you weren't the one providing all that largesse to the academy then?"

  Valentine's dander was still up. "What do you think, Chief Deputy? No. Wait. Let me guess. You think I snagged the key to one of the resort vans, snuck out to the boathouse, drove out along the service road, ran over my good friend Slim Conner, rounded back for a second go at him, climbed out of the van in the pouring rain, stole all those donations for those sweet little orphans and all the money for that poor sick little girl, and then sent it over to the music school just so as my Benjy, who's already a genius at playin' piano, can leave his mother's lovin' arms and stay all the way across the river to take lessons in music theory and technique from folks who just might know less about it than the boy does already? Hu
mph. Does that make sense to you, Chief Deputy?"

  Quincy had the grace to shrug.

  On a roll, she asked again, "Well, does it?"

  "Not completely, no," he said. "Look, Valentine." His voice went soft. "I'd be just pleased as could be if it was to come out it was somebody else who did in Papa Noël and stole his bag o' goodies. But so far, all the evidence is pointin' toward you. We really don't have anything leadin' us to believe someone else would have done it. Mrs. Conner has done said you were knockin' boots with her husband—"

  "Well, that's a damn lie," Valentine shrieked.

  "—and then we got your prints, and the boots, and you can't really account for where you were." He sighed. "And now this here big money shows up at the school. What else are we supposed to think?"

  She leaned back in her chair, seeming to shrink before my eyes. "Looks like my goose might be sitting in a 325-degree oven, just waiting to get basted and served."

  "Not so fast," I said. "Have you and your people even considered looking at anyone else?"

  "You mean like Odeo Fournet?" Quincy asked.

  Oops. That wasn't what I had in mind—hadn't been looking to get another one of my friends in trouble, and I didn't believe he'd been the one to kill Slim, anyway. No more than I believed Valentine had done it.

  "Well, not Odeo. But what about Diane Conner? She looks pretty guilty to me. Didn't like her husband, and not only did she have some crazy idea that Slim was having an affair with Valentine—a pretty darn good motive if you ask me, a woman scorned and all that. But she also knew he was gambling away all their money. And now that we're talking about gambling, have you taken a good look at Zachary Jones?"

  Quincy frowned. "Who?"

  "Zachary Jones," I blurted out. "The bookie Slim owed all that money to. I mean, come on, Quincy. Don't those kind of people give you cement sneakers if you don't pay up on time, or nail your knees to the floor, or something?"

  Quincy just sat there, looking at me. "Melanie Hamilton, you been digging into this investigation?"

  Uh-oh.

  He went on. "Like you done last time? Like I asked you not to do this time?"

  I swallowed hard.

  He sat there a minute longer, just staring at me then he ran his fingers through his hair, which was already standing straight up. "Looks like maybe I better hear all about this fella, Zachary Jones."

  So I told him what I knew. He just sat there, rubbing his hand along his jaw, listening like it was story hour at the library.

  "Hey, if it isn't Chief Deputy Quincy Boudreaux, Cajun gentleman extraordinaire!" Cap'n Jack walked into the room. "What a coincidence. Just the man I needed to see."

  Quincy turned away from me. "Good morning, Jack. I was hoping to see you too."

  "Everything all set?" Jack asked.

  Huh? My head turned back to Quincy.

  "You bet it is," he said. "But I'm scared right out of my socks."

  What were these two cooking up?

  Jack clapped him on the shoulder. "No worries, man. It'll come off like buttah."

  Quincy gulped and nodded, but neither of them offered to let me in on the secret. I planned to grill Jack the earliest chance I had.

  Jack went on. "Anything new on those thefts we've been having?"

  Quincy shook his head. "Nothing that will help us anyway. We still think it's an inside job. Whoever is pulling them off knows how to avoid the security cameras, when the rooms are empty, and how to get in and out without breaking the locks or being seen."

  "I know it's probably occurred to you there hasn't been another incident since Tuesday," Jack said.

  Quincy nodded. "Yeah. It has."

  "And are you thinking it's connected to Santa— I mean Papa Noël's—bag being taken?"

  One side of Quincy's mouth turned up. "Well, of course, Jack. What do you think? Just because we out here in the bayou we got heads full o' cotton?"

  "No, no." Jack hurried to say. "Of course not. I know the deputies are on the job. I know you're one heck of an investigator. I'm not. Just because I thought it might all be connected…what do I know? It might not make any sense to someone who actually knows what he's doing. That's why I ran it by you."

  Quincy punched Jack's arm. "Chill out, city boy. I was just pushing your button."

  "Right," Jack said with a little laugh. "One of these days, I'll figure out all the nuances of Louisiana humor."

  He walked over to the counter, fixed himself a cup of coffee, and then joined the three of us at the table, snagging one of Valentine's warm, gooey cinnamon rolls.

  His eyes rolled up while he chewed his first bite. With the roll held in one hand, he pointed a finger of his other hand at it while he swallowed. "Valentine Cantrell. You're a genius and one of the main reasons I'm glad I came to work here."

  She waved him off. "You go on."

  He turned and winked at me.

  Quincy sat there another moment before reaching over and grabbing not one but two of Valentine's pastries. "You know what? I'm thinking those pastries might require a bit of investigation, after all." Half of one was gobbled up in just one bite.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  After Quincy left, Valentine got to her feet. "Better get back. The kitchen'll be humming with breakfast orders, and I need to set up the lunch menu."

  "Try not to worry, Valentine," I said. "Jack and I are still trying to figure this whole thing out, and now it sounds like even Quincy is looking around for another suspect."

  She smiled and nodded then left the room.

  Jack reached for another roll, while I scooted my chair closer to his. "What's going on with you and Quincy and the sly looks you keep giving each other?"

  Jack chewed and opened his eyes wide, but I wasn't buying it. "I know you, Jack Stockton, and I know Quincy Boudreaux, and the two of you got something up your sleeves. I wanna know what it is."

  He shook his head and swallowed. "I don't know what you're talking about." But he knew what I was talking about, and he knew I knew he knew what I was talking about.

  "Okay. Fine," I said, standing. "If that's the way it's gonna be, I'll just have to get Cat to worm it out of Quincy."

  He stood too, using his thumb to wipe a smudge of cream cheese frosting off my cheek and lick it off his finger. "Good luck with that," was all he said.

  It was hot, but I stood my ground, not letting him distract me. "We'll see."

  If Jack wouldn't crack, surely Quincy would.

  I went back to the employee locker room and dressed in my costume—I liked to call it Transylvania chic.

  As I crossed the lobby to head to the auxiliary wing and my tattoo parlor, Dragons and Deities, Diane Conner was heading toward the exit.

  She stopped dead when she saw me. "What in blazes are you dressed up for?"

  "Oh," I said. "It's just my work costume. We all wear them. You know, like the wizard's robe Slim wore when he was tending bar?"

  "What?"

  "Wizard's robes. All the bartenders wear them."

  "That nice young man from the other night wasn't wearing any stupid wizard robe."

  "Well, yeah. But that was a special event. We all dressed up like Dickens characters."

  "Like who?"

  "It was just something different."

  She stood there a minute, chewing gum—chewing it loudly. "You telling me this place had Slim dress up like some kind of Merlin or something?"

  I nodded.

  "Well, isn't that just a crock?"

  I shrugged, kind of stumped. "You never saw him in costume?"

  She shook her head.

  "Too bad," I said. "He wore the robe with panache."

  "Pan-what?"

  "He looked good in them."

  "Figures," she said. "If I'd known more about him before we got hitched, I probably would have passed." She glanced at the medieval-looking clock on the wall behind the reception desk. It was one of those big wood and antique brass jobs with the works exposed in the middle and roman nume
rals to mark the hours, something you'd have expected to see in a dusty old museum. The way the exposed cogs and wheels moved had always fascinated me. But the most important thing about it was that it kept accurate time. "Well, I gotta boogie. Slim's ashes gotta be picked up."

  "Oh." I instantly forgave her all the briskness and sarcasm. "I'm so sorry."

  "Why are you sorry?" she said. "I should've known as big a hassle as that man was in life, he'd still be an inconvenience in death." She sighed. "But God help me. I did love him."

  "Of course," I said.

  "Too bad he was a liar and a cheater and gambled away all our money."

  What could I say?

  As it turned out, I didn't need to say anything. She had more to say. "You know he was sneaking around on me with that Creole woman, don't you?"

  I began, "I don't—"

  But she cut me off. "Sinful. That's what it is. All them war widows are just alike. Think they're entitled, that's what. Think just because their soldiers died defending this country, it makes them some kind o' special."

  "What in the blue blazes are you talking about? Military wives make huge sacrifices. They are special and war widows even more so. Why would you say that about them in general and Valentine in particular?"

  She lifted her chin defiantly. "Well, it's true. Isn't it? What kind of woman is that Valentine person? Carrying on like that, running around with a married man in broad daylight and in front of your own young child. Woman like that doesn't even deserve to have a child." She was so bitter it was like there were toxic fumes rising off her.

  I turned, wanting to get away from her as quickly as possible. Who needed that negative energy? Certainly not me. Then I remembered. "Don't forget we're having that memorial service for Slim in the garden this afternoon."

  "Huh," she said. "Won't be seeing me there. I'll be handling things my own way, if you please. Heading over to the city to sprinkle his ashes at the Harrah's casino, seeing as how he thought that place was more his home than the one I made for him."

  "I see." But I didn't. I didn't have a clue how a person like Diane got to be that way.

  "You wouldn't be trying to sneak away without paying me, would you?"