Mystic Mistletoe Murder Read online

  He kept digging, his words separated by the ragged breaths he drew as he dug. "I served under Sergeant First Class Cantrell in Afghanistan. We were EODs, Explosive Ordnance Disposal. He took one for the whole platoon. Died for us. For me. I swore I'd watch over his woman and son, keep them safe for him, whatever it took."

  He almost seemed to have forgotten I was even there, speaking more to the night and the cold wind than to me. "After I came back, I found her. Five years I've been keeping my eye on her now. And things were going great until that lousy bartender started running around with her, ruining her reputation. I couldn't let it go on, you see."

  Until that very moment, I hadn't put it all together. But there it was. In a stupid and misguided gesture to protect Valentine's honor, Aaron had killed Slim Conner.

  Now he was digging in the cemetery, and I didn't figure he was just trying to build up his muscles.

  My voice was gravelly. "But the Sheriff blamed it all on her. How's that taking care of her?"

  He grunted with the effort of shoveling dirt from the grave. "That wasn't supposed to happen. I had it figured she was so far above reproach if I used her boots, no one would think anything about it. Besides, all the boots in the locker room were muddy. I didn't believe it when they zeroed in on hers."

  I didn't know what to do, but getting up and running seemed like a pretty good idea. I was shaking and didn't know if it was from the cold or from fear—or both.

  His shovel clanked against something hard. A coffin. They were always laid in pretty shallow here in the bayou, and he hadn't had to dig down very far. With the blade, he leveraged the shovel against the lid of the coffin, and suddenly, his plan was pretty darn clear. He was going to kill me and dump me in with the other corpse, whoever that poor soul was.

  But I didn't plan on making it easy for him.

  Rolling onto my side, I pushed off the ground, brought my feet up under me, and launched myself away—only to have the wind knocked completely out of me as I sprawled flat. He'd hit me in the back with the shovel.

  Trying to suck air back into my deflated lungs, I sounded like an out-of-tune accordion, wheezing and squeaking. The pain was excruciating. He rolled me over with the toe of his boot. And I looked up into his shadowed face. "Let's not make this any harder than it has to be, Mel." He reached down and grabbed hold of the front of my jacket. "Whaddya say?"

  He began to lift me, and if I didn't do something, I knew he'd kill me—probably do something violent and bloody with the shovel. The way he straddled me, his soft parts were open and vulnerable, I brought up one leg, but the position I was in didn't allow me to put much force behind it.

  My targeting was spot on, but without being forceful, it didn't bring him down the way I'd hoped.

  "Bitch. Why is it you women always aim there?"

  My shoulder and butt were off the ground, and he stepped over me, starting to drag me back toward the rancid, dirt-covered coffin.

  "Please." It was all I could think of to say. "Just…please."

  "Too late. Should have thought about the consequences sooner. Don't you—"

  Something big and fast and solid hit us. It was like being slammed into by a locomotive. Aaron and the driving force went one way, while I went the other, hitting the ground and rolling over a couple of times.

  When my senses found me again, I could see Aaron and what looked like a bear wrestling together on the ground.

  Aaron got the upper hand and forced my would-be rescuer to the ground. "Idiot. I'm trained in combative techniques. All you got is mass. You can't beat me."

  It was Odeo who'd come flying across the graveyard faster than I'd ever thought a man his size could move. Odeo, who'd knocked the two of us apart and taken on the killer, and if I didn't do something fast, it would be Odeo who'd die here with me on this cold, dark December night.

  Up onto my knees then crawling, I made my way closer, no idea what I was going to do to stop him. That was when the voice spoke to me—my inner voice, the one I could have sworn was my Granddaddy Joe sending me messages from the other side. "Whomp him wid it, Mellie gal. Whomp."

  Ah-ha!

  Stretching out my arm until my fingers curled around the handle, I dragged it closer, using it to help me to my feet.

  Just a couple of feet ahead of me, Aaron had his forearm on Odeo's throat. Poor Odeo's eyes were enormous in the moonlight.

  Hefting the shovel up and across my body so I could send it with as much force behind it as possible, I swung it with my full weight behind it.

  My cell phone went off. "A Pirate's Life for Me." It was Jack.

  Aaron's head jerked around, his expression murderous. He lifted one hand to block my swing, but it was too late.

  The shovel came down across the side of his face, knocking him off Odeo, sending him flailing onto the cold, wet grass, where he lay still.

  Odeo was gasping for air but had enough energy left to haul himself to his feet.

  My phone was still signaling, and I answered it with, "Jack. Cemetery. Come now. Call the police. It was Aaron. All the time, it was him." I ran out of breath but still managed to choke, "We need you. I need you."

  I dropped to my knees as Odeo dragged Aaron by the arm across the grass to the sunken coffin, the one with the lid pried off, the one Aaron had intended to bury me in.

  Dumping Aaron on the ground beside the gaping hole, he bent and used both hands to roll the unconscious murderer into the waiting coffin to lie with the bones of one of Harry Villars' ancestors. At least until Jack arrived with the cavalry.

  Odeo looked up at me. "You okay, Miss Melanie?"

  I sighed and nodded. "Sort of," I said. "You?"

  "Yes'm," he said, rubbing his throat. "Though I have been some better."

  "Yeah. Me, too."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Time seemed to stand still as Odeo and I sat in the cold, damp cemetery with only the moonlight to see by.

  Odeo hummed incessantly, his low bass tones reverberating into the night. His choice of songs? "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer." Sounds of the bayou night served as his rhythm section, syncopating the tune.

  Come on, really? His humming and especially his choice of songs irritated me, and I wanted to ask him to stop, but the big guy was probably in the same shape I was—mainly, exhausted and scared. So I just sat on a boulder while he paced in front of me. That silly song would probably be running through my head forever.

  Jack and one of the resort's security guards came on the scene only a few minutes before my nemesis, Sergeant Mackelroy, and another deputy from the sheriff's office arrived and hauled Aaron out of the moldy coffin.

  Jack hugged me closer than close, as if shielding me from the world forever.

  "Are you sure you're all right?" It was the fourth time he'd asked me that question.

  "Pretty sure," I said. But I really wasn't. It had been a terrifying experience, and my back hurt.

  When I shivered, more from delayed reaction than from the cold, Jack took off his jacket and helped me slip it on.

  "Why don't you keep it?" I said. "I'd rather feel the warmth of your arms than this jacket anyway."

  "Don't worry about it." He put his arms back around me. "You can have both."

  "But you'll be cold."

  "Not likely. Right now I've got plenty of rage to keep me heated up." When he turned his head toward the sheriff's vehicle where Aaron had been cuffed and left in the back seat, even if I couldn't see Jack's face clearly in the dark, I knew there was fury bubbling up in him. I felt it in the tension of his body against my back.

  It was comforting, in a way, to know he was angry that I'd been threatened and hurt, even if I didn't like seeing him stressed.

  Sergeant Mackelroy came up, her stride and attitude bearing the weight of her authority. "You three can go inside and wait out of the cold," she said. "We'll be taking Mr. Bronson back to lockup, but Chief Deputy Boudreaux's on his way here. He's been briefed, and I'm sure he'll want formal state
ments from you, Miss Hamilton, and you, Mr. Fournet." I couldn't see the details of her face in the dark, but I had a feeling she was batting her lashes when she added, "And I know you'd like to get inside where it's nice and warm, Jack."

  I tried not to pucker up and go all lemony, but I couldn't help it. "Yes, Jack, do come inside with me where it's nice and warm."

  He took my hand. "Let's go then," he said. "You don't need to be out here any longer than necessary."

  Jack and I started back toward the main building when I suddenly remembered… "Oh no, I forgot all about poor Stella. Jack, you gotta check on her."

  But as it turned out, Stella was just fine. We met her as we walked up the steps to the veranda.

  "Stella!" I said. "Oh, I'm so glad to see you. I was worried Zachary had gotten to you."

  "He did, but it wasn't a bad thing after all. He was just worried about the fuzz coming around and wanted me to cast a chart to see if this was all going to turn out bad for him."

  "So he wasn't on his way to beat you up?"

  "Zachary? Beat me up? No, he'd never pull a downer like that on me. Don't know what I was thinking. I'm his meal ticket, you see."

  I breathed a sigh of relief. She was all right. In fact, it was looking like almost everything was all right. Now, if they could just find out what Aaron did with Papa's bag.

  Jack and I went to Jack's office. Odeo joined us. One of the kitchen staff brought hot cocoa at Jack's request, and we sat sipping it.

  It was after twelve thirty in the morning when Harry Villars and Quincy walked in together.

  Quincy frowned. "I knew you couldn't leave this alone," he scolded. "But then it looks like you may have caught one more dastardly killer. As a representative of the sheriff's office, I'd like to say thank you. As a friend, I'd like to ask you to stop putting yourself at risk like this. And as a man in love with special plans for the evening, I'd like to ask you if you couldn't have picked a more convenient time for me."

  It was full-on Quincy at his most outrageous, and no comeback was required. I just took another sip from my mug of hot chocolate.

  Harry looked pretty shaken up. I'd never seen him in such a state. Under his overcoat, his shirt had been buttoned up cockeyed, his slacks were beltless and wrinkled, and, holy smoke, the man wore no socks. Sleepy-eyed and messy-haired, it was my guess he'd been called out of a sound sleep at his New Orleans hotel when the alarm had gone off at his home, la petite maison.

  Jack hurried to reassure him. "We're sort of back to normal here, Harry. At your place, it just turned out to be a few of the Ravens who set off the alarm by mistake. They were half-blind drunk, got turned around, and thought they were back at the resort by the patio doors to the Presto-Change-o Room. We found them sitting on the floor in the foyer, yelling for drink service."

  Harry blinked a few times then ran his hand over his hair, smoothing it down a bit. "Well, can't blame a few guests for overindulging in holiday spirits. Can we?" But what seemed to really be on his mind was, "It truly was that young man, Aaron Bronson, who committed that heinous crime?"

  "I'm afraid so," I said gently.

  "And he tried to slay you as well, Miss Hamilton?" Disbelief and horror edged his voice.

  I nodded, shivering with the memory of it. "But Odeo came to my rescue."

  Harry clapped Odeo on the shoulder. "Thank the Lord for you, Odeo."

  "Heck yeah," Jack said.

  "Ditto," Quincy added.

  I just smiled at Odeo, who'd ducked his head in kind of an aw shucks way at all the praise being heaped on him, and patted his hand.

  Quincy pulled each of us aside and took our statements as to what had happened that night.

  When we were done, he put away his notepad, stretched, and looked at his watch. "Woo-eee, after one already. Ferry quit running an hour ago, and Miss Cat probably gave up on me and hit the hay a long time ago anyway." He sighed and shook his head. "Not the evenin' I was hoping for. Didn't get to carry out my well-laid plan."

  I didn't have any idea what he was talking about. "Well, you're gonna see her tomorrow anyway. You two are coming to my Grandmama Ida's tomorrow night after midnight mass, right?"

  "Wouldn't miss it," he said. "But for now, I'm saying good night one and all. Looks like the murder of Papa Noël's been solved and put to bed." He winked at me. "We could call this one the mistletoe murder."

  The adrenaline had long since worn off, and I started feeling pretty bad. My back still throbbed where I'd been hit with the shovel, and all my limbs had begun to ache. I hunched my shoulders and reached around to rub the sore spot on my back.

  Jack reached for my hand. "Let's get you to the hospital."

  I opened my mouth to object, but he didn't let me speak.

  "Please, Mel, do it for me. Just to have you checked out."

  "But I have two of the triplets to finish tomorrow morning."

  "If the hospital clears you, I'll have you back here in plenty of time for them," Jack promised.

  And he did get me back in time, but not plenty of time, not in my book anyway. There were no broken ribs or bruised lungs or kidneys, thank God, but it was still after four a.m. when he and I crawled into bed, curled up around each other, and went straight to sleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Getting out of bed Saturday morning, Christmas Eve day, was one of the most difficult physical challenges I'd ever faced. I lay on my back, Jack still cuddled up against me, his arm curled around me, holding me to him. His even breathing indicated he was still sleeping. I rolled one shoulder and let out a moan that woke him. He sat straight up.

  "What is it?" His voice was husky with sleep, but the concern was unmistakable. "Are you all right?"

  I moved my arm this time with the same result. "Ow." Somehow managing to roll onto my side, I slid my legs from under the covers, pulled myself into a sitting position, and set my feet on the floor. It took a lot of effort.

  Turning around at Jack's sudden intake of breath, I caught him looking at my back in nothing short of horror.

  "Oh, Mel. You're all black and blue and purple"—his voice sounded odd, husky and sad, and there was a catch that sounded almost like a shudder—"and green."

  "Add gold, and I'd be a Mardi Gras float, f'sure," I said, trying to reassure him it wasn't as bad as it looked.

  "I'm so sorry I wasn't there to keep this from happening." He swung out of bed, came to sit beside me, and wrapped his arms around me gently as if he feared I'd shatter into a thousand pieces. With his chin resting on top of my head, his jaw clenched, he gritted an oath so violent I cringed. I'd never heard anything like that from him before.

  "Jack, how can you blame yourself? None of us knew it was Aaron," I said softly. "It's going to be okay. I'm sore, but nothing was broken. A little beaten up, but I'll be all right."

  The tension in his body was contradicted by the tentative tenderness of his touch. "How about I go roust us out some breakfast?" He pulled back, and I looked up into his eyes that were suspiciously moist. "What sounds good?"

  I smiled or tried to. Even that hurt. "Chicory coffee and toast with orange marmalade?"

  He pursed his lips, thinking it over. "Strawberry jam?"

  "Perfect," I said.

  He kissed me on the lips, feather soft, and left me sitting on the bed.

  While I watched him walk away toward the kitchen, it occurred to me that the man had an extremely fine bum for a Yankee—not that I hadn't noticed before. I also noticed how much his sweet concern had touched my heart.

  * * *

  The triplets showed up right on time at nine a.m. for their simians. The two remaining tattoos were Hear No Evil and Speak No Evil. There was an excellent lesson there for us all. A random thought made me ask myself why there was no fourth monkey sitting on his hands for Do No Evil.

  The longer I worked, the looser I got, and by the time I finished, I wasn't half as sore as I'd been earlier. The triplets were pleased with my work, and I had to say they'd held up a
lot better than the wimpy action star throughout the process. After signing a release form that allowed me to incorporate the mystic monkey designs into a portfolio, they took turns having their tatts photographed then paid me, tipped me nicely, checked out of the resort, and went on their merry way to spend the holiday with their mama.

  "Our mama, she's just gonna go nuts 'bout these, " See No Evil said. "This way she'll know we've never forgotten all the good things she taught us."

  I thought they were sweet men to think so highly of their mama.

  Seeing as how it was Christmas Eve day, things had slowed down some at The Mansion, and the remaining two triplets had been my only appointments for the day. I closed up shop, hanging a sign on the door that said Closed until Monday, December 26. Have a mystical Christmas.

  Cat's slate for the day was completely blank, and she hadn't even come in. I took the shuttle to the river to join her at our home sweet home in the Crescent City.

  As I crossed on the Mystic Isle ferry that cold, windy day, watching the churning waters of the muddy Mississippi, it occurred to me that Cat might be grumpy because her plans with Quincy had been thwarted.

  Cat and Quincy were such a great match—Q with his blunt, down-to-earth Cajun cockiness and occasionally off-kilter viewpoint and Cat with more than enough backbone and common sense to keep him grounded. And they were both so good-looking if they ever did tie the knot and start a family, the children would be stunning. How come that man hadn't bought her a ring and dropped a knee yet? He'd better get on with it pretty soon. Cat was the kind of gal who'd take the matter into her own hands, and if he wasn't ready to commit by the time she was, that woman would move on to greener pastures. Didn't that fool of a man know he'd found his soul mate?

  And speaking of soul mates, I was beginning to think I might have found mine. The way Jack's eyes had clouded that morning when he saw the bruises on my back, the way his hands had been so achingly tender and gentle when he'd touched me, and the way he'd insisted on propping me up in bed then bringing a tray with toast, strawberry jam, and the perfect cup of chicory and coffee fixed up regulah, just the way I liked it—it all came back to me, and my throat tightened with emotion. Did I love him? Yes. Did I love him enough for a lifetime? Maybe. Did he love me? I thought that yes, it was likely he did. And that gave me comfort and warmth as I snuggled into my winter jacket against the cold wind and watched the ferry pilot, my friend George, tie up to the dock on the city side of the river.