Mystic Mistletoe Murder Read online

  I walked the few blocks to home where Cat had a cheery fire burning in the fireplace.

  When I walked in she looked up from the table where she was wrapping holiday packages. "I checked the newspaper, and Gypsy Lady didn't come in for us."

  "Huh?" It took me a minute to catch up. "Oh, the horse. The bet. Well, there ya are. So much for an illustrious career as professional gamblers."

  "Yeah." She snipped the end off a ribbon and set one pretty package aside before starting on the next. "That's what I figured too."

  I ran a hot bath and soaked my aching bones in our big ol' claw-foot tub, not climbing out until the water began to cool.

  From the great room, the sound of Cat singing Christmas carols off-key rang out as she strung boxes, bags, ribbons, and paper across the dining room table, wrapping all the bounty we'd gathered up haunting the excellent secondhand shops and boutiques.

  Except for the gifts for our men, which were as individual as those two guys were, we'd pooled our money for gift giving. Both our names would go on all the gift tags, and there was something on our table we'd handpicked for almost everyone we knew.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Jack and Quincy had crossed the river and came by at four to pick us up in Quincy's Ford Explorer. All four of us headed out to the hospital and joined Father Brian who showed us to the sterile isolation ward where Nicole had been housed.

  She'd been admitted to the sterile environment prior to her bone marrow transplant scheduled to take place on Christmas Day because the donor had to leave for a church mission in Africa as soon as she'd been cleared to travel.

  We couldn't speak to Nicole, but all five of us stood in the hallway outside the big pane-glass window and waved. She looked wan and tired with big dark circles against the creamy skin under her dark eyes. She wore a blue chemo skullcap patterned with Olaf, the snowman from Frozen. When she smiled, it was hard not to notice her grey lips and the effort it took for her to raise her arm and wave back. To me, it was one of the great mysteries of life why little children had to suffer.

  After Aaron had been taken to lockup, a search of his apartment had indeed turned up the bag taken from Papa Noël. All but $5,000 of the cash was gone from it. Aaron not only admitted the murder, but also that the money had been sent for Benjy's tuition.

  The music school turned the money straight over to the Jefferson Parish sheriff who'd seen that it was released back to St. Antoine's Children's Home within hours. That huge chunk of money along with additional donations from the generous parishioners at the church came just in time to facilitate the medical procedure.

  Father Brian bowed his head, placing his hand on the plate glass between the girl and us. Cat and I did the same, nudging Quincy and Jack when Father Brian began to speak. Their chins lowered too.

  "Our Lord and God, please watch over this sweet child tomorrow. Guide her doctors' hands, and give her a healing treatment and full recovery."

  Cat, Quincy, and I said, "Amen."

  Jack's Amen came a beat later, and his voice broke then he helped me back on with my fancy full-length black wool coat—the one I only wore on special occasions like Christmas Eve midnight mass and New Year's Eve at Thibadeaux's Bar in the French Quarter.

  Father Brian turned to us. "I'll see you all later at services?"

  "Yes, Father," I said. "You will."

  We made our way back out to the parking lot. It was Jack's first N'awlins Christmas, and I absolutely wanted him to drink it all in, so we'd planned a night of streetcar riding to all the brightly decorated neighborhoods: Canal Street, the Garden District, and the Quarter. We even stopped to take a stroll at City Park through Celebration of the Oaks.

  I loved my city. Couldn't imagine living anywhere else, and sharing its holiday beauty with Jack was so special.

  Tonight was also special because it was the first Christmas midnight mass that had been celebrated at St. Antoine's Parish in the Ninth Ward since Katrina had all but obliterated the beautiful old church. The loyal parishioners, me included, and even a time or two my Cap'n Jack, had donated time, spare change, and energy to her restoration. After so many years, the building had been restored and was beautiful for the special service.

  The building was filled to the brim. Candles flickered along the walls and in the sanctuary.

  The four of us took seats about halfway back in the nave.

  Jack leaned over and asked me, "You think this might be one of the pews I painted last summer?"

  I took a good look at it and couldn't tell, but I still patted his hand and said, "It does sort of look like one of those you worked on."

  The choir sounded like angels, singing some of the more religious Christmas carols, as the altar boys and Father Brian proceeded up the aisle to the altar.

  The choir ended their song. Father Brian approached the podium, held up his hands in welcome, and said, "Let us pray."

  We bowed our heads and followed his lead.

  After the service was over, we left the building into the cold, starless night. The wind had died, and at the late hour, the streets were quiet as we drove to Grandmama Ida's house in the Holy Cross neighborhood for a traditional réveillon dinner.

  My mama and grandmama and quite a few of their friends gathered on Christmas Eve day to cook and bake and pile up enough food to feed the New Orleans Saints front line, back line, coaches, cheerleaders, and all supporting staff. Even Ruby, the owner of Ruby's Famous Bourbon Chicken where Mama had worked as manager for as long as I could remember, usually showed up with two stainless steel chafing dishes, one with her awesome specialty chicken and the other with beans and dirty rice.

  Grandmama Ida's place, a shotgun-style duplex where my mama lived in one half and Grandmama the other, was strung all around with Christmas lights. A lighted nativity scene with lots of real hay and old-fashioned (and maybe a little cheesy) figurines decorated the front lawn. Big old Styrofoam candy canes wound with red and white LED lights lined the front porch. Inside, the whole house looked like Christmas and smelled like heaven.

  "Holy smoke," Jack said. "Just standing here, my mouth's watering."

  When dinner was served, we all made right fools of ourselves, eating and drinking and talking and laughing until the wee hours of the morning.

  Jack, Quincy, Cat, and my mama gathered on Grandmama's tired, saggy old sofa to look at an old photo album with pictures of my family all the way back to the post-Civil War days.

  I took the time to walk out onto the front porch where it was quiet and calm, and the twinkling candy canes, the plastic Joseph, Mary, and Jesus were the only lights.

  I'd wrapped my arms around myself and stood looking up at the sky when Grandmama Ida walked up behind me and wrapped her arms around me too. "What's troubling you, baby?" she asked.

  I gave a little laugh. "Never can hide anything from you. Can I?"

  "Course not." She chuckled. "Why bother even trying?"

  So I began, first telling her about the dream I'd had and then about what had happened at the cemetery.

  She stood there looking out on the street where lights were still on in most of the neighboring houses at that early-morning hour as others held their own réveillon. When I was about halfway done with the telling, she took hold of my hand and brought me down with her to sit on the top step on the stoop.

  When I finished I said, "I know we've talked about this before, but it's happening more often now, and I'm not sure what I should do about it."

  She didn't say anything for a while, but I could tell she was thinking about what I'd said by the way she was sucking her teeth.

  "Why do you think something ought to be done about it, child?" she finally asked. "And just what are you thinking that something might be?"

  I shrugged. "I don't know. I just don't understand it, I guess."

  "It's not for you to understand," she said. "Your granddaddy, he loved you more than his very own life. And if he's watching over you, why, missy, there's nothing for you to do
except listen to the advice that old man gives you—it's gonna be solid gold—and maybe every once in a while just say, 'Thank you, Granddaddy Joe.'"

  I sighed and leaned over and kissed her plump cheek. She shooed me away like I was a gnat buzzing her head, but I knew she treasured that kiss just like she treasured me.

  There wasn't even a whisper of wind, not that I'd noticed anyway, yet for some reason, Granddaddy's old rocker began to move by itself, creaking back and forth just like in the old days when he'd sat in it morning, noon, and night.

  Grandmama Ida and I turned to stare at it. When it didn't stop, she looked back at me and winked.

  I winked back and said, "Thank you, Granddaddy Joe."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Cat and I both slept in past ten then we got up and made our rounds to family and friends, dropping off all the treasures we'd so patiently shopped for nearly all year long.

  It was Sunday afternoon as we rode across the river. Christmas Day, after the longest two days of my life, or it had seemed so—from the time I'd gotten out of bed and Cat and I had made our first foray into the realm of illegal betting on Friday morning until the early morning hours of Christmas Eve and the réveillon dinner at Grandmama Ida's with its eye-opening realization of the guardian angel watching over me, my granddaddy, Joe.

  I carried my portfolio with me. Its contents were something special I had for Cap'n Jack.

  Cat's phone rang just before we docked. It was "Cornbread," a really popular Zydeco song, and that meant Quincy was calling.

  She put the phone to her ear and made the connection. "Why if it isn't that world famous lawman Quincy Boudreaux."

  I listened while Cat made mostly monosyllabic replies. "Yes—sure—oh, great—right—not at all. Thanks for letting us know, my Cajun lover. You're the best."

  She disconnected and faced me.

  "Feel like sharing?" I asked.

  "That was my man. He was calling to tell me that Aaron had made a full confession, even copping to that string of thefts at The Mansion. It was all for Valentine, all to get money for Benjy's tuition."

  I had begun to suspect as much. "And he killed Slim because he thought their fabricated affair sullied Valentine's reputation?"

  Cat shook her head as if she couldn't believe the scope of Aaron's terrible deeds. "And once he discovered the cash in the goodie bag, Aaron could stop robbing the resort guests and just anonymously hand it all over to the Childress Music Academy. Q said Aaron justified it all by having made a promise to Tyrell Cantrell."

  "Unbelievable," I said.

  "The sheriffs spent yesterday taking inventory of the Christmas goodie bag they found in Aaron's apartment, and then the sheriff requested a special circumstance dispensation from the court so he could return the bag to Harry Villars."

  "So that's how Harry was able to set up tonight's party for the kids."

  "That's how," she said.

  There was one other thing that had been bothering me. "Did Quincy have any news about Odeo? There was talk he might be charged with some kind of complicity because he knew about Slim selling liquor out of the boathouse."

  She shook her head. "Harry had a talk with Odeo. In all the years Odeo's worked for Harry, there hasn't been a single problem. Harry scolded Odeo for not coming to him when he learned what Slim was doing, but at the same time, he convinced the police not to charge Odeo with anything. Odeo's all good now."

  I breathed a sigh of relief. "I'm glad of that. He saved my life, and I'd feel pretty low if anything bad happened to him."

  We docked and disembarked with the few others who'd crossed.

  The Mansion at Mystic Isle shuttle waited at the end of the walkway. I didn't recognize today's driver. He might have been someone new unlucky enough to get stuck working on Christmas Day. I reached in my bag for one of the small sacks of Christmas cookies Mama and Grandmama Ida had baked yesterday.

  "Merry Christmas," I held the cookies out.

  He took them and smiled. "Thank you. And you have yourself a good one too."

  Cat and I found a couple of seats and rode on over to The Mansion while a Michael Bublé holiday CD played over the speakers.

  The Mystic Mistletoe Merriment Rehash Bash was set for six p.m. Before I went to the resort dining room where the party was being held, I headed to Jack's place. He opened the door, seeming surprised to see me as if I'd interrupted him, but then he took me in his arms and kissed me soundly.

  "Merry Christmas, Miss Hamilton."

  I pulled away, walked in, opened my portfolio, and pulled out the canvas. "Merry Christmas, Mr. Stockton," I said, handing him the 15x19 inch frame with a big silver bow around it.

  He looked at me quizzically before turning it around. I crossed my fingers behind my back then uncrossed them, my heart quivering at the look of awe and appreciation on his face.

  He shifted the canvas to one hand, reached for me, and drew me into his arms. "It's me," he said simply. "I love it."

  It was, indeed, my Cap'n Jack in his best navy blue suit, wearing his resort name tag, standing arms akimbo in front of The Mansion. It took me weeks to finish it. I'd originally thought to paint him in swashbuckling pirate garb, the way I always thought of him. But then he'd probably have hung it somewhere discreet and couldn't show it off to others.

  His smiling eyes looked away from mine back to the painting. He left me to set it on a chair and then stood back, looking at it.

  "How did you…when did you…aw, Mel, it's just great."

  I was warm all over. He loved it. I'd hoped he would but wasn't sure. "I worked on it on my days off when I took my other stuff to Jackson Square to sell. Everyone seemed to like it. Some folks even stopped and asked if they could buy it. " I ducked my head, suddenly shy. "They said it made them feel good, happy, like a lot of love had been put in it."

  "Love?" He caught his breath. "I have something for you too." He left the room, returning quickly with a small red gift bag.

  Suddenly excited, I grinned up at him and opened it, pulling out the tissue paper to reveal the teeniest, tiniest of black bikinis. I held it up. "Oh my." Then I looked at him.

  He stood grinning at me. "You like it?"

  "Sure," I said. "But, Jack, it's December. It's cold outside."

  "Keep looking," he said patiently.

  I reached into the bag again. There was an envelope, which I took out and opened.

  "It's not cold in Florida," Jack said.

  I gasped. "Really? We're going to Florida?" It was a printed airline ticket confirmation for two roundtrip tickets to Palm Beach. I threw myself at him. "I can't wait."

  "Neither can I," he said. "My parents live in Palm Beach. I want them to meet the woman who's stolen my heart."

  I stopped and stood back, startled.

  "What's wrong?" he asked, frowning. "Don't you want to meet my mom and dad?"

  "Yes." My voice was shaky. "But what if they don't like me?"

  "Like you? They'll love you." He paused. "Just like I do."

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  There weren't as many people present at this Christmas party as on the night of that first fateful event, nor was the place quite as spiffed up.

  Valentine's staff hadn't been able to prepare nearly as elaborate a menu, but the holiday buffet they had come up with looked and tasted delish. The buffet had been served. We all were full to the brim when Jack excused himself after the meal to take care of some detail he'd forgotten. I missed him already.

  The one aspect of the party that exceeded the first was Lurch and Marvin's rendition of "Jingle Bell Rock." They sang in harmony. Lurch's voice so low it kind of rumbled the room, but it was pretty terrific. And I was kind of getting used to the way they both looked in the elf costumes.

  When they finished, the double doors burst open and Papa Noël bounded into the room. But who was it behind that beard? After what happened to Slim, no one wanted to be Papa Noël—unless you counted Marvin. I'd heard that both Harry and Jack thanked him but s
aid they had someone else in mind who'd agreed to do it.

  Cat and Quincy were kind of cuddled together, she leaning into him. At Papa Noël's energetic entrance, Cat said, "That's some way good action for an old fat Christmas sprite."

  "It is that," Quincy added. "Who'd they con into playing the old boy, anyway?"

  I shrugged. I hadn't been included in Jack and Harry's final plan, so I was as much in the dark as any of them.

  He was a good-looking Papa Noël all right, straight-backed and strong with the heavy bag on one shoulder. He treated the room to a resounding, "Ho, ho, ho, y'all. Yat?"

  I sat up straight. Jack. It was Jack. I covered my mouth with one hand to keep myself from blurting out his name as he went straight to the big old throne covered in red velvet that had been pulled from one of the magic-show venues on the property. He plopped down into the chair.

  His accent was just pitiful, but I loved him for every drawled out word.

  "I am so sorry about not getting here earlier, boys and girls, but those old gators of mine." He took a sheet of paper from inside one of the fur-lined sleeves and read, " Gaston, Tiboy, Pierre, Alcee, Ninette, Suzette, Celeste, and Renee were acting up." His accent slipped away, and he mispronounced a couple of the gators' names, but he was still just about the best Papa Noël I'd ever seen—at least the sexiest.

  The children all gathered around, and there was a present for each and every one of them.

  Harry Villars took over the mic on the dais at one end of the room. "You've probably all noticed our sweet girl, Nicole, isn't present with us on this lovely occasion. And that's because her bone marrow transplant was today. Her Christmas gift will be a new lease on life. Now, what do you lovely people think 'bout that?"