Mystic Mistletoe Murder Page 2

  The latecomer seemed to have been rushing to get here on time. Her cheeks were ruddy, hair flat against her head and damp, presumably from the sweat shining on her face. Her expression was grim.

  "Hello." Cat put out her hand. "I'm Catalina Gabor." She went around the table. "This is my man, Quincy Boudreaux. Mel Hamilton. And Barbie…" Her voice trailed off.

  There the Christmas woman went with the batting of the green lashes followed by, "It's just Barbie."

  The newcomer looked from one to the next as roll was called, nodding. When the table grew quiet and no response came, I prodded. "And you are…?"

  "Oh," she said. "Diane Conner. My husband is Phil Conner." Her words carried the lilt of the deep South, combined with a touch of backwoods redneck. A lift at the end of her sentences turned them into semiquestions not statements, also typical of certain Southern ladies who were taught never to be presumptuous.

  Cat and Quincy turned to me at the same time. "Slim," I said by way of explanation. "You know Slim Conner. He tends bar in the Presto-Change-o Room. Slim's our Papa Noël tonight."

  "Oh, right." Cat smiled and turned to Diane. "I just love your husband. He's always so funny and sweet, and such a—" She stopped dead at the glare from Diane's oddly colorless eyes.

  Quincy had obviously noticed the animosity too. He cleared his throat. "Awright then."

  The Great Fabrizio, the resort's medium and a good friend of mine, walked up behind me, bent, and put his arm around my shoulders. "Good evening, my dear Melanie." His cultured English accent always made my name sound so refined. "How lovely you look this evening. You too, Miss Gabor." With his long silvery hair, he looked a lot like my late Granddaddy Joe who helped raise me. Because of that and because he was a really nice man and kind to me, I had a most peculiar bond with Fabrizio. He took the empty chair next to mine.

  Next to come to the dinner table was Stella—Stella by Starlight, the resort's astrologer. At seventy-two Stella was one of the older employees at The Mansion, but she knew just about everything there was to know about divining by the stars. I especially loved her ready smile and soft laughter. While I didn't know much about her past, I always pictured her barefoot with flowers in her hair, holding hands, and dancing Ring-Around-the-Rosie in a San Francisco park to the tune of a Herman's Hermits song.

  "Oh, just look at this…" she exclaimed, walking up to the table, "…beautiful room and all these beautiful people. Groovy, baby." She sat in the chair beside Quincy's. "Why, Quincy Boudreaux, as I live and breathe. Do you know you're just about the hottest deputy sheriff on the face of the planet, young man?" Maybe I forgot to mention that in addition to everything else, Stella was an outrageous flirt.

  We all chatted and exchanged niceties until a wine waiter in a white brocade waistcoat with matching bowtie walked up to the table offering either a white or red from nearby Pontchartrain Vineyards.

  "Are you expecting others?" he asked, indicating the three empty chairs on the opposite side of the table from me.

  "They are expecting one other—me." The voice was deep, kind of sexy, the accent hard to pin down. I looked up to see a tall, good-looking dude with broad shoulders and a narrow waist—not that I noticed of course. He was dressed differently than most of the other men who wore dark suits or tuxedos. His choice was a Christmas-green shirt with a black satin gambler's vest, black tie, and black slacks. Barbie looked up and began to—for want of a better word—drool.

  "Name's Aaron Bronson." The man had black hair and piercing blue eyes, striking and suave and even looking a little dangerous in his dinner duds. He came around the table, and one by one lifted our hands and pressed his lips against them. It was a genteel Southern gesture, but I didn't have the impression I was looking at a man of the South.

  When his lips found the top of Diane Conner's hand, she turned furiously red and ducked her head.

  "I work with Chef Cantrell," Aaron added, "in the kitchen."

  Diane made a noise that sounded like a horse snorting and yanked her hand away.

  Whatever the problem was with Diane, it wasn't a problem with Stella who had her hand up, ready, and waiting when he moved on to her.

  Aaron clapped Quincy on the shoulder and moved on to Cat, whose mouth turned up on one side in amusement at such goings on. When he came to me and his warm lips touched my skin, I felt myself blush, somewhat flustered. It was flattering to say the least, oh, sister, the very least.

  Aaron shook Fabrizio's hand then rounded the table, took hold of the floozy's hand, and held it out with just the tips of his fingers as if he were presenting royalty. "This lady is Miss Barbara Smith."

  While Barbie simpered and scooted around on her chair, Aaron Bronson sat down and signaled the wine waiter to fill his glass with red. He then raised his glass. "To the holidays, ladies and gents," he said. "Merry and bright."

  "Merry and bright." The rest of us all chimed in.

  Aaron picked up his napkin as waiters began to appear in the dining room with the first course. "I apologize for being late," he said. "I was called to the kitchen for a last-minute detail. Valentine and her son had to leave, so she won't be here for dinner."

  "Oh, no," I said. "What a shame. She put together such a wonderful menu for tonight, and now she doesn't even get to enjoy it?"

  Diane stage-whispered, "Well, if y'all ask me, that's no loss." I looked up at her in surprise.

  She may have meant to say it to herself, but we'd all heard her.

  Aaron said, "I agree, Miss Hamilton. It's a real shame we won't have the pleasure of her company tonight." He looked again at Diane as if waiting for further remarks. When none came, he said, "She wished us all a real nice evening."

  I thought about asking why she had to leave but changed my mind when the appetizer was set in front of me. I'd gone with the shrimp remoulade over the deviled eggs and savory beignet, and one bite made me revel in my choice. How Harry Villars had ever managed to entice the celebrated Valentine Cantrell to The Mansion was a mystery, but there'd been rumors it was mostly because she'd wanted to raise Benjy in the nearby town of Estelle where good schools and a low crime rate drew many families from across the river.

  As far as chefs went, Val was a goddess, and her talent drew a clientele to The Mansion separate from those who came to have their fortunes told by Catalina Gabor, or their fantasy image inked onto their skin by me, or their dear departed loved ones contacted by the Great Fabrizio. People from across the Big Muddy and all the way from Baton Rouge would make the trek just to dine at The Mansion.

  "So there are two people who won't be joining us?" Diane dabbed at her mouth with her napkin.

  "Looks that way," I said.

  She lifted her hand and signaled one of the waiters standing off to the side with his hands folded behind his back like a proper butler back in the old plantation days. "Two of these people are not coming," she said briskly, definitely not a question here. "I'll have their appetizers, please, sir?"

  I looked down at her empty plate.

  Aaron laughed. It wasn't mean or anything, just a laugh. "I'll be sure and tell Chef Cantrell at least her food was a big hit with you, Mrs. Conner," he said.

  Quincy applauded. "Awright then."

  CHAPTER TWO

  The main course dishes were being cleared—the menu had offered our choice of prime rib with porcinis au jus, poached lobster tails with lemon butter sauce, or duck a l'orange. Oh my sweet goodness. I'd wanted all three, but settled on lobster tails. Heaven.

  Harry came around to our table.

  "Mrs. Conner," he said. "How nice to see you here."

  Diane Conner smiled tightly.

  Harry went on. "I was wondering if by chance you might have heard from your husband."

  She didn't answer right away, and Harry looked a little confused before he said, "You did know he—" He lowered his voice to just above a whisper. "—agreed to play Papa Noël for us tonight. You know, for the children, and I'd hoped to hear from him by now. They'll be servi
ng dessert and coffee up real soon."

  I was beginning to wonder if she was going to give him the courtesy of a reply when she finally shook her head. "No. I haven't heard from him since early this afternoon. But I'm not at all surprised. If you wanted someone reliable, Mr. Villars, you shouldn't have asked my no account husband. He's a true scalawag that man, the kind who'd hightail it out of town with all the Christmas loot."

  Harry put his fingertips against his lips and uttered a soft, "Oh, dear me," before turning away and heading back to the main table where he sat down and said something to Jack.

  It was then that coffee and our choice of Valentine's luscious desserts were served. Diane Conner once again asked for any leftovers. "I had a hellacious day, and so far the evening's even worse," she explained at the looks of astonishment around her.

  That was when the real party started. Harry had hired two little men to act as Papa Noël's elves for the evening. Their job was to circulate around the room, singing Christmas favorites while handing out traditional holiday goodies to the kids from the children's home.

  The outfits the elves were to wear consisted of a long-sleeved red and white striped T-shirt, red knee pants with green suspenders, bright green leggings, red pointy-toed elf shoes, and a red and green jester's hat with a jingle bell at the tip of it. The perfect costume to endear the elves to the children—I thought so anyway.

  The only problem was that one of the little people had left yesterday for Hollywood to audition for a remake of The Wizard of Oz, leaving us shy one Christmas elf. Jack had said no one could be found to substitute, no one quite as suitable anyway.

  The resort's morose bellman, whom we'd nicknamed Lurch, had stepped forward and offered to stand in. Over seven feet tall and half that in breadth, Lurch as one of Papa Noël's Christmas elves wasn't exactly what you would have called typecasting. But he was game, and no one else wanted to do it, so…

  As the DJ put on a background of one of the Christmas songs, a rich, awesome baritone belted out the lyrics to "Christmas in New Orleans," and the French doors to the main dining room opened. Lurch ducked his head and made a grand entrance. The red and green jester's hat was perched on top of his head like a party favor. The striped T-shirt was stretched so tight across his broad shoulders and chest I worried it would turn to shreds any second like the Incredible Hulk's clothes always did. The pants were made to be really baggy, so that wasn't as much of a problem, but they were also made for someone three and a half or four feet tall. So the elf pants on a dude Lurch's size were more like Daisy Dukes. It looked as if someone had managed to find a pair of bright green tights the size of a small circus tent so at least his legs were covered. Obviously the tiny pointy-toed elf shoes wouldn't have worked. Instead his feet were covered in a pair of bright green Converse high-tops, size sixteen or seventeen unless I missed my guess.

  Lurch strode in and stopped just inside the doors to let the full effect of his appearance impact the crowd. He began to do-si-do in time to the music, and it became clear it wasn't Lurch's voice whose melodic tones filled the dining room. The singer was the remaining small person who hadn't deserted his post to chase down Hollywood dreams. It was he giving us that great rendition of the Christmas song made famous by Louis Armstrong. And he was doing it while standing on top of Lurch's shuffling feet, one arm wrapped around Lurch's knee, the other clutching a cordless mic. Lurch held his cell phone in one hand and appeared to be snapping off pictures of the room, the crowd, and even some of the smaller elf.

  Cat and I exchanged a look of amused surprise.

  Stella couldn't seem able to take her eyes off Lurch. "Oh, my, would you look at those legs," and began to fan herself with a copy of the menu that had been left by each dinner plate. "Outta sight."

  Cat and I looked at each other and began to clap our hands in time to the music. Diane Conner stared openmouthed.

  "Brilliant," Fabrizio said with enthusiasm. "Good show."

  Aaron and Barbie joined Cat and me in clapping, and Quincy began to sing along.

  The section of the room where the children were seated came to life with squeals of delight as the bizarre ballet proceeded.

  All in all, the adorable singing elf and the colossal dancing elf were a huge hit.

  They'd just finished their first number and were circulating among the children with candy canes and child-sized Santa hats when Jack stepped up to the podium. "Ladies and gentlemen, we're still expecting a special visit from Papa Noël. Papa's running a little late, but he should be here any—"

  The double doors were thrust open yet again, and Odeo Fournet, the resort grounds keeper, came running in, the whites of his eyes enormous in his dark face. He looked truly terrified, as he stopped in the middle of the room and blurted, "Oh. My. Goodness. He dead. He dead."

  Everyone stared at Odeo, who looked so upset he could barely stay upright. With a look of dismay, Jack stepped down off the stage and started for him but wasn't in time to keep Odeo from crying out, "It's Papa Noël. He dead. Oh, Lord. Like that song, Papa—he got run over by a reindeer."

  Silence took over the room, and then a low keening rumble began like wind building up before a hurricane as Lurch moaned. The children began to cry. Chattering. Whispering.

  Odeo, sweet, emotional man who he was, began sobbing just as Jack reached him, put his arm around Odeo's shoulders, and began to lead him back out. Jack lifted his chin in an obvious sign to Quincy, who got up from the table and met the two men at the entrance.

  Harry went to the mic. "Ladies and gentlemen, it would appear there might have been a mishap. I'm asking you all to remain seated until we figure out just what's happened."

  Cat and I, of like mind, stood at the same time and headed for the doors, following Jack, Odeo, and Quincy out of the dining room wing and into the lobby.

  The band working the Presto-Change-o Room was grooving to a Zydeco version of "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree," and the resort guests celebrating in the bar and restaurant were laughing, talking, and dancing. Just like any other holiday evening, just like no one had run in and announced someone had died.

  As we crossed the threshold, the signature funeral dirge that played whenever someone went in or out foretold a dark end to the gala evening. Out front on the big veranda, Cat and I hung back as Quincy took Odeo aside. The night air was cold and damp, and both of us shivered in our lightweight party dresses.

  "Odeo," Quincy's voice was steady, even, but not unkind. "Come on here, Odeo. Get hold o' yourself. Tell me what you saw."

  Stammering, stuttering, Odeo finally managed, "It's Slim. He dressed up like Papa Christmas. In the red suit and all, and he lyin' in the mud with tracks running all up and down him."

  Quincy gave Jack a hard look and said, "Well then, you better be showing me."

  Odeo began to shake. "No, sir, Deputy, I don't want to go back dere."

  "Now, Odeo, you got to show us where he's lying."

  Jack put his hand on Odeo's big arm. "I know it's hard, Odeo, but we have to take care of him. Slim's one of ours. If he's hurt—"

  "Oh, he ain't hurt," Odeo objected. "He dead. Real dead, Mr. Stockton."

  "Lead us to him, then," Jack said. He looked back and saw Cat and me standing in the doorway and shook his head at me as he stepped off the veranda with Quincy and Odeo. The three men headed out across the driveway, over the lawn, and toward the lake, Odeo stumbling a little but leading the other two.

  Cat looked at me. "Jack wanted us to stay here."

  I nodded. "I know."

  We waited a couple of beats before stepping off the veranda together and following the men.

  Out along the service road, the three men stopped. It was dark out there, but a couple of pole lights along the road cast a hazy glow on the ground.

  It had rained hard the day before, and the gravel service road hadn't held up well under the downpour, disintegrating into a muddy mess. Cat and I stayed on the grass to keep from ruining our party shoes, but we could see well eno
ugh what had sent Odeo into near hysterics.

  A plump man in a plush Santa suit lay facedown in the mud. And, yes, there were tracks in several places across his back, but not reindeer tracks as Odeo had said, tire tracks, and there were a lot of them like someone had taken more than one good run at the poor soul.

  He was unmoving. Dead, I figured, just like Odeo thought. I didn't want to get any closer. Cat seemed to be satisfied where she was too.

  Quincy, mindless of his tux, hunkered down in the mud. He laid a hand on the body near the neck then reached for his cell. His voice carried across the night. "It's Chief Deputy Quincy Boudreaux. We got us a body out at The Mansion at Mystic Isle. Gonna need a wagon and some backup."

  I was chilled to the bone, and not just because the December wind blew right through me. Slim had been a nice man. He'd worked at The Mansion for a couple of years, tending bar in the Presto-Change-o Room. Everyone liked him. And now he was dead.

  Movement caught my eye, and I turned my head to see Diane Conner standing off to one side. I nudged Cat.

  "Oh, no," Cat said.

  "She shouldn't be out here," I said.

  We both turned at once and walked up to Diane. She stared at the crumpled red heap in the middle of the service road. Her face was implacable. Her eyes dry. I tried to turn her away, but she jerked back and kept looking. "Is that him? Is that my husband?"

  "Shh, now," Cat soothed. "Come back inside, Mrs. Conner."

  I took Diane's other arm, and we led her back toward the resort. "You don't need to be out here now."

  A light rain began to fall just as we mounted the veranda. I'd been involved in a murder investigation before, and as sad as I was to know that Slim had bitten the dust, I couldn't help but think Rain. There goes the crime scene.