Mystic Deception Read online

  Eli stood nervously in the wings near us, watching as the big piece of equipment was moved around on its own dolly-like carriage. The water inside sloshed and swelled as it was rolled out.

  Background music began to rise, and I recognized Bobby Darin's voice. I giggled. "'Splish Splash,'" I said to Jack.

  "Rub-a-dub," he replied.

  No tux for this magician. Eli, fit and clean-cut in a Matt Damon sort of way, wore a sleek neoprene, all-black wetsuit with a hood, so the only skin showing was that of his face, hands, and bare feet. Eli Zander totally looked like a ninja. It was pretty cool.

  His assistants were identical brunette twins—lithe, leggy, and lovely. After moving up beside him, they all hooked arms.

  The MC took the stage once more. "And now, let's welcome the final act of the night, Mystic Isle's own Zander the Great."

  Eli happened to glance in our direction and flashed a grin of recognition at Jack and me. We both offered a return smile and a thumbs-up.

  Eli's nod of acknowledgement was tight and jerky. His nerves were showing. Too bad Lucy, Eli's fiancé, was working the front desk tonight. Her sweet presence would surely have settled him down some.

  My friend Lucy had told me about Eli's act before, but this would be the first time I'd actually seen him perform. I was a little nervous myself. I'd heard talk around the resort that illusions similar to this had resulted in injury to more than one magician, and a couple had actually died in water escape acts.

  The MC spoke in a low tone, adding to the dramatic effect. "Ladies and gentlemen, tonight you'll witness Zander the Great recreate the death-defying Harry Houdini Chinese Water Torture Escape. We've taken precautions to avoid injury—or worse—to this intrepid magician by having an ambulance waiting nearby and a certified fireman standing by with an ax to break the glass in case of emergency to prevent a watery grave for Zander the Great. And now…"

  He stepped to the far side of the stage and extended an arm in the direction of Eli and the twins as they walked, arms still linked, onto the stage, basking in the applause.

  Neither of the twins nor Eli spoke a word as they set up, using broad, choreographed gestures.

  Eli lay down on a mat on the stage, and one of the twins handcuffed his wrists together.

  The MC went on. "Zander's wrists are restrained with high security law enforcement– grade handcuffs."

  As the audience grew quiet, Eli held up his wrists.

  "His feet will be shackled in the tank lid."

  We watched as Eli raised his legs, feet together, and the hinged tank lid swung around on a winch. Eli's ankles were locked in, his feet sticking out the top.

  As the winch lifted Eli like a sack of potatoes and moved him over the enormous glass tank, the MC declared, "The water torture cell holds 500 gallons. That's a big drink of water, ladies and gentlemen."

  I took hold of Jack's hand and held on to it.

  The raucous rock and roll theme song had faded out, and now the score was darker, more ominous.

  Portable metal stairways were rolled into place on either side of the glass booth. Eli was positioned over it, arms hanging down, hands barely above the water. It was easy to see he was preparing himself to hold his breath for as long as possible. His chest moved in and out as he sucked in deep gulps of air.

  Then the music stopped, and the silence was absolute. Eli gave a hand signal, and the winch began to move again, down this time, lowering Eli, hands and head first, into the water. The displacement his body created caused gallons of water to splash out the top of the tank. The twins clamored up the metal stairs on either side of the tank until they could reach the top, and then they showed the audience two big padlocks, which they used to latch and lock the lid.

  I found myself clenching my jaw as Eli Zander, a kind and good man and my friend's future husband, was trapped inside a tank full of water with no way to breathe or escape—no way I could see anyway. My heart rate quickened to the rising beat of the music.

  A black curtain was lifted from the bottom to well over the top of the tank as the music grew louder.

  A large digital timer on one side of the stage counted off the seconds then the minutes. Oh, good grief, how is he ever going to get out of this? And how in the blazes can Lucy stand to watch him do this night after night without losing her mind? The escape was taking forever. I tried to imagine how he must be feeling—head thrumming, heart pounding, stomach clenching, the seconds counting off in his brain.

  "Two minutes, twenty seconds," the MC declared. "Even Navy SEALs are only required to hold their breath two minutes."

  The music stopped as the curtain rose a couple feet, and we could all see Eli's arms, head, and shoulders. The struggle going on inside the tank with Eli's hands still cuffed, it all looked so dangerous, so desperate.

  "Stop it," I said loudly, surprising myself at the outburst. "Somebody help him."

  From a few feet away, I heard laughter. It was Derek King braying like a donkey, a look of ridicule on his face.

  The curtain lowered back to the floor, and there was no longer any view of poor Eli. I didn't want to see but couldn't tear my eyes away.

  Jack seemed to sense my dismay. "They're watching him, Mel. And he knows what he's doing."

  "Four minutes fifty-five seconds." The MC read off the digital counter. "Fifty-six. Fifty-seven. Eight. Nine. And five minutes! Raise the curtain."

  I held my breath, dreading what I'd see as the drape came up.

  But it was instantly obvious that the tank was empty.

  "And where is Zander the Great?" The MC raised one hand in the air, pointing upward as the curtain was heaved all the way up clear of the tank, and there was Eli standing on top of it, holding the handcuffs loosely in one hand and grinning like a kid with his first driver's license.

  The audience surged to their feet, cheering and applauding like crazy.

  I whooped it up a little myself. "Woot! Woot! Way to go Eli." I turned to Jack, who'd cupped his hands around his mouth and begun to whistle and hoot. "Did you know he could do that?" I asked.

  Jack grinned and nodded. "I've seen him perform before."

  "Damn good," Derek King said in a serious tone. He frowned and scrubbed his knuckles along his jawline, taking in the audience's response to the incredible success of Zander the Great's performance. "But we'll see if it's good enough to beat me."

  He turned and walked away, but not before I said loud enough for him to hear, "Eli should totally win. That was so awesome."

  Beside me, Jack agreed. "It was. It really was."

  * * *

  Jack and I headed from the theater back to the main area of the resort and the Presto-Change-o Room, The Mansion's busiest bar and eatery. There we picked up a take-out box with some of the fun magic-themed food resort head chef, Valentine Cantrell, had come up with—various finger sandwiches with beet hummus, deviled egg salad, prosciutto and fig, and salmon salad fillings. The squares of crusty bread had round holes cut out on one side in patterns that made them look like colorful dominoes. She made magic wand kabobs and endive and sweet potato whip salad with the two upright endive spears looking like the ears of a rabbit disappearing into the whip. And the ingenious Valentine had also somehow crafted chocolate cupcakes that looked like upside-down top hats with fluffy icing frothing out of the top.

  We carried this fun and delish spread to the House of Cards in the auxiliary wing for a late dinner with my best friend and former roommate, Catalina Boudreaux, née Gabor, the Tarot card reader at The Mansion at Mystic Isle.

  I'd texted Cat to make sure she was still on the property, and she was expecting us. When Jack and I came to the door, Cat grabbed hold of me, and we hugged.

  "Miss you," I said into her dark chestnut hair.

  She pulled back. "Me, too." She was so pretty. The two of us were a study in contrasts, Cat with her olive complexion and brown eyes, and me fair-skinned and green-eyed.

  When Cat married her soul mate, Chief Deputy Quincy Boudr
eaux of the Jefferson Parrish Sheriff's Department, she moved out of our two-bedroom apartment across the river in the French Quarter to a red-brick, two-bedroom house Quincy had bought for her in Tarrytown. It was all domestic bliss, something that had surprised me coming from my fiery friend. But she seemed content in the tree-lined street, white-picket-fence suburb. As it should be, of course. She needed to be with her hubby, but that didn't keep me from missing her like crazy. I still spent as much time with her as I possibly could.

  Jack Stockton, being a viable candidate for the Nobel Prize in Romance in the Best-Looking and Most Considerate Lover category, understood my need to be with Cat and wasn't resentful of sharing our together time with her.

  While Cat and I hugged it out, he set up our little indoor picnic on the round table where Cat did her readings, and we dug into the food.

  "OMG, these are amazing." I gestured to the beet humus domino mini-sandwich in my hand. I turned my attention to Cat. "So, girl, bearing in mind we're in mixed company, spill it. How was the honeymoon?"

  Cat and Q had spent their honeymoon at the Aloha Lagoon Resort in Kauai, and I couldn't wait to hear about it. "It's so romantic and beautiful there, and we went crazy sightseeing," she said. "I think for the two weeks we were there, we just about supported the travel agency at Aloha Lagoon, Gabby's Island Adventures. We went zip-lining, kayaking, whale watching, snorkeling, and we dined and danced and took long walks on the beach." She winked. "And we still managed to spend adequate time in our beautiful room with all our clothes off."

  Jack made a sound like he was choking on his top hat cupcake.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Wednesday Night

  We finished dinner, said good night to Cat, and headed back out toward the lobby.

  Six-foot-plus Derek King stood at the archway leading from the auxiliary wing, talking down—in the most literal sense—to five-fiveish and graying Super Mario look-alike Ivan Barry, aka Ivan the Magnificent. Ivan's shtick was mind reading. In his midsixties, he was the oldest magician to perform. I'd seen the act once already. He was hokey and unconvincing and wrong most of the time, but likable and fun to watch—which was more than could be said about many of the acts who'd entered the competition.

  Derek's voice carried. "Listen, old man, you'd be smart to stop following me around asking stupid questions. The majority of us have been slugging away at this gig most of our adult lives. It isn't just a hobby to keep us occupied in our sunset years. You're incompetent and unprofessional, a smudge on the Federation's reputation. Charlatans like you need to be shut out." Derek's face had twisted into a snarl. "In fact, I'm going to see to it the Federation blacklists you."

  Smoothing the moustache over his impeccably trimmed Van Dyke beard and seemingly unfazed, Ivan looked up into Derek's face. "You need to simmer down some, son. Gettin' yourself all worked up like that? You're likely to blow a gasket." His tone was calm, his cadence slow, his accent pure Kentucky bluegrass.

  Derek's finger waved in front of Ivan's smiling face. "Watch yourself, old codger. You'll be humming a different tune once I talk to the Federation board."

  Ivan chuckled and dismissed Derek with a wave of his hand. "Give it your best shot, young man."

  Derek crossed the lobby to the reception desk. When Ivan turned and came toward us, his demeanor had totally changed. The look on his round face wasn't kind and grandfatherly anymore. It was angry and determined.

  My friend, temporary roommate, and reception desk agent, Lucy, was out in front of the counter, looking like a miniature referee between Eli Zander, her boyfriend and fiancé, and that zany, fun-loving, and happy-go-lucky Derek King.

  King had already targeted someone else for yet another argument? Man, this one sure boiled up faster than a pot of crawfish on a Saturday night. Seriously, I was beginning to think Derek King was an older, nastier Draco Malfoy.

  "Good grief. This dude is kind of a handful," Jack said under his breath.

  Eli's hands were fisted, his slightly forward stance aggressive. Derek King, on the other hand, looked like he might be having a good time. His facial expression could only be described as a smirk, his stance—arms folded, hip cocked—as smug.

  "You're just a green kid," Derek was saying. "If you think your little dip in the pool is enough to walk away with first prize, you're all wet." He laughed at his own joke. "Ahhh, I crack myself up."

  "I could win." Eli—petulant, insecure. "I mean…"

  Derek laughed again but this time at Eli. "Dream on, Skippy. Dream on. Sure. You got yourself a nice little prop there, but after tonight, you might as well heat the water and turn it into a hot tub for you and your little girly here." Derek laid his hand on Lucy's upper arm. "Say, sweet cheeks, when this bozo loses, you'll be looking for a winner, so why don't you give me a call? I don't mind sloppy seconds."

  As Lucy jerked his hand off and took a step back, Eli sailed into him, leading with a right hook. But it only glanced off Derek's shoulder.

  Derek snorted, brought up his left arm in defense, and scooped under it with a right uppercut.

  Eli's head jerked back, his lower lip split, gushing blood.

  "What the—" Jack started forward, scaring the bejesus out of me.

  "Be careful, Jack." I mean, it looked like that Derek King guy knew what he was doing when it came to a fistfight, and I didn't want Jack getting hurt.

  But it wasn't Jack who broke things up. Lurch, the resort's seven-foot-plus doorman, took four long strides from his post just inside the entrance, his size seventeen shoes slapping on the hardwood. Lurch grabbed hold of both Eli and Derek by the neck scruffs and pulled them apart.

  The two gaped up at Lurch.

  "Holy crap!" Derek shouted. "Put me down, Goliath. My name's Derek, not David."

  Lurch glowered at them, the expression on his long, doleful face somber and admonishing. A low moan began in his throat and rumbled through the lobby. It was Lurch-speak for "Knock it off."

  "Name's gonna be history if you don't stop this." It was the most I ever heard Lurch say at one time.

  After only a minute, Lurch released the magicians, pulled his cell phone from the pocket of his morning coat, bent, and in a quintessential Lurch moment, snapped off a selfie of the three of them. Then he lumbered slowly back to his post by the front entrance.

  Derek and Eli stood facing each other, breathing hard. Lucy backed up against the front counter, fiddling nervously with the ends of the old-fashioned string tie she wore around the collar of her resort costume.

  Jack interjected himself into the scene. "Gentlemen," he began, "you two need to cool off. This isn't the place or time for this. I especially don't think the Federation would look kindly on two of the participants in the competition beating the living daylights out of each other." More to Eli, he said, "And I know management doesn't."

  Eli and Derek took a step back from each other and then another. While they were still trying to stare each other down, their chests weren't heaving as much, and I could see the two men gearing down from fighting mode.

  Derek pasted that superior expression back onto his face and walked away, but not before winking at Lucy and making a clucking sound. "After you lose the competition to me, this place is going to rethink whether they still want a clown like you performing here. Good luck, bozo."

  "I'm gonna take that contract and purse right out from under your nose, King. You'll be talking out of the other side of your mouth then." He turned to Lucy. "You think I can win, don't you, baby? You think I'm better than that loser."

  Lucy grabbed some tissues from a box on the registration counter and began to dab at the blood still oozing from his lip. "Sure. You got this, honey." She tried to smile, but it wasn't convincing.

  "We need that prize, Luce, for starting our life together. That money and that contract would get us on our feet. I gotta figure out a way to win."

  Jack cleared his throat and laid his hand on Eli's arm. "Look, man, this…what happened here tonight…not cool. I'm go
ing to look the other way this time. But you're a salaried employee of the resort, and after all the trouble Harry Villars and I have gone through to get the Federation to allow you to compete, you can't go around picking a fight with another magician. And competition aside, King's also a paying guest at the resort."

  Eli deflated. "Sure, Mr. Stockton. I get it. Thanks for not firing me over this." His gaze swung to Derek King, who was swaggering his way across the lobby to the grand staircase, presumably to head up to his room. "But when he started up with Lucy, I lost it."

  Jack turned to Lucy. "Derek King bothering you, Lucy?"

  She shrugged. "He was just being obnoxious," she said simply with a quick, reprimanding look at Eli that essentially said that she could have handled it herself.

  Jack nodded. "Well, if anything like that happens again, you really need to let me know. We won't tolerate that behavior here at The Mansion, even if he is a guest."

  "I will, Mr. Stockton. Thank you," she said, then to me, "Are you going home now?"

  I shook my head. "I'll wait for you."

  She gave me two thumbs up. "Thanks, Mel."

  * * *

  I was waiting for Lucy so we could catch the last ferry when her shift was over and head on back to my place. She'd had to leave her rental and wasn't going to move in with Eli until the wedding, which was still a little ways off. Since Cat's old bedroom was unoccupied, she'd been staying with me.

  Ken Pierce, the backstage manager, came around the corner from the men's locker area into the main room of the employee lounge. He was wearing pool shoes, swim trunks, and a faded black V-neck tee.

  "Hello." He came forward and stuck out a hand. We shook. "I'm not sure we've ever really been introduced. Ken Pierce. I work backstage. You're the tattoo artist, aren't you? It's Melanie, right?"

  "Right."

  "Dragons and Deities in the auxiliary wing? I've been by it a few times. Fun work digs. Looks like straight out of a medieval castle in there. Never heard of a resort with a tattoo parlor before."