Mystic Mistletoe Murder Page 3

  CHAPTER THREE

  The area near the front entrance was crowded. The low buzzing and murmuring throughout the open lobby testified to the curiosity of all the Looky Lous.

  Catalina led Diane through the crowd and the front entrance. She steered Diane into the main salon where the lights were low for cocktails and hors d'oeuvres and light supper service since the main dining room had been closed for the banquet. Diane could sit down in there and not be bothered by all the hullabaloo sure to go on once the place was overrun with the sheriff's people. I watched as my friend and the newly widowed woman went into the salon, wondering at Diane's stoical demeanor at the discovery of her husband's dead body.

  As I stepped over the threshold, the funeral dirge sounded again. With everyone coming and going, that would get old pretty fast. Lurch and his Mini-Me met me just inside the door. Lurch spread his arms, palms up, asking in his inimitable way if there was anything he needed to do.

  I nodded, keeping my voice low. "It's Slim Conner. From the looks of it, someone ran him down. I'm pretty sure the deputies are going to want folks to hang around here. So if Harry says it's okay, you might want to encourage people to stay inside."

  Lurch nodded, and as I approached the salon, the Great Fabrizio rushed up. "Harry's trying to keep things status quo in the dining room," Fabrizio said. "He dispatched me to learn what is happening."

  "It's Slim," I said. "Dead."

  "Oh, dear me," Fabrizio's brows came together, and his mouth drew tight, his gentle nature rejecting such violence. "I'll go straightaway and explain to Harry."

  "Quincy called the sheriff's office for an investigative team," I said, my voice still soft and low.

  Fabrizio's hand shook as he raised it to his forehead. "Please send someone for Harry when the authorities arrive," he said.

  The dirge rolled again as Jack came through the entrance. "Lurch," he called. "Let's see if we can't get the sensor to stop playing the blasted song for the time being."

  Lurch moaned and went to adjust the motion detector mounted on the wall by the front entrance.

  Fabrizio went straight to Jack, who gave me a look I thought was intended as comfort and support. What I really needed for comfort was Jack to be with me, but he'd have so much to handle with what had happened, the best thing I could do to help him would be to leave him alone unless he needed me for something.

  I waited in the main salon with Cat and the Conner woman. Diane was seated on one of the antebellum-style loveseats, sipping a glass of brandy and staring at the floral pattern in the circular rug that defined the seating space. Cat and I were way more ants-in-our-pants than she was. Shock, maybe?

  After a while Jack came in with Quincy and Harry Villars. Quincy took hold of Diane's hand. His voice, usually so teasing and confident, was somber. "Missus Conner, I'm ever so sorry to have to break it to you, but your husband, he's dead."

  She looked up at him, and now there was regret both on her face and in her voice. "I was outside earlier. I saw his…his…"

  Quincy nodded and patted her hand. "I'm so sorry," he said again. "From all appearances it was a hit-and-run. Terrible shame." His eyes found Cat's first, then mine, in a clear message to keep our mouths shut and let him speak. "One of the things that's also bothering us is that Papa Noël's bag seems to have disappeared. It was loaded with cash and goodies after all."

  Diane didn't speak.

  Quincy went on. "I don't suppose you'd know if he'd told anyone his schedule, if anyone would be knowing what time to expect him to arrive?"

  She squinted at him. "You said 'hit-and-run,' didn't you, Deputy Boudreaux? A hit-and-run is a pure accident. Why're you asking about who knew when he was coming?" She considered him with flat grey eyes, and then a light came into them. "You don't think this was an accident, do you? Y'all are thinking he was run over intentionally, and the Christmas bag was stolen?"

  Quincy swallowed. "Yes'm. We do."

  Cat took in a breath as I let one out—both audible. "Oh, Q," Cat said. "No. He was murdered?"

  "Yes, chère, we're pretty sure somebody run him down and took all his Christmas goodies."

  It was Jack's turn to speak. "The resort would like to extend our deepest sympathies to you, Mrs. Conner. If there's anything we can do—"

  She drained the snifter and held it out. "You can see that these keep coming to me for at least a little while, until I get used to being a grievin' widow," Diane said. She turned back to Quincy. "If you're sniffing around for a place to start, Deputy, I highly recommend you take a close look at the cook."

  "Cook?" Quincy said.

  "Cantrell, the cook?" she said.

  Harry drew back. "Chef Valentine Cantrell? Why would the sheriff want to look at Chef Cantrell?"

  Diane threw up her hands. "I have never been one to cast aspersions, but I'm just sayin'. That woman is where you want to start your investigation. I believe you will find she had good reason to be angry at my husband. She was in love with him, head over heels, and he up and just dumped her. And if anyone needs money, I hear it's that Miss Valentine Cantrell. Her boy needs it to go to school, you know. She might not have been above killing her lover to get his booty." For once she didn't lift her voice at the end, making what was tantamount to an accusation against my friend a declaration. "I mean, land o' mercy, y'all."

  We all looked around at each other, but it was pretty clear Diane was finished speaking. She'd sat back in the love seat and lifted a lace hankie, dabbing at her forehead just like a belle of the deep South from days gone by.

  "You don't say." Quincy watched Diane who now seemed to be suffering from an old-fashioned case of the vapors. "Well, fiddledeedee."

  Harry cleared his throat. "Is there anyone we can call for you, Mrs. Conner? Someone who might come and help take care of you? Get you home?"

  Diane shook her head. "There was just my husband, and now he's gone." She looked up at Harry. "I don't want to go home. It will be ever so lonely."

  Harry's eyes were moist, his chin quivering. "I totally understand, dear lady. I'll see to it that you have accommodations for tonight. You don't need to be all alone at home in an empty house."

  She looked up at him with what appeared to be gratitude.

  "Do you have any further questions for Mrs. Conner?" Harry asked.

  Quincy shook his head. "Not just now, but…"

  "I know, Deputy," Diane said. "I watch TV. How do they say it? 'Don't leave town?'"

  "Yes'm," Quincy said.

  Excusing himself, Harry led Diane from the room just as Jack came back with a new brandy snifter. "Harry said that bag held everything collected for the children's home," Jack said, tossing the brandy down his own throat and growling at the burn.

  "Everything?" My stomach sank then turned over as I remembered… "The cash donations for Nicole weren't in that bag, were they?" When I saw the way his face fell, I knew. "Oh, no."

  Jack nodded. "There was over $70,000.00 in cold hard cash in a separate envelope earmarked for Nicole's bone marrow transplant. It's gone, along with all the toys and gift cards donated for the other children from the children's home." He hung his head. "All gone."

  My heart sank so low, I thought for a minute it might have stopped beating. One of the children from the home, a ten-year-old named Nicole, was losing her battle with leukemia. A bone marrow transplant was her only option, and it broke my heart to think that sweet child, who only wanted to hang out with her pals and lip-synch Ariana Grande tunes, might not be able to have the procedure because some low-life killer thought he needed the money more than she did.

  "That beautiful little girl—she's been through so much already." Nicole's face swam before my eyes, with her big waif-like eyes, the colorful bandanas she wore over her balding scalp. "Whoever did this," I said, feeling righteous anger boiling up, "is a soulless demon. Kill a good man like Slim, and steal from sick and needy children?"

  "We're gonna jump right on to catching him, chère," Quincy said.

&nb
sp; "You bet your boots you will," I said. "And if you don't, I can think of a lot of people who will."

  Cat and I went back into the lobby with Jack and Quincy.

  "I guess I better head back to the dining room and run damage control," Jack said. "You going to be okay?" He asked me, concern clouding his warm, brandy-colored eyes.

  I nodded.

  It was still misting, so as we stepped across the threshold, Lurch grunted and handed me an umbrella.

  "Thanks," I said, noticing he'd at least removed the jester's hat but was still wearing the makeshift elf costume. His cohort, the little man with the great singing voice, came up beside us and took hold of Cat's hand. "Let me escort you, beautiful. Wouldn't want you to slip and fall down on that gorgeous keister now. Would we?"

  Cat just looked at him, amusement in her eyes. "I don't think we've been formally introduced."

  Sweeping one arm in front, he bowed, the bells on the toes of his elf shoes jingling merrily. "Marvin Pendleton, and you are?"

  "Catalina Gabor," she said simply.

  "I'm delighted," he said.

  "And I'm spoken for," she said, as Quincy stepped up and glared down at the gallant Christmas elf.

  Marvin looked up at Cat with regret. "My loss, Miss Gabor. I'm now officially devastated."

  "You and the rest of the men in Loo-siana." Quincy took Cat's hand and hooked it around his elbow. "You and Mel stay here, darlin'. Those high heels are too pretty to ruin in all that mud, and I'm still hoping you can wear them when you model that new black lacey thing I bought you."

  "Whatever you say, Q." She smiled and nodded as he opened his umbrella, stepped off the veranda, and headed back out to where a big tent had been set up over the body.

  I looked at her as I opened the umbrella. "Coming?"

  "What do you think?" she said as she fell in beside me under my umbrella, and we ventured out into the misty night together.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  It was around eight thirty, cold, wet, dark. A typical bayou December night, except there was a dead body lying in the mud in the middle of the service road that ran from the boathouse area around to the back of the property. The road was used for delivery access to the kitchen and other areas of the resort.

  Cat and I stood shivering just outside the crime scene tape under the edge of the tarp where we were out of the rain. My gold high-heeled sandals were probably ruined, but I didn't care. I couldn't stop staring at the white plastic tarp covering what had been my friend and co-worker, Phillip "Slim" Conner.

  Slim had been the perfect bartender for The Mansion at Mystic Isle. He knew more jokes about ghosts and magicians and purveyors of the supernatural than I ever knew existed. He had a story for every occasion and a big wide grin that went along in the telling of them. His beard stayed with him year-round, as did his girth. The wizard's robe and pointed hat he wore behind the bar in the Presto-Change-o Room made him look like Dumbledore. And although I hadn't given it much thought until now, he was also the living embodiment of Papa Noël. He had a broad face, and a little round belly that shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.

  I would miss him.

  Cat was quiet, and I knew she was feeling the same way I was.

  Several pole lights that had been set up under the tent cast long shadows but otherwise provided great light for the forensics team from New Orleans to work by. Jefferson Parrish was too small for its own forensics team or medical examiner. Both had been available to cross the river from New Orleans and be there for Papa Noël.

  It was a sad and depressing scene. Uniformed deputies and plain clothes personnel measured and took photos of what the rain had left of the tire tracks.

  Quincy, looking handsome and nothing like a working sheriff's chief deputy in his tux, stopped beside one of the forensics officers. "If we got the staff, let's post one of our boys out here overnight so nothing changes until we can get a really good look at the ground when it's dried up. That way we can get us some casts done and get a bead on dem tires."

  He looked up and saw us standing there and came over, took off his jacket, and put it around Cat's shoulders. "I'm pretty sure I say, 'Stay inside, darlin'.'"

  Cat nodded and smiled, just the corners of her mouth turning up. "That's right. You did."

  He looked at her, amused. "Just checking, my sweet." He turned to me. "And you. Are you thinking you goin' be playing at investigator again?"

  I shrugged. "Only if you guys don't do your job."

  "We're doin' it. Ain't we?"

  "So far," I said.

  "Well, awright then." He took hold of Cat's arm in one hand, mine in the other, and guided us back around to face the main building. "We just 'bout done here for the night, you see. So…"

  Cat and I took the hint and started back for the main building just as an ambulance pulled up beside the crime scene. They'd be loading the body—med examiner.

  "What a night," Cat said as we squished through the soggy lawn. "This didn't turn out anything like I expected tonight."

  "I know. What a shame. And not just for Slim. There were others who lost out tonight." I shivered.

  Cat hooked arms with me and leaned in, giving me the warmth of her body. "I know."

  As we took the stairs up onto the veranda, the resort shuttle pulled up under the portico. The orphans from the children's home swarmed over both the lobby and the Christmas elves. Lurch went from child to child, bending low so the selfies he kept snapping off included both his face above and each child's below—like some kind of bizarre totem pole.

  The shuttle driver beeped the horn, opened the door, and stepped out onto the asphalt. The resort shuttle bus was similar to an airport shuttle only N'awlins style and couldn't have been more perfect for transporting orphaned children. The front end was a purple Mardi Gras mask with headlights serving as eyes. On either side, The Mansion at Mystic Isle was scrolled in gold letters over dark but beautifully screened images glimpsing into the paranormal world of spirits and spells. It carried guests and employees back and forth from the ferry dock via Jefferson Parish into the swamplands near the Barataria Preserve then over the bridge to the privately owned four square miles of swampland that was now the country's first, and possibly only, resort catering to those who believed in all things mystical and occult.

  Sister Catherine Rose and two other nuns shooed the distraught children from the lobby out to the veranda then onto the bus. Sister Catherine stopped beside me. "That poor, poor man," she said.

  I nodded. "It's a terrible thing, Sister."

  Her tone was reverent. "I'll say a prayer tonight for his soul—"

  I spoke before she finished. "And say one for the children too, especially Nicole. Papa Noël's bag was stolen. It had everything in it for the children's Christmas and Nicole's procedure. It's all gone."

  Her expression was calm but concerned. "A great loss as well."

  "But we'll get it back," I said, and while I wasn't sure how we'd do it, I meant every word.

  "What's been going on in there?" Cat asked.

  The nun shrugged. "Not much. We all knew something was going on out here, and Mr. Villars, Mr. Stockton, and a few officers came around to all the tables while we were all still in the dining room to take our names and say there was a police matter being investigated and that we all might be contacted in that regard, you know."

  I looked up as Jack walked out onto the veranda, handing Cat and me each a blanket before going over to have a word with the shuttle driver. When he came back, he said, "Sister, I've made arrangements for you to take the public ferry. Our shuttle can cross over on it too then take you and the kids straight back to St. Antoine's. The less stress on you and the children, the better."

  The bus loaded up, and as it pulled out, heading for the main road, I asked Jack, "What's been going on in there?"

  He shrugged. "Not much. We've just been making a list."

  I looked up into his big brown eyes. "And checking it twice?"

  He di
dn't react, and I realized I was making a joke when someone had died.

  Sobering thought to say the least.

  It was a little after nine by that time. The adrenaline rush had left me cold and exhausted, and I yawned and sat down in one of the white wicker fanback chairs. The rain hadn't blown in, and the seat was dry, but I was so drained I wouldn't have cared if it hadn't been. Cat sat in the one beside me.

  Jack reached down and took hold of my hand. "You two look beat. Why don't I see if they're done with me for a little while? That way I can run you over to the resort ferry, and you can cross over to the city."

  I looked up at him and nodded.

  He walked away back out into the night.

  "I like that man," Cat said, watching him.

  "I do too."

  "He might be a keeper."

  "Oh? Like your Quincy?" I teased.

  She leaned back in the chair and pulled the blanket around her a little tighter. "I haven't made that call yet."

  "What?" I asked. "That Quincy isn't a keeper?"

  She shrugged. Her smile was as wicked as I've ever seen. "You know I just keep him around because I'm too lazy to go out and look for another one. Don't you?"

  "Sure you do."

  "And he is sort of nice to look at sometimes."

  "Err." The sound of a foghorn rumbled beside me, and I looked up, way up, to see Lurch, still in elf-cos. He held my coat out to me. In his hands, more like the big round heads of tennis rackets than anything else, the coat looked like a child's garment.

  "Oh, Lurch, thank you."

  He nodded and handed Cat's to her.

  After a few more minutes, Jack pulled up next to the building in one of the resort's maintenance pickups. I got in beside him, and Cat rode shotgun.

  Normally it took about half an hour to get from the resort to where the ferry boarded, but in the dark and mud and rain, we were on the road an extra ten minutes. It was still raining, so we sat in the truck with Jack while the ferry returned.