Mystic Mischief Read online

  "Well, m'dear, sweet Harry is nothing if not a superstitious sort, and since you were instrumental in calming things down and clearing things up when we've had trouble in the past"—I assumed trouble in the past referred to two recent murders that happened on resort property—"he's come to think of you as somewhat of a good luck charm, if you will."

  Good luck charm, eh?

  Right.

  And besides, if Harry Villars thought it was bad juju for me to leave, then the least I could do for the man who signed my generous paycheck, and those of my lover and my friends, was to stick around and see him through this.

  But I had to wonder why this was hitting him so much harder than other deaths that had occurred on the premises—not that those had him jumping for joy or anything, but he hadn't seemed nearly so devastated by them.

  As if reading my mind, Fabrizio began, "That young man who died, Elroy Villars?"

  I turned back to Fabrizio, and he went on. "He and his brother have said they're descendants of Belle Villars, a biracial slave from this very plantation back in the early 1800s. While they may not be blood relatives, Harry's considering them family of sorts. He's taking this whole thing straight into his heart, and it's already weighing him down."

  I looked back at Harry, who was moving even more slowly than before.

  "I can see that," I said to Fabrizio then walked back inside and went straight to the bed, taking a few immaculately folded and pressed shirts from it and carrying them to the bureau where Harry was putting a few other items in a drawer. "Let me help," I said.

  Harry turned and took them from me. "I'm so sorry about what happened, Harry," I said. "Do you believe it's true that man is related to someone from the plantation?"

  He shrugged, taking a moment to smooth his already impeccable mustache even more. "I'm not sure yet, but you know how I am, Miss Hamilton. I tend to rely on my intuition. It hasn't steered me wrong so far, and right now, it's telling me that young man was a Villars. Now what he thought he was doing in my abode in the middle of the night whilst I was absent is another thing. Nevertheless, I can't help but feel badly about his demise." He hung his head.

  I laid my hand on his arm. "Of course," I said. "I have a proposition for you. As I told you earlier before we…well, before, I've been staying with Jack Stockton in his cottage on the premises—"

  "I know," he said. "I'm a longtime aficionado of romance, Miss Hamilton. I have no objection to your staying there with him. Fabrizio has pled your case with gusto, and if anyone understands the ways of true love, it is I."

  "Well, you see, I need to put some space between Jack and me right now, but at the same time, I want to be here for you if it makes you feel better during this ugly time. Quincy is staying with Cat at our apartment while they're planning their wedding, and honestly, I'd feel like a third wheel staying there, so, I was wondering if…" I let my voice trail off.

  "Say no more, Miss Hamilton. We'll find you a place to sojourn in private right here at the resort while you're reconciling with Mr. Stockton. And if time away from your studio would help you to sort through your feelings, I have no problem if you'd prefer keeping your work schedule light."

  Fabrizio walked up beside Harry and put his arm around Harry's shoulders.

  "Would that suit you?" Harry asked.

  I stretched out my arms toward Harry, presenting the folded shirts. "You, Mr. Villars, are what my Grandmamma Ida says is a rare find these days, a true Southern gentleman. Thank you for your kind consideration."

  "Oh no, Miss Hamilton." Harry lifted the shirts and laid them in the open bureau drawer. "Thank you for your kind consideration. I truly believe the cosmos appreciates your presence here at Mystic Isle."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  While Lucy, the front desk clerk on duty, was assigned the chore of finding a room that would be vacant for the next week at least, I sat and waited with Fabrizio in the suite's parlor. Harry called Percy Villars' room and made arrangements to meet with him in the main salon.

  Fabrizio begged off. "This all has me completely knackered, just wanting a bath then a pillow."

  Harry admitted, "I have to say I'm a little on the nervous side 'bout meeting up with this young man, although he did seem nice enough on the phone. Sad, yes, but pleasant. Still, not knowing what to expect and all, I'd certainly consider it a lagniappe if you'd come along when I meet with him, Miss Hamilton. You have such a sweet way of dealing with folks."

  A lagniappe? A favor? It was hard not to think that Harry was playing the boss card. Although I didn't usually think of him that way, the bad experience I'd had in Florida, followed with this Sydney person showing up here, had me just the slightest bit cynical. I made a conscious effort to thrust those feelings aside.

  "Sure," I said.

  It might have been the Pollyanna coming out in me, but I truly did think Harry's gentle soul wouldn't—no, couldn't—allow him to coerce me to help him.

  And besides, Lucy hadn't found me a room yet, so I didn't have anywhere else to go anyway.

  After another twenty minutes or so of Harry nervously fussing about while laying out his toiletries in the bathroom then calling downstairs for extra pillows and blankets, he finally glanced at the time. "Well, I suppose we oughta head on down, if you're still of a mind to," he said to me while shrugging on the pastel blue jacket he'd had on earlier when they arrived from the airport. It was a strange color to have picked to coordinate with the lime green slacks, but oddly enough, it worked.

  We headed downstairs and crossed the lobby to the main salon, which was at the front of the building just to the right as you came in through the entrance. It was an enormous room, high-ceilinged, longer than wide. Floral-patterned oval rugs set off conversation areas where antebellum-style settees had been placed. The far end of the room was occupied by small café-style tables where wine, cocktails, and hors d'oeuvres were served during happy hour.

  Tatiana was at the keyboard of the ivory baby grand, "Sentimental Journey" rolling softly from under her fingertips. She was a lovely elderly woman Harry had recently hired to play her special brand of soothing music four nights a week during happy hour. An elegant dame, Tatiana always showed up for work coiffed like she'd come straight from the beauty salon and wearing an evening gown. She nodded at Harry and winked with a bit of a come-hither look. She obviously didn't realize she wasn't anywhere close to Harry's type or that he'd been taken completely off the market anyway when he and Fabrizio had become a couple.

  At one of the far tables, a man stood and waved. "That must be Percy," I said.

  "Must be." Harry nodded and waved back, but his tone was quiet and uncertain.

  We headed on back to the table where a woman sat, while the man continued standing. He offered his hand to Harry. "Percy Villars." His demeanor was subdued, and his eyes were swollen and red-rimmed, reminding me that he'd probably just learned his brother had been killed. I appraised him in the dim light. There was no sign in Percy of the biracial slave the twins had claimed to have been descended from.

  He was average height and build, somewhat ginger, with a fair, freckled complexion and hair a cross between red and light brown. It was his ears that made the biggest impression, and not in a good way. They were not only enormous but stuck almost straight out like somebody had opened both doors out wide on a Mack truck. His face was roundish, his mouth wide and full. His smile revealed a good-sized gap between his two front teeth. All in all, I couldn't shake the goofy image of Alfred E. Neuman from my mind and was horrified when I actually formed a mental picture of Percy on the cover of Mad magazine.

  I tried to focus on his kind blue eyes as he gestured toward the blonde seated at the table. "Our—my sister, Nancy," Percy said.

  Nancy shook hands, first with Harry then with me. "How do you do?" she said quietly. She was considerably taller and sturdier than her brother and looked nothing like him. Long, straight blonde hair had been parted on the side, swept across her brow then tucked behind her ears. Her face w
as nice but unremarkable with even features and blue eyes so pale that in the dim light of the main salon, they looked grey.

  "All of us here at The Mansion are so terribly sorry for your loss," Harry said.

  "Thanks." Percy looked down at his feet while Nancy took a tissue from her purse and blew her nose—loudly.

  "Should we sit?" Harry asked.

  "Oh, yeah, right," Percy said. "Sorry, I'm just—"

  "Understandable," I said, sitting in the chair Harry was holding for me.

  It took a long minute for any of us to say anything further, then Harry broke the ice. "I understand you two and your brother came here hoping to locate an historical document you believe to be hidden here."

  Percy and Nancy both nodded. It was Percy who spoke first. "You've heard the story of our ancestor, Belle Villars, haven't you, Harry? May I call you Harry?"

  "Of course."

  "Traces of her have almost all but been removed from our line, but she kept the family name of her masters. It was the only name she knew, and she raised her son as a Villars. That's how the name, our name, your name came to be handed down through the descendants of Belle and the pirate."

  "I understand," Harry said, "and I want to welcome you to your ancestral home."

  "Well, thank you," Percy said.

  "This may not be the proper time to bring the subject up," Harry said hesitantly, "but I have to wonder what your brother—Elroy, is it?—might have been doing in my home whilst me and my partner weren't present."

  Percy had the grace to hang his head. "I'm so sorry, Harry. I had no knowledge of Elroy's plan to break into your home. It isn't the proper way at all. I can't even imagine what he was thinking. When we arrived and learned you were out of town, we'd agreed the right thing to do was wait until you'd returned home to begin our quest." His face creased, and I thought he might start crying. "I don't understand…"

  Nancy laid a hand on his arm. Although her eyes were moist, she was holding it together better than Percy. "Our brother didn't tell us. Neither of us knew in advance what he had planned, and we can only apologize for his behavior."

  Percy shook his head. "Breaking in like a common burglar. What was he thinking?" He squeezed his eyes together, making his cheeks even more puffy. "If he'd told me, I'd have stopped him, and this never would have happened. He'd be here right now, talking with you, Harry, and you, Miss…"

  "Melanie," I finished for him.

  Percy stood suddenly, his gaze locked. "What have you learned, Deputy?"

  Harry and I turned around to see who he was talking to.

  Quincy Boudreaux came striding up to the table. Perky little Sergeant Mackelroy was missing in action this time. "Mel, Harry," Quincy said. "Mr. Villars, Miss Villars."

  "What is it?" Percy asked.

  "Do you recognize this?" Quincy laid a clear plastic evidence bag on the table in front of Percy, who sat down and stared at the contents—a yellowed and ripped notebook-sized sheet of paper with small, tight writing in thick black letters.

  Percy looked at it a few beats then raised his head. "That's a page from Belle's journal," he said. "The page that specifies where she hid the letter of pardon she stole from Jean Lafitte." He looked at Quincy. "How did you come by this?"

  "One of our deputies came across it caught up in one of the hibiscus bushes in the flower bed out front of your place, Harry. It looks like something torn from that journal your brother had?" He addressed his question to Percy. "Why would your brother have ripped it out like that?"

  Percy stared at the evidence bag some more.

  It was the sister who answered. "He wouldn't have. That journal is sacred text to my brothers. The two of them have huddled over it, studied it, memorized it, and treasured it for years and years. It's the key to the book deal they have."

  "Book deal?" It was Quincy.

  Percy lifted his gaze from the page inside the evidence bag. "My brother and I planned to write the story of Belle Villars and Jean Lafitte. We have—or had—a tentative deal with a New York publisher. The advance was contingent on our locating Lafitte's letter of pardon, the location of which was outlined in the journal. The publisher's rep was ecstatic about our book proposal, believed we'd have an international bestseller, a real blockbuster with movie rights in the millions. Finding that letter would lend legitimacy to our tale. It's why Elroy and I came down here."

  I noticed Nancy squirming around in her chair and couldn't help wondering if locating the letter of pardon had been why the twins had traveled to Mystic Isle, what had brought Nancy here. "Are you involved in the book deal too?"

  "Me?" Nancy pointed back at herself. "No."

  Quincy was frowning, in full investigation mode now. I could always tell—his Cajun talk all but vanished. "What do you think this means? If that journal was so precious to you two, why would Elroy tear out this page, deface the journal? And if he knew from the journal where the letter was hiding, why would he tear the house apart like he did? This is getting kind of mysterious. Yes?"

  I thought so too.

  "Elroy made a mistake going to Harry's house and breaking in. That much is obvious." Percy leaned back in his chair, regarding us through his beady little eyes. He'd been running his hand through his curly red hair. It was standing straight up and his ears straight out. It was hard to take him seriously. "But he would never deface Belle's journal."

  I had to ask. "If your brother knew where Belle hid the letter back then, why would he go all over and mess the house up like he did?"

  Percy blinked his eyes rapidly, took a deep breath, and let it out. "He wouldn't. I've been so overwhelmed by Elroy's death I hadn't even stopped to think about all this, but not only would he not have torn the page out, he wouldn't even have broken in, much less have gone inside. He wouldn't have had to. Belle Villars hid the letter under the front porch of the building she described as Master Villars' accounting office."

  Harry's expression was thoughtful. "The old accounting office? Under the porch?"

  Percy nodded.

  "That would be my porch, under the porch at la petite maison."

  Once again, Percy nodded.

  "Do you think it's there?" Harry asked, looking at Percy.

  It was Quincy who answered. "Well, folks, there is one way to find out." He picked up the evidence bag from the table. "Let's go."

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I hadn't figured my going with Quincy and Harry and the other two back to la petite maison would wind up contributing anything, so I pulled Harry aside to speak with him.

  "No reason I can see for me to go with you. If Elroy's death was an accident like Quincy thinks, there's nothing more to be learned by going back there. It's just Quincy scratching an itch."

  Harry rubbed his chin. "Hmm. Scratching an itch? What does the good Chief Deputy Boudreaux hope to gain by crawling around under the porch of my house?"

  I knew that one. "Because the good Chief Deputy Boudreaux can't stand a mystery of any kind, Mr. Villars. That man's gotta know everything about everything all the time. Bona fide control freak, that one. I don't know how Cat stands it, except she's got the knack of handling him down to a science. That's the reason their relationship works at all."

  "Well, I do wish you'd come on along with us, Miss Hamilton. Your lovely presence makes any event festive and is a plus no matter what the occasion, even if it's just a bunch of deputies crawling around under my abode."

  I sighed. What was it about me that Harry Villars had grown so attached to? I thought about begging off, but if I was honest with myself, I was every bit as curious about the death of Percy's brother and this Jean Lafitte mystery as Quincy was.

  Even though I was born and bred in New Orleans, if I lived a hundred years, I'd never understand how word always spread so fast around here. By the time the four of us had ridden over to la petite maison with Quincy, there was already a good-sized crowd of people milling around outside the crime scene, which had been set apart with that yucky yellow crime scene tap
e.

  I recognized some of the people—the Powells (Mr. and Mrs. Indiana Jones), some of the resort employees, Lurch, Odeo, as well as the other two members of the Gator Brigade who still wore their gator hunting outfits.

  Jack was there and—dammit—Sydney, looking too cute for my comfort. I was at least gratified to see that Jack kept pushing her hands off his arm, then his chest, his shoulder, the back of his neck. He finally moved a couple of steps, managing to put Lurch between them. She was so touchy-feely I wouldn't have been surprised to see her manhandle Lurch again like she had in the lobby.

  A second SUV from the Jefferson Parrish Sheriff's Office rolled up. It was good and dark by then in spite of the ground lighting Harry had so lovingly installed around his place, and a couple of deputies I hadn't seen before climbed out and got busy setting up pole lights around an area at one side of the house near the back.

  Archie Powell, knobby knees sticking out from under a safari outfit similar to the one he'd had on during the interview, came right up to where we stood with Quincy. Powell was with another man—not tall, maybe five eight or so and compact, with a scruffy beard and dark, longish hair. This newcomer wore pale yellow slacks under a white long-sleeved dress shirt open down to the third button. The cuffs were folded up over the sleeves of a pastel blue jacket that had been pushed up on his forearms.

  A third man stood just behind Powell. He wore headphones and was holding a shotgun-style mic on a boom that had been thrust in our general direction. A fourth guy stood beside him, his face jammed against the eyepiece on a camera attached to a complex system that looked to be part vest, part shoulder support.

  Archie Powell spoke to Quincy. "Deputy?"

  Quincy turned. "It's Chief Deputy Boudreaux." Quincy was really proud of his recent hard-won promotion.

  Powell went on, offering his hand to Quincy. "I'm Archie Powell. This is Roger Goodwin." He indicated the guy channeling Sonny Crockett from Miami Vice. "Roger and his crew"—he jerked his head, and Quincy, Harry, and I turned to see two more guys standing back away from the rest of the crowd—"are documenting our search for the missing letter of pardon. Roger here is famous, you know."