Mystic Mistletoe Murder

by Sally J. Smith

  Jack walked between us with an umbrella. He took a good look around then leaned his face down and kissed me.

  I heard Cat sigh before she turned and boarded.

  The kiss lingered a short while, and when he pulled away, I missed him. Dating the boss hadn't turned out to be easy, especially with Jack's history. He'd come to Louisiana from New York because of an unintentional indiscretion with his boss's wife. Poor Jack. And what did he do when he got here? Why, he fell for someone he worked with, namely me. And even if The Mansion's owner, Harry, had sort of put his stamp of approval on our relationship, we both needed our jobs too badly to put them at risk even a little bit. But it wasn't easy being around him and not being able to touch him or kiss him or even stare into his eyes for too long.

  "Good night," he said.

  "You too," I said. "Sleep tight. Don't let the bedbugs—"

  "Thanks," he interrupted, grimacing.

  Jack stood on the dock and watched as the Mystic Isle ferry pulled back into the strong, swirling currents of the Big Muddy.

  Cat and I walked to the front of the ferry to gaze at the lights of the Crescent City shimmering in the river water and casting reflections onto the clouds above the city. The air blowing back in our faces was cold and heavy with mist. Downriver a light bank of fog rolled in from the Gulf. The sounds of Christmas carols Dixieland-style were faint but growing louder the nearer we came.

  I leaned against the railing and took hold of it with one hand before realizing it was wet. Melancholy overcame me, and my eyes began to burn. "Slim was a nice man," I said, my throat tight.

  Cat took hold of my free hand and curled her fingers around mine. "He was. Why would anyone kill him?"

  I could only shake my head. "Not just anyone. Knowing Quincy, after what Slim's wife said, I'd lay odds he's going to be asking Valentine a bunch of questions."

  Cat sighed. "He's bad that way, y'know."

  "There's no way Valentine would have run that poor man down. Heck, that woman cringes when she has to cut up a chicken. Tries to get the staff to do it whenever she can."

  We landed and walked through the light rain to Decatur where we stood under the awning of the Café du Monde, watching a few adventurous tourists braving the December weather to get in some Christmas shopping—or holiday drinking.

  A cab came by, picked us up, and took us home to our awesome apartment on Dumaine Street. Rain sparkled on the bricks under the courtyard lights as we let ourselves in. Our boy, Satchmo, our wonderful black kitty, ran up to greet us, rubbing himself against our legs and rumbling softly, like a tiny Harley.

  We took off our coats and hung them on the rack by the front door.

  Cat kicked off her shoes and headed straight for the kitchen. "Tea?"

  I shivered and headed for my bedroom. "Don't you know it!"

  While the water heated on the stove, we both changed into our warm jammies and slippers then headed back out to the kitchen just as the kettle began to sing. Cat put bags in to steep. I went to the cupboard for a couple of almond biscotti then we sat at our farm-style kitchen table, sipping and munching.

  "It's still bothering me, that woman talking about Valentine that way."

  Cat doctored her tea with cream and sugar. It wasn't the usual recipe for chamomile, and didn't even sound good to me. But Cat listened to her own melody more than most of us and was the kind of girl who could eat anything, anywhere, anytime and not gain an ounce. "It was kinda weird, wasn't it?"

  "You gonna tell Quincy to leave Valentine alone?"

  "I can tell him," Cat said. "Whether or not he's gonna listen is another matter altogether."

  We didn't talk much after that—too depressed.

  It wasn't long before we both began to droop. From the TV in the parlor, a familiar theme signaled the beginning of one of the late-night talk shows.

  The resort was full of holiday guests, and almost everyone was busy. But my schedule during the holidays had always seemed to lighten up, and this year was no different. I had only one client scheduled for the next morning. He was a regular and had commissioned me to design a phoenix rising from the ashes for his back. The appointment was scheduled for ten a.m. Cat said she had a full morning of tarot readings, but neither of us was looking forward to going in to work Wednesday morning. After what had happened tonight, it wouldn't be pleasant.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I staggered out into the kitchen the next morning bleary-eyed and grumpy after having lain awake most of the night obsessing over what happened to Slim. Every time I'd dozed off, a flashback would pop into my head, and I'd be wide awake. What should have been an evening of triumph and celebrating over a successful money-raising campaign had turned into something dark and sad and even scary. Even Satchmo had given up and gone in to sleep with Cat.

  Cat and I showered and dressed and walked up to Decatur where we ordered a couple of big old mugs of chicory coffee and split an order of scrambled eggs and andouille sausage at a local coffee shop. The rain from the night before had washed everything clean, and the sun and crisp December air made sitting outside on the sidewalk at a café table the best option. The sidewalks were charmingly empty since most of the tourists who'd be out trolling later hadn't hit the pavement yet. When we'd eaten, we walked over to catch the dedicated Mystic Isle ferry, the same one that had brought us back to the city last night.

  It was just docking up, so we stood and waited to board while it was secured. The day conductor, George, had a mad crush on Cat. She was sweet to him and good-natured about it, even though her heart belonged solely to the good-looking Cajun deputy with the cocky attitude.

  "Mornin', ladies." George swept his Mystic Isle cap off his tousled hair, swinging it low in front of him, and followed it down into a gallant bow, extended right leg and all. "Your loveliness brightens our river crossing like the first light of dawn." His tendency to wax poetic was one of my favorite things about George.

  "Why, thank you, George," we said together even though we both knew it was Cat he was speaking to.

  Two women from resort housekeeping and the kitchen worker I'd met the night before, Aaron Bronson, boarded. Aaron was dressed in street clothes, loose-hanging faded jeans, a tight white T-shirt, sweatshirt-grey hoodie, and cool kicks that were probably knock-offs of black leather hi-tops from one designer or the other—knock-offs were all that made any sense on a kitchen helper's salary. His hair was all kinds of messed up, and it looked like he hadn't had time to shave. I'd never seen him cross on the ferry before and wondered why.

  George lowered his voice. "I heard 'bout the trouble they had at the resort last night. A cryin' shame, dontcha know."

  We both nodded.

  Several more employees and a few others I didn't recognize boarded. One was a nice-looking guy who I figured to be in his early twenties. He looked like a slimmer, paler version of Jake Gyllenhaal with sandy-colored hair and grey eyes behind a pair of black-framed Buddy Holly glasses. He smiled at us when he boarded. It was one of those smiles you'd think about even after it was gone—slow, lop-sided, personal, like maybe it was the sight of you that made him smile. I was curious about him. I'd noticed him at the resort several times before. The man knew how to dress, and it was pretty obvious he had the pocket change to let him wear what he wanted. He wore a black leather jacket that looked soft as a baby's butt, as my Grandmama Ida would have said, over a slinky black button-front shirt and tight black jeans. Moto boots toughened things up so he didn't look like a dandy. He went to the far side of the boat, slid into a seat, hauled out his phone, and got busy on it.

  As we pulled away and headed cross-river, Aaron walked up to me. Last night, in the monkey suit with his hair slicked back, he'd looked more mature. Now, with the sun on his face, there was a boyish air about him, and I could see he was maybe about thirty, when last night I would have said older.

  "Hi, Miss Hamilton. We met last night. Aaron Bronson?"

  "Sure," I said. "I remember." He wasn't the kind of man a girl
would forget that easily.

  "Pretty awful what happened last night."

  I nodded, not exactly happy to be reminded.

  "Did you know the man who died?"

  Another nod. "He worked at The Mansion for the last couple of years."

  "I didn't know him," he said. "I'm sorry for your loss." He took hold of my hand and patted it gently as his voice trailed off. "How are you doing?"

  Oh mercy me, good-looking and thoughtful too? I needed to find a woman for him. He could be too good for someone to let slip through her fingers. And the "Barbie" doll he'd had with him last night didn't suit him. At least I didn't think so.

  "I didn't sleep well," I admitted. "But thanks for asking."

  His blue eyes held concern. "I knew you'd be bothered. Just in the short time we were together last night, I got the impression you're a sensitive woman," he said.

  He was a little too familiar, and I thought maybe he might be hitting on me, but then he said, "I hope today goes well for you," and he turned and crossed back to the other side of the boat where he sat on a bench and looked out over the fast-moving muddy waters of the mighty Mississippi River.

  The crossing only took about ten minutes. The shuttle bus was waiting when we disembarked, and we all rode in relative silence to the resort. I didn't know if the quiet was out of respect or worry or shock. Whatever. One of our own had been taken. It looked intentional, and with the missing bags of toys, gift cards, and cash, it looked like nothing more than cold-blooded murder motivated by greed.

  The only person showing any liveliness at all was the well-dressed good-looking young guy who'd plugged in his earbuds and was carrying on an animated phone conversation as he looked out the window at the lush Louisiana bayou that was, we heard over and over again, being slowly overtaken by the encroaching Gulf of Mexico. While it wouldn't be for a long, long, long while, I surely knew when the bayous were gone, they'd take a way of life with them.

  We pulled up under the portico where the sight of three squad cars and several law enforcement officials walking around set everyone on the bus to buzzing.

  "Looks like more of the same thing we had last night." Aaron was up and out the shuttle. He stood by the door, holding out his hand to me first then Cat as we stepped down off the shuttle.

  "It's a crying shame," I said. Cat nodded in agreement.

  Cat, Aaron, the other employees, and I began to head around the building to the side entrance that led to the employees' locker rooms where we changed into our respective costumes. Cat and I broke off from the rest of the group when someone called out Cat's name, and we looked around to see Quincy heading toward us.

  "Q," she said, moving in for a brief hug. "Are you making progress?"

  He kissed her on the forehead and nodded. "We are," he said, "some anyway, and we're just 'bout to make ourselves some more. Gettin' ready to fingerprint all you wicked hotel people."

  "Fingerprint?" I asked. "Us?"

  "'Fraid so." He shrugged. "We're of the mind that one, it had to be an inside job, you see. Somebody knew Slim, Papa Noël, had that big ol' bag full of valuables. And this morning we got us a better look at the tracks of the vehicle that run him down. And the ME from 'cross the river, she confirmed it. Whoever did this nasty thing, they run him over. Then they turned around and they run him over again. And they take the bag, and not everybody who was here knew 'bout that bag. Just some people, mostly who work here. So, ladies, I been thinking I need to fingerprint all you people who work here who had previous knowledge of that bag."

  I squinted at him. "I don't like the sound of that. You think it was someone who works here? Someone we know?"

  "Oh, yeah," he said.

  "But why do you need fingerprints? What are you trying to match?"

  He shrugged. "Why, only the prints we lifted off the hotel utility van we found out by the old boathouse." He arched his brows. "You know, dat one with the front-end damage. Dat same one somebody needs to get holda the company keys to drive?"

  I gasped. "Oh, Quincy, you've already found the truck that hit him?"

  "Why, chère, don't you know I'm the best there is when it comes to homicide investigating?"

  "I do know that," I said, "but I also know I want you to disregard what the Conner woman said about Valentine. She had no reason to say that, and you got no reason to pay any mind to it."

  He just shrugged, but I could tell by the look in his eye I'd probably have been better off not having said anything.

  Cat and I left Quincy to his work and walked back around to the side of the building. We went in and headed down the short hall, through the mud room where we hung our coats above several pairs of muddy rain boots before going on into the employees' locker room and staging area.

  Like the folks who worked at those famous theme parks around the world, many of us wore costumes—Cat, the tarot card reader, looked like a gypsy when working, a fabulous, bling-layered gypsy; Fabrizio, when doing his séances, was decked out in a turban and mystical white Nehru jacket; my look was similar to Elvira, Mistress of the Dark, with a V-neck slinky black gown with a big stand-up collar that fanned all the way around the back of my neck. The waiters, waitresses, bartenders, and other service people dressed according to the theme of their environment. Lurch wore a three-piece black suit suitable for a butler, but it made him look more like a funeral director from Brobdingnag.

  We didn't talk as we undressed, but as Cat pulled the gauzy boho-style blouse over her head and tied the fringed scarf around her waist, she said, "Does it bother you?"

  "What?" I turned so she could zip my costume up the back. God forbid I ever had to try to get dressed for work by myself.

  "That Quincy thinks it was someone…" She looked around. "…you know, someone here."

  It was a sobering thought, one I didn't want to dwell on. "You bet it does."

  "Good morning, girls. What a nice, sunny day. Cold, but still, after the way it was last night—and I'm not just talking about the rain, if you know what I mean—I'm really grooving on the clear skies and bright sunshine."

  We both turned. "Morning, Stella." Stella by Starlight breezed into the room, her hands moving and her face as animated as if life was a drug and she was high on it.

  "I'm so late this morning. I've got my foxy gambler this morning."

  "Foxy gambler?" I sat down and gathered one nylon, pulled it on up to my thigh then did the same with the second before pushing my feet into the Mary Jane slippers I wore while working.

  "Oh, sister, haven't I told you about my Mississippi River gambler?" Stella asked.

  I stood and smoothed my costume skirt. "I don't believe you have, Stella."

  She was out of her street clothes—that coincidentally looked a lot like Cat's gypsy costume—and was getting dressed in her silky maroon and gold Mumbai-style tunic and pants. "Zachary Jones." She sighed. "Oh, man, he's a total fox. Young for me, maybe even for you girls, but that cat's got it going on."

  "And the punch line is…?" I prompted her, looking at my watch. I only had about fifteen minutes to get to Dungeons and Deities, my shop, and set up for my ten o'clock.

  "No punch line. Zachary's just, well, far out. Too bad he's all business. The dude's too uptight, needs to loosen up, and if I was fifty years younger, I'd be just the woman to get him real nice and loose. And if he's open-minded, I still could be just the woman."

  Cat laughed. "You're something else, Stella."

  Stella lowered her voice conspiratorially and leaned toward us. "Zachary wouldn't dig it if he knew I was talking to you about him. He runs his own business, makes sports book. A ton of money in it. He da man. Comes to me at least four or five times a week to get his chart done, and the Saints', and the Pelicans'—sometimes I even chart the ponies running out at the track. Groovy, right?"

  "Right," I said. "And how does it work out for him?"

  "Stella by Starlight knows her stuff," she said, shrugging and smiling, like her prowess was not something to be questioned—
and for all I knew, maybe it wasn't. "And I must be as good as I think I am, or at least Zachary thinks I'm as good as I think I am. Else why would he come around so much?"

  "We all know you're the real deal, Stella," Cat said, spinning the dial on her lock.

  Stella laughed. She had a great laugh, one of the best I'd ever heard, hearty and deep down in her throat. "Fifty years ago, I'd have said he was coming around because of my great legs, but these days, gotta be the down and dirty scoop he gets to make his odds and place his bets. Lately, my boy's had some trouble making collections. He's got some serious change hanging out there he can't collect."

  All three of us finished together and headed out into the public areas of The Mansion, where the holidays were still in full swing, even if the atmosphere was more subdued than it had been before someone had run down one of ours.

  "Your new shop everything you hoped for?" I asked Stella as we entered what I called the auxiliary section of the resort that had been added on to the main plantation residence.

  "I love it," she said. "Right on."

  She'd only recently moved across the hall from my Dragons and Deities tattoo parlor into a bigger space with blue-neon stars and Stella by Starlight over the door. It was gorgeous. Inside, starlit blue satin drapes sparkled under special lighting like moonglow. A small round table sat center-room where Stella cast astrology charts and counseled her customers.

  We stopped outside the open door. The expensively dressed guy who'd crossed over on the ferry with us sat in one of the chairs. He turned around when we walked up and smiled. "Miss Stella," he said, taking off the glasses and looking at her with those soft grey eyes before ducking his head.

  "Zachary," Stella's voice sounded kind of dreamy as she sashayed on in, suddenly once again the young woman with great legs she'd mentioned earlier in the conversation.

  And I could see why he wound her clock up. Zachary stood, coming to his full height, like a cat waking and stretching from a nap in the sun. "I was wondering where you were, Miss Stella," he said, all sweet and Southern.