Mystic Mistletoe Murder

by Sally J. Smith

  Quincy looked like he might be sick. I sure felt that way, and from the look of astonishment and dismay on Aaron's face, I figured he was feeling that way too.

  Quincy's voice was low. "Chère." He cleared his throat. "Valentine, please tell me there's someone who can vouch for you."

  The shake of her head was barely perceptible.

  "So you don't have an alibi?"

  She chewed her lip.

  "I'm so, so sorry." Quincy stepped back. "Valentine Cantrell, you're under arrest for the murder of Phil Conner aka Slim Conner."

  The two deputies who'd come in a few minutes earlier got Valentine on her feet and began to cuff her, while Sergeant Mackelroy, who I was beginning to hate, recited the Miranda rights.

  Valentine's calm and centered presence shattered with the sound of the handcuffs locking. A small squeak of fear sounded at the end of each breath, and there was nothing less than pure panic in her eyes as she looked at me. "Oh, Lord. Mel, call my sister, and make sure she's still got Benjy. Tell her what's happened."

  Aaron was on his feet and trying to get between Valentine and one of the deputies. "Chef. Chef, what should I do?"

  Quincy took hold of his arm. "Stay back here now. This won't do you no good, and it won't help Valentine."

  Aaron jerked his arm away. My eyes went to his clenched fists.

  "Shh, Aaron." It was Valentine. "It'll all be good. I don't have anything to worry about. I didn't do anything wrong." She gave Quincy a hard look. "Did you hear that, Chief Deputy Boudreaux? I said, 'I didn't do anything wrong.'"

  Aaron took a step closer to the two deputies surrounding her, and Valentine turned to me. I finally got my wits about me and took action, standing and moving around to Aaron, laying my hand on his back where the muscles were tense. Still breathing hard, he stood back.

  "You want to help me?" Valentine said to Aaron.

  He nodded, looking miserable, and I could suddenly see how strong his feelings were for her.

  She went on. "Then you help Melanie figure this out. She's done it before, and she'll get to the bottom of this before you know it." One last look back at me then, "Mel, you get on this. You hear? I need you, girl."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Yes, I had done it before—with the help of my boyfriend slash boss, Jack Stockton, and my girlfriend slash roommate, Catalina Gabor. We'd had to muster up to save another friend from the clutches of the evil sheriff.

  Looked like it was up to me, Melanie Hamilton, Wonder Woman—nope, that wouldn't work—I didn't have the figure for the outfit. How about Melanie Hamilton, Supergirl—better? At least there was a cape to wrap around me on those days when I gave in to my cravings for too many beignets.

  They'd taken Valentine out right away, and it broke my heart to see her. She was scared. It had been in her golden eyes, but she'd held her head up and her shoulders back and tried to pretend it was no big deal.

  I'd have been wailing and crying my eyes out.

  Aaron had watched her go, his mouth set in a hard line then he'd turned to me. "So?"

  I looked around—behind me then to each side. No one else in the room, which meant he must have been talking to me.

  I arched my eyebrows and pointed my finger at my own chest.

  He nodded. "Yes, you. Chef said to work with you to prove her innocence, and I'm no detective." Something in his eyes made me feel sorry for him. He said it again, "So…?"

  "Uh…" Glib, Mel. So glib. "Well…I…" Get your act together now, Mel. Valentine, in her own words, needed me. And, yes, I'd come in handy helping to catch a killer once before, but I'd stumbled into that one. And here I was sort of being shanghaied into service. No way I could say no to Valentine Cantrell. She could just look into my eyes, and I'd go into a trance, lift my arms, and zombie-walk, saying, "Yes, Master. Whatever you need, Master. Right away, Master."

  Funny thing was, even though I felt forced into it, I really wanted to help her. I didn't any more think Valentine had run down poor Slim than I had, and truth be known I was more a likely suspect than the gentle, nurturing soul she was.

  I looked up at Aaron who was still just standing there seeming to be waiting for some direction from me. Sad thing was, I didn't have any direction, didn't have a clue where to start.

  "Okay," I said. "First things first. She wanted me to call her sister." I picked up my half-eaten croissant, left the cold cappuccino on the table, and started for the door.

  "Where you headed?" Aaron called after me.

  "To the human resources office," I said over my shoulder. "I have to get hold of Valentine's sister and let her know what's going on so Benjy's being cared for."

  "Well, what should I do?" He sounded a little lost.

  "Can you go to Jack Stockton's office and tell him what's happened? Number one, someone has to be put in charge of the kitchen until this all gets straightened out. And two? Well, if I know Jack, he's gonna want to help out."

  I was halfway out the door when I heard him say, more to himself than to me, "Jack Stockton? What the heck can that big city stiff do to help?"

  I should have stopped and turned around to stand up for my man, but the urgency in Valentine's eyes and the desperation in her voice when she'd begged me to call her sister kept my feet moving forward. All I had time for was a staccato statement thrown back over my shoulder. "You're gonna be surprised all Jack Stockton brings to the table."

  I went straight to HR and got the number for Valentine's sister, who she'd listed as her emergency contact, and headed outside to the veranda to make the call. Lurch was just coming on for his shift and was busy loading up one of the resort's luggage carts that Harry Villars had custom-made and shipped in from someplace in eastern Europe—the running joke was Transylvania, but maybe not. The carts looked fairly normal for the most part, open and carpeted on the bottom, big wheels for smooth handling. It was the tops that were a little unusual. Skulls (not real ones, at least I didn't think they were real) sat above the arched tops instead of decorative finials, and mini skeletons dangled from nooses beneath them. Lurch always looked right at home pushing them.

  The phone call to Val's sister was quick and to the point. She'd shrieked and uttered a few words that one generally doesn't hear in polite society then promised to cover Benjy for as long as it took to get this all straightened out.

  "Your sister's my friend," I told her, "and I'm going to do anything and everything I can to get her out of this mess. If you need anything, call me." I gave her my cell phone number.

  When I walked back into the lobby, Aaron was wandering around, looking lost. I caught up to him. "What did Jack say?"

  He lifted his arms. "Nothing yet. He wasn't in his office." He glanced up at the enormous gothic brass clock that hung behind the reception desk. "But I gotta get back to the kitchen. Without Chef Cantrell, they're going to need every spare hand they can get if dinner service is going to be done on time."

  "Okay," I said. "You do what you need to do. I'll look for Jack."

  He walked away, and I picked up a house phone and called Jack's office.

  "Jack Stockton's office. How may I help you?" His assistant, a fifty-something woman who guarded Jack's door like a lion at the gate, always sounded a little defensive when she answered as if the person on the other end of the line had darn well better be the President of the United States or at the very least the owner of the resort.

  "It's Mel," I said.

  Her voice softened. "Hello, honey." The third dignitary on her short list was little old me.

  "Is Jack in his office?"

  "No, he isn't, dear. I believe you can find him in the Presto-Change-o Room. He said he was feeling kind of low and thought maybe a cheeseburger and some Dixieland might lift his spirits. But I bet a visit from a certain young lady might perk him up even more."

  Jack's and my relationship wasn't a secret, but we didn't like to acknowledge it to the rest of the staff. Dating the boss was tricky. "Okay," I said, "Thanks. I'll go see if he's still
there."

  I crossed the lobby, rounded behind the big curving staircase that led to the upper floor and the fancy suites that had been carved out of the second floor rooms, and walked into the Presto-Change-o Room.

  It was the first time I'd crossed the threshold since last night, and it struck like a physical blow that I wouldn't ever see Slim behind the bar again. I'd miss his smile, his jokes. I'd miss seeing his happy face, his white beard always so immaculately trimmed. His beer belly had always seemed to make him look a little like a pregnant woman in the wizards' robes all the Presto-Change-o bartenders wore. But he'd taken it in stride and had even joked about it with customers who'd thought it was hysterical to ask when he was due.

  Slim had been popular with both the staff and the customers. He'd had a great singing voice, gravelly and jovial. His version of "Hello, Dolly!" was requested at least two or three times a night.

  Desi Lopez de Monterra was playing that song now, working the keyboard of Zelda, the ancient piano Harry had discovered in a second-hand store over in the Quarter. Ever since the incident with the so-called "haunted" piano, Desi had been the resort's go-to guy when a solo piano player was needed to fill in here and there. He'd been coming in for day shifts during the holidays. If Desi fit in anywhere it was The Mansion at Mystic Isle during the holidays.

  He was a small, slim Latino guy who favored oxfords with Cuban heels and loud clothing. His work attire for the day was a two-piece Christmas green suit with red and white candy canes all over it, red patent lace-up shoes with those fancy high heels, and a red fedora with a candy cane stuck in the white hatband. While it hurt my eyes to look at him, I couldn't look away.

  He lifted one hand from the keys, waved, and blew a kiss when he saw me walk in then went back to his rollicking Dixieland version of "Winter Wonderland."

  Jack sat at one of the window tables that looked out over the pool area, which had been decorated in a haunted Christmas motif with skeleton Santas and elves, spiny tinseled trees with twinkling zombie lights, and big plastic floating gators with glowing red noses. In the winter, they kept the pool at eighty-eight degrees, and the steam rising from the water looked appropriately like swamp gas.

  Jack had pushed away a half-eaten cheeseburger. I went over and sat down across from him, snagging a Cajun french fry off the plate.

  "Hey there." He looked at me and smiled, and my heart expanded with emotion.

  I'd never had feelings for a man like those that I held in my heart for Jack Stockton. He was handsome, sure. Any girl would be attracted to him because of that, but what got me the most about him was his kindness and consideration of the staff who worked for him. When he'd first come to the bayou from the Big Apple, there had been a pool started as to how long the Yankee would last—no one took a bet it'd be longer than a couple of months. But my Jack had proven them all wrong. He was here. He was doing a great job. And he was well-liked by the staff.

  I looked around before reaching across the table, taking a brief hold on his hand, and squeezing. He squeezed back.

  Over his shoulder a couple of tables over, I could see Stella by Starlight and her bookie, Zachary Jones, in a conversation over coffee.

  I didn't know how else to break it to Jack, so I just said it straight out. "Valentine's been arrested."

  He sucked in a deep breath.

  "They found blood on her muddy rain boots, the keys to the utility van that ran over Slim stuffed in them, and she can't come up with an alibi."

  He just stared at me, then, "Tell me you're kidding."

  "If I were, would you think it was funny?"

  Shaking his head, he looked around the room like he was grounding himself—as if he were hoping he was in the middle of a bad dream. "How could anyone believe she'd be capable of something like that? But especially Quincy? He adores her."

  "I know," I said. "It hurt him to do it. You could see it, Jack. But with all that stacked against her, what else could he do?"

  He didn't have an answer, so he just shrugged.

  "Anyway, somebody needs to be put in charge over the kitchen until she gets back."

  He sighed and nodded. "I'll take care of that. Her sous chef, Louise, has been working under Valentine long enough it shouldn't be a problem."

  "Sure," I said. "And besides, Valentine won't be tied up long." We both winced at my terminology. "I mean, she'll be back to work real quick."

  "That's right," he said. "We have to believe that, don't we?"

  "So, are you going to help me?"

  "Help you what?"

  "Help me prove her innocent, of course."

  He just stared at me.

  "Well, since you helped me last time there was a killer to catch, I figured you'd be up for it again."

  He gave a little laugh. "Sure. Why not. I always say there's nothing like a good murder investigation to get the blood stirred up."

  "Mel?" It was Stella.

  I looked over at her table. She and the bookie were both looking at us intently.

  "Did I just hear you say that Chef Cantrell was arrested for killing Slim?" she asked.

  I thought we'd been keeping our voices down. She must have hearing like a cat.

  "Slim Conner?" The bookie sounded surprised. "Did you just say they arrested someone for murdering Slim Conner?"

  Stella gave him a look I wouldn't have been able to label as anything but a warning. What the heck was that about?

  The bookie cleared his throat and added, "I mean, I know Slim Conner. Bartender, right? Someone killed him?"

  Stella lifted her arms, palms up. "We couldn't help but overhear. What a bummer."

  Jack stood and went over to their table, looking down at the bookie. "Mr…"

  "Jones," Stella's client said. "Zachary Jones."

  "Mr. Jones, there's been a terrible tragedy here at The Mansion, and I'm sure you understand the sensitive nature of such an occurrence. I'm going to ask you to keep what you've heard today to yourself."

  Zachary pushed his glasses back up onto the bridge of his nose and began to nod his head really fast. "Sure. No problem. I just…I just would like to know everything I can about this. Like I said, I know him."

  "He was a friend of yours?" Jack asked.

  The bookie looked at Stella then back up at Jack. "Yeah. Right. He was a friend of mine, all right."

  Jack studied the man in front of him, but no more than I studied him. Zachary Jones was keen on what was going on, zoned into it, and locked on.

  "Who's this person they arrested?" he asked.

  "It's a matter of conjecture, Mr. Jones. The police have taken someone in for questioning, that's all. I wouldn't want to start any rumors about a person who's probably going to be asked a few questions then released. I'm sure you wouldn't either. So once again, I'm going to ask you to not mention what you've overheard here today." He paused. "I bet there's something the resort can do for you in consideration of your discretion."

  Zachary looked first at Stella, then at me, and finally at Jack. "I bet there is. I'll keep in touch."

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Whatever Stella's client Zachary Jones had in mind as compensation for keeping his cards close to his chest about what he'd heard, it never came to light. Bookies were notorious players, and if there was an angle in it, it was logical he'd play that card soon when it suited him.

  He and Stella had left together and weren't gone more than five minutes before Jack and I set to talking about our plans for Christmas Day when we both planned to take in midnight mass at St. Antoine's, hook up with my mama, a few others, and Grandmama Ida at her place for a réveillon dinner. After that, we'd all go over to St. Antoine's Children's Home to help with the Christmas morning festivities—snacking on shortbread and hot cocoa while the children unwrapped whatever presents could be scraped together, since Papa Noël's big red sack had been stolen.

  "What are we going to do about replacing the cash we collected for Nicole's bone marrow transplant?" Jack shook his head, his voice gri
m, his jaw set angrily.

  "I don't know," I said. And I didn't. We'd all worked so hard during the drive to get together the toys and gift cards for the orphans. It was a big loss but not as big a loss as the life of a friend or the subsequent loss of the cash earmarked specifically for Nicole's procedure.

  I looked up as Sergeant Mackelroy appeared in the doorway to The Presto-Change-o Room and stood looking around. She came forward when she spotted us.

  Small with what was a shapely figure camouflaged beneath a bulky Kevlar vest under her uniform, she was still feminine and cute.

  She tilted her head and smiled at Jack, fluttering her lashes. It looked like maybe Cat wasn't the only woman who'd have to keep an eye on her man when the sergeant was around.

  The eyelash thing went on so long I honestly thought about asking if she had something in her eye, but that would have been catty, and no one wants to look that way in front of her boyfriend. But still…meow, y'all.

  "Mr. Stockton?" When did she acquire that Scarlett O'Hara simper? "Chief Deputy Boudreaux is still busy with the suspect and said I should ask you to join me in the boathouse. Maybe you can verify our discovery there."

  Jack pulled his hand away from mine and stood, and I narrowed my eyes at the deputy before saying, "I'll just come along too, if that's fine with you."

  "Show us the way, Sergeant," Jack said.

  She didn't say anything but shot me a look then took hold of Jack's hand and backed away in a come with me to the Kasbah move if I ever saw one. "Call me Pammie."

  I felt like a third passenger on a bicycle built for two as I followed along behind them. Jack seemed unaware of my discomfort. That didn't mean anything. Most guys were oblivious to things like that, and besides, he was so preoccupied with the murder and the room thefts and the loss of the donations from the charity drive he didn't have time for my silly insecurities. But that didn't keep me from taking a couple of quick steps to catch up to him and take hold of his free hand.

  Pammie took the hint and let go of his other hand, straightening her shoulders as her gait took on a more purposeful stride.