Mystic Mistletoe Murder

by Sally J. Smith

"Why not? You said you wanted to help. The only other guy I can think of who might be able to charm her enough to make her loose-tongued is Jack Stockton."

  "The hotel manager, right?"

  "Right. And he's busy with holiday events right now." And besides, I don't want my Cap'n Jack cozying up to any woman, not even one as, IMHO, unappealing as Diane Conner.

  Aaron pressed his lips into a hard line. "All right," he said. "I'll do it. I just have to figure out a way how." He pulled a napkin across the table and a pen from his pocket, pausing to jot something on the napkin. He handed it to me. "Here's my phone number and address. I don't live far from here or from Valentine either if that helps. So if you need me for anything else…"

  I looked down. "Sure," I said. "Thanks."

  I left the kitchen, confident that Aaron would help me move my investigation forward.

  Jack wasn't in his office where he'd normally be at two thirty on a Thursday afternoon. His assistant said he'd received a phone call about something going on over in the plantation cemetery and had "…taken off outta here like somebody lit a fire under him."

  The old cemetery was located at the rear of the property, just away from the public areas. It took me about ten minutes to walk over there.

  I stopped on the crest of the hill, looking down at what was normally a serene and lovely scene of the area that was surrounded by willows and strewn with ancient stone markers.

  But not today.

  All the action was going on in the dead center, pun intended, around a particularly large gravestone.

  The stone itself was about three feet tall and wide, and half again as deep. Perched on top of it was a statue of Eugenia Villars, one of Harry Villars' ancestors who died way back in 1823. A five-point star inside a circle was engraved above her name and the date of her death. Eugenia, I'd learned from my mandatory study of The Mansion's history, was a pagan and nature worshiper of great renown who'd lashed herself to an enormous willow in an effort to discourage her father from burning the grove to cultivate more land for cotton. The annals of history reveal she was brave and passionate but not very bright because not only was the tree she lashed herself to in the deepest, darkest middle of the grove where no one could see her, but she forgot to mention her protest to anyone, and when the fires were set, no one knew she was there, and she succumbed to the fire.

  The Ravens evidently loved her for her sacrifice, as they were cavorting and carrying on, circling her grave like Ring-Around-the-Rosie. I stood there, the afternoon sun shining in my eyes, watching the Ravens celebrate, trying to figure out why Jack would have been so alarmed that he'd run out here.

  When I put a hand over my brow to shade my eyes from sun—well, I got it. I really got it. About half the Ravens, some men, some women, were nude, and every time they made another circle around the grave, yet another one would stop and shuck off his clothes. Long branches with what looked like mistletoe were then held over his or her head, and all the Ravens took turns laying a big old juicy kiss on the newly disrobed individual before the circling began again.

  Poor Jack ran frantically from place to place, picking up the robes off the ground and pleading with the Ravens to take them from him and put them on. His frantic voice carried up the hill on the chill breeze. "Please, please, people. This just isn't…isn't…what management had in mind when we encouraged you to celebrate the holidays in your own way."

  It only took another minute or two for the rest of them to get naked. Poor Jack finally gave up, opened his arms, let all the robes fall back to the yellowed grass, and turned around. That was when he noticed me. He lifted his arms in a what-the-heck-can-I-do gesture and began to trudge back up the hill.

  When he joined me, he put one arm around my shoulder and placed his other hand over my eyes, blocking the view, which had begun to get a little out of hand with all the mistletoe being passed around.

  "I'm hoping they'll get cold pretty soon and give it up," he said.

  That made me laugh as he turned me around and began to head back toward the main building.

  "What are you doing out here anyway?" he asked.

  "Valentine's back," I said. "I thought you'd want to know."

  "Thank God," he said with a sigh of relief. "Maybe things'll settle down some."

  I laughed again. "Only if you get her to put catnip in the Ravens' food." I stopped, and since we were holding hands, he stopped too. "Did you have a chance yet to look at the security video?"

  "I did. And there is footage of Zachary Jones at the resort the night of the murder. The cameras caught him heading into the resort then later across the lawn to the boathouse."

  "The boathouse?" My heart beat faster. "Where the utility van that ran down Slim had been parked for the evening."

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I spent an hour cleaning and organizing Dungeons and Deities for the next day's busy schedule. I had a set of middle-aged triplets, men, lined up for the day and wanted to be prepared in case they decided the three separate Hear No Evil, See No Evil, Speak No Evil monkey tattoos I'd already designed for them weren't elaborate enough. I'd spent a lot of time on them, and they'd turned out so well I was thinking of offering the men a discounted price if they'd agree to let me incorporate the designs into my portfolio.

  After that, I headed for the employee's locker room where The Mansion's social director had texted all costumes for the evening had been delivered. They had. The silly thing I had to wear made me cringe. It consisted of a Christmas plaid dress with a fitted bodice and enormous full-length bell skirt, over it, a furry white capelet, and then a bonnet worthy of a Jane Austen heroine. Grandmama Ida had a porcelain bell in her china cabinet handed down a couple of generations. It was a small woman whose torso was the handle with a clapper that moved freely inside the enormous skirt. When I looked in the mirror, I felt like its twin. Not exactly my style.

  I was one of the few female employees, aside from serving staff, who'd agreed to attend tonight. I did it because of Jack, because he'd been worried that due to the A Christmas Carol theme, there wouldn't be enough costumed women at the event. I found myself doing lots of things because of Jack these days, and I liked it.

  Jack was just crossing the lobby when I emerged from behind the grand staircase to the second floor. The swish of my silly skirt and jingle bells on the ties of the capelet made everyone in the lobby stop and turn, including Jack—who, BTW, looked adorable.

  His Bob Cratchit outfit consisted of a threadbare brown wool jacket over a dull brown vest and slacks. The white high-collared shirt had ruffled cuffs that peeked out from the jacket sleeves and was anchored by a black string tie. His knee-high boots didn't look like poor old Bob Cratchit could have afforded them, but they hugged his calves and set off his muscular thighs just so. A fairly tattered top hat sat tilted back on his head.

  Too cute.

  "Why, Miss Hamilton." He was trying to sound like Bob Cratchit, too, but it came out more like Sir Paul McCartney than Sir Patrick Stewart. "You look more Christmassy than a plum pudding."

  He offered me the crook of his arm, and we entered the Ghostly Christmas Gala.

  The main salon had been made over into a Victorian era London street, complete with cardboard facades of quaint shops and buildings and fake polymer snow hauled in on order of Harry Villars.

  The room was alive with charm. Old Marley, the Ghost of Christmas Past, née Lurch, dragged this chains around the salon, dust, née Johnson's Baby Powder from the scent of it, floating off his shredded garb as he moved. His deep and miserable moan was pretty scary and would have frightened children if there had been any in attendance.

  Odeo, the Ghost of Christmas Yet-to-Come, lumbered the room as the grim reaper, sickle and all. His face and dark skin sunken back into the cowl made the place where his features should have been look eerily like a black hole.

  Fabrizio, the Ghost of Christmas Present, was the very spirit of Christmas in bright furry robes. Harry as Ebenezer Scrooge was appropriately dour
. And Melvin, the little person who'd performed Lurch's Christmas elf counterpart so beautifully the night Slim was murdered, made a fine Tiny Tim, crutch under one arm, knickers, and knee socks.

  He hobbled over when we walked in and glared up at Jack. "I go out to the levee with you and knock a few heads together on your behalf, and this is the thanks I get? What the heck? Tiny Tim? I mean, could we be any more cliché here?"

  Jack looked truly repentant. "Hey, Melvin, believe me." He ran one hand from his own head downward. "None of this was my idea. Tonight, we play the roles we're assigned."

  Melvin snorted. "Still. I mean, really?" and hobbled away.

  "Not a happy Tiny Tim, is he?" I said."

  "Hm-mm." Jack said. "Man, I hope he doesn't hit anybody with that crutch."

  I looked around just in time to see Diane walk into the main salon, looking like a little lost lamb, make that a lost bulldog. Her expression couldn't have been described any other way except surly. It was any wonder Slim, every bit as jolly as Papa Noël himself, had anything to do with her.

  She made her way over to the bar, where one of the female bartenders who normally worked the Presto-Change-o Room and Aaron Bronson, on loan from the kitchen staff, tended bar. In matching costumes, they looked like they belonged together on a shelf—Mr. and Mrs. Royal Doulton Dickensian Figurines. She in a corseted white blouse and red skirt—he in a white long-sleeved shirt with a black bow tie and black sleeve garters under a red vest. Both wore white aprons.

  "Jack, I'm going to see if Aaron needs a break."

  Jack looked up, saw Aaron behind the bar, saw Diane sitting down in front of the bar, and, smart as a whip, made the connection.

  He placed his hand briefly on my shoulder, moving his fingers back and forth. "Good luck."

  I lifted the bar gate and joined Aaron who was filling a pilsner glass with draft beer. "Hello, Mel." His eyes never left the glass, which he topped off before turning to me.

  With a lift of my chin and a shift of my eyes, I directed his attention to where Diane sat at the far end of the bar. He nodded and lifted the pilsner glass. "She likes her draft," he said.

  "You know, Aaron, if you wanted to take a little break and spend some time getting to know the guests…"

  His eyes opened wide. "Oh," he said. "Right. But I'm supposed to—"

  "I don't mind covering back here."

  He looked doubtful, but I hurried to say, "I did a little bartending in my college days." It was a complete lie, but I wanted him to be relaxed and comfortable while he fished for information. And besides, how hard could it be?

  He untied his apron, helped me into it, and moved around behind me, tying it before picking up the beer he'd just poured and heading out and around the bar to where Diane sat.

  He spoke to her, and while I could hear his voice, I couldn't distinguish what he said. She looked up at him as he set down the beer, and her smile transformed her face.

  She said something back.

  They were too far away for me to overhear. Dang it! I couldn't stand it.

  Aha! Bar mix! Keeping my head down and my face half-hidden by the brim of the bonnet, I picked up the bowl, waddled over—my hoop skirt swinging around me like my legs were the clapper on a big old bell—and set the bowl in front of them then turned my back, hanging close by.

  "I remember you from the dinner party Sunday night," Aaron began. "Mrs. Conner, right?"

  "You must have a mind for names?" she said, her inflection lifting at the end of the sentence, her tone actually kind of sweet. I couldn't stand not seeing them, so I turned back around but kept my head down.

  She took a long pull from the glass, wiping the foam off her lip with the back of her hand like a dockworker before laying her hand back on top of the bar. Aaron covered her hand with his then removed it and wiped it on his shirtsleeve. His face never changed, the smile still plastered on his face.

  "My condolences on the death of your husband," Aaron said.

  She ducked her head. "Thank you."

  There was a lull in the conversation, and I briefly had to wonder if I'd put the wrong man on the assignment. But Aaron was just getting started. His hand was back on hers. "You must miss him."

  With her free hand, she took another pull on the beer, the foam lining her upper lip before her tongue slipped out and slithered over it. "Not really," she said with no girlish inflection this time. "If I'm being honest, he wasn't much of a husband when it came right down to it."

  "Oh?" This time it was Aaron's turn to question.

  "Hey, Red!"

  I looked down the bar where a man sat, waving in my direction.

  "Mix me up a hurricane, will ya?" he hollered.

  "Really?" I hollered back. "You sure you wouldn't like a nice cold beer or a glass of wine?"

  "Nope, it's a hurricane for me all right."

  I recognized the troublemaker from earlier today. He'd been one of the naked fools dancing around the gravestone. Now, there was something I didn't think I'd ever be able to unsee.

  Without moving too far from where Aaron and Diane sat, I reached up and took down one of our souvenir hurricane glasses from the backbar, opened the spiral notebook with the mixed drink recipes, and began to move around, searching for the ingredients. My ears were still peaked to the conversation between Diane and Aaron.

  Diane was expounding on poor Slim's shortcomings. "I wanted kids, you know. A whole parcel of 'em. But nooooo. Slim wouldn't have it. And I even tried to trick him into it a couple of times. You know, dim lights, his favorite banjo pickin' music, a few cold frosty ones? He'd just dance around to the tunes, drink the beers, and pass out. That louse never even tried to keep it from me that he was seein' that hussy? Can you imagine?"

  "Which hussy would that be?" Aaron, diplomatic to the end.

  "Why, Miss Valentine You-Better-Keep-an-Eye-on-Your-Husbands Cantrell. That's who." Diane slammed the empty pilsner glass back on the bar and yelled, "Bring me another Miller." She took a second to look Aaron over, starting at his face, her eyes moving lower before, "Make that a Miller Lite, will ya?"

  I was going back and forth between the hurricane and the interrogation. One ounce light rum. One ounce dark rum. One ounce…

  I stopped and drafted Diane a fresh beer then carried it over, head down. But I didn't have to worry. She never looked up at me. Aaron was leaning an elbow on the bar, his head resting on his hand, his smile—even as stuck as I was on Cap'n Jack—was great.

  "So, you and Slim were having problems? You poor thing." With his free hand he reached up and squeezed her shoulder.

  I prayed neither Valentine nor Harry would choose that moment to walk in and see one of the staff manhandling one of the guests, whether she was a paying guest or not. It wasn't appropriate. But I didn't care. I was desperate to find someone to draw the police away from Valentine. I didn't want it to be Odeo, and I didn't know for sure if it was Zachary. And if it turned out to be Diane, I wouldn't shed any tears over it.

  "Oh, yeah," she said. "He was carrying on with that Cantrell woman."

  Had I added all three types of rum? Or just the one? I started over just to be sure.

  Aaron seemed reluctant to say it, but he finally agreed. "I've heard that too."

  Diane's eyes opened wide. "You've heard it too? Well, I've seen it with my own two eyes. Him and her a'hugging it out in the parking lot one night when I came to pick him up. Shameful."

  "You saw them?" Aaron said.

  "I did." And even though my back was turned as I fussed over my hurricane concoction, I knew she was finishing off her second beer from the glugging sounds she made and the way the glass sounded when it hit the bar. "I could've just killed that bastard."

  Aaron's voice was low but even. "Did you?"

  Diane's was suddenly shrill. "Did I what?"

  "Kill him?"

  She dismissed him with a wave of her hand. "Don't be silly."

  I strained the hurricane over the crushed ice into the glass, picked it up,
and carried it over to the Raven. It smelled a little strong to me, but then I wasn't much of a drinker, so what did I know?

  "'Bout darn time." He grabbed the glass, took out the straw and the fruit, and turned up the glass, immediately choking and coughing.

  OMG! I thought he might fall off his stool for a minute. All I needed was to get fired over poisoning one of the hotel guests. Especially one of the Ravens.

  But I didn't need to worry after all. His flattened palm hit the bar. "Holy Jupiter, Red! You mix one helluva drink."

  I looked back down the length of the bar. Aaron was alone.

  "Well, crud," I said. As skillful and charming as Aaron had been, she hadn't given us any more to go on than we had before.

  Aaron came back and took over the bar duties, while I walked out into the main salon, where it seemed Jack's worst fears had come to fruition.

  Marvin, née Tiny Tim, was in a heated discussion with a man who was over six feet tall and must have weighed three hundred pounds. Their voices rose over the rest of the noise in the room, and people were turning to stare. Jack, née Bob Cratchit, broke away from the guests he was schmoozing just in time to hustle Marvin away, while Fabrizio, the Ghost of Christmas Present, joined the angry guest, handing him a cup of eggnog and engaging him in a conversation.

  Marvin, carrying his forgotten crutch, stomped over to the bar and laid down a ten-spot. "Bourbon," he demanded. "A double. Straight up."

  I looked across the room at Jack, who shrugged and nodded, so I located a bottle of Maker's Mark and poured him three ounces.

  Marvin grabbed it, took one healthy swig, and saluted me with the glass. "Thanks, Mel. This'll make this freaky gig a bit more palatable."

  Tiny Tim crutched his way back across the room, stopping every few feet to sip his bourbon.

  Somewhere in my head, I thought I heard my Granddaddy Joe, the man who'd raised me and whose passing I still mourned, say, "Take my word for it, Mellie gal. My old pal Charles Dickens just rolled over in his grave. I saw him do it."

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN