Jack was a big-city boy, a New Yorker, and was still getting used to running The Mansion. He was just about the most gorgeous specimen of manhood I'd ever laid eyes on and about as nice as they come. I was pretty much stuck on him, which was too bad because, after being fired from his job at a highfalutin NYC hotel when he hooked up with some pretty young thing who turned out to be the CEO's wife, I figured he'd probably run screaming from even the hint of a workplace romance.
Jack had a lot on his plate—like trying to come to grips with running a repurposed plantation turned resort in the Louisiana Bayou just across the river from New Orleans that catered to the special interests of followers of magic, fantasy, and the paranormal. Dealing with the laid back, it's all good N'awlins mentality was also a novel experience for my beautiful, but strictly business, boss.
Mystic Isle had been in the Villars family for centuries. When the family fell on hard times, the considerable windfall from Family Feud won by the current owner Harry Villars and his motley crew of cousins took care of the back taxes he owed, but did little else. If he wanted to hang on to the place, Harry knew he'd have to make a plan. He did: The Mansion at Mystic Isle became a resort where folks could come and get their creep on.
The place was decorated like Decrepit Homes and Gardens with drafty hallways, secret passages, and the whole shebang. He hired a complete cast of soothsayers and charlatans to convince hotel guests the supernatural stuff that went on at The Mansion was the real deal.
And now, at the behest of the resort's eccentric owner, Jack was struggling to organize and put on the first ever Annual Summer Jazz Festival at The Mansion on Mystic Isle.
Captain Jack's office was in the add-on kitchen wing of the old plantation building on the main floor.
As I headed for the lower-level stairs, which would give me access to that area of the resort, I passed Harry Villars himself leaving the hotel. He touched the brim of his signature white straw Panama hat, "Miss Hamilton, lovely day, isn't it?"
A true man of the South, our fearless leader. He was not tall, but not short, at about five-foot nine, slim build, dark hair with a modest comb-over, and a mustache so perfectly trimmed it appeared to be painted on. His grey eyes were kind and crinkled at the edges, which made him look as if he was always smiling. I'd never seen him not wear a dapper three-piece suit and bow tie, not in summer, nor in winter. He was what my granny called a dandy.
I found Captain Jack in his office, at the helm, like any good captain—well, behind his desk anyway.
"Miss Hamilton." He looked up when I knocked on his open door, then stood. "Thank you so much for coming. There's something I need from you."
Something I need from you, too, Cap'n Jack. Kiss. Kiss.
He went on. "How's your schedule for the next three days?"
Jack Stockton was tall, maybe six-one, and handsome, with close-cropped dark hair, almond-shaped dark eyes, and a smile so bright if he was with you, you wouldn't even need a lantern at night in the swamp.
"Oh, I'm flattered you'd come to me," I said, preening. "What kind of tattoo did you have in mind?"
"Oh," he sat up straighter. "No. Sorry. It's the jazz festival. Everything's all set up, but we have music in three locations tonight, and I can't be in three places at once." He smiled, and I was done for. "I think I can take care of two venues, but do you think you might be able to help me out?"
"Me? Uh, sure." What I knew about jazz you could put in a thimble and still have lots of room left over, but I said, "Whatever you need, Mr. Stockton. But…why me?"
"Jack," he said. "Yes, you because I always like being with, er, working with you, Miss Hamilton."
My face went warm, and I ducked my head so he wouldn't see my blush.
I was still uncomfortable calling the general manager by his first name, but I decided right then and there I should get used to it so that when I was in the throes of passion, I wouldn't call out, "Oh, yes, Mr. Stockton. Yes! Yes!" What I wound up saying was, "Whatever you need, Jack. And please, call me Mel."
* * *
It was lucky I had that extra day for the dragon tattoo built into my schedule. I'd need it, and maybe more, for the tasks Jack had assigned me. I was on the phone, clearing one more day of two sixty-something spinsters, identical twins, who'd asked for matching Gemini tattoos on their hips. The ten-percent discount I offered them was incentive for them to spend the extra day roaming the voodoo shops and cemeteries in NOLA.
I was just hanging up with them when the moving truck pulled in under the portico of The Mansion. Three burly men got out, opened up the back, and wheeled out the rattiest piano I think I'd ever seen. It was an old upright, the plaque above the keyboard said Story & Clark. Covered in cobwebs and dust, I was hard-pressed to recognize the wood but thought maybe it was a light oak.
When Jack told me Harry Villars had bought a piano specifically for the festival, I totally hadn't expected some old, beaten down, crappy thing. Everything else at The Mansion was top drawer. You'd think a man like Villars who came from one of New Orleans's founding families would be able to tell the difference between antiques and junk. Jack walked out onto the veranda and stopped beside me while the movers wheeled the piano in.
"That's it?" he said, his voice about half an octave higher than usual. He looked at me.
"You think that's the right one?" I asked.
He just shrugged. "Mr. Villars said he found it in the basement of an antique shop in the French Quarter. The owner of the shop said it was famous, something about some celebrity Dixieland keyboard man from back in the 1920s."
I squinted and looked at it as they wheeled it by. "You sure he said 1920s, not 1820s?"
I just shrugged. Maybe they'd drop the thing, and we could get a real piano in.
But they didn't.
They brought it into the Presto-Chang-o Room and up onto the stage. Amidst a cloud of dust, they rolled it off the dolly. It settled with a cacophony of banging, screeching, and discordant racket.
Jack signed a delivery receipt then we just stood there looking at the ugly thing until he said, "Well, guess we better get someone in here to clean that nasty thing up before the musicians get here to rehearse." He scratched his head. "And unless I miss my guess, we should probably call a piano tuner, too."
I couldn't find a single person from housekeeping available to work on the crud built up from the decades of abandonment, so I took a bucket of Murphy Oil Soap and water back to the Presto-Chang-o Room and went to work on the piano.
My knuckles were scraped and sore, and my back and arms were tired when the piano tuner arrived an hour and a half later, but I have to say the piano had cleaned up nicely. Underneath all that grime was a beautiful instrument.
The tuner got right down to it, striking the keys over and over until the sticky ones worked smoothly, the pedals released as they were supposed to, and it sounded much better. Even tuned up, the notes were still a bit hollow and tinny, but from what little bit I knew about Dixieland jazz, that sound was perfect for the music.
The band showed up around four that afternoon for rehearsal. There were six of them—a trumpet player, trombone, clarinet, stand-up bass man, drummer, and keyboard player—all were older guys wearing pristine, white, button-up shirts under red vests, and black bow ties. A couple of them even wore garters on their sleeves. These guys were the real deal.
The keyboard man went straight up to the piano and walked around it, a sour expression on his face. "What a hunk o' junk," he drawled and turned to the others who were busy setting up. "You all ever seen anything this old still in working order?"
The others all gathered around and admitted they hadn't, or at least didn't think they had.
"Well, now, that's a real shame, gentlemen." Harry Villars's mellow voice came from behind us.
We all turned around to see him lighting a smelly cigar over by the bar. "That wonderful old instrument was owned by none other than Booker Dixieland Jones."
"Oh, yes, sir," the piano man said, "I do believe
I heard about that."
Villars took a deep pull on the stogie. The tip glowed. He took it from his mouth and examined it, while he picked a bit of tobacco off his lower lip. "Yessir, they say ol' Dixieland Jones was the man when it came to N'awlins jazz. Nobody could hold a candle to him. Story goes, one night in 1926, the feds raided the speakeasy where Dixieland and his boys were playing. Ol' Dixieland ran out the back door and got himself mowed down by a street car." Villars shook his head sadly. "Terrible loss to the music industry, just terrible."
The piano player's attitude did a one-eighty. He smiled, went over to the piano, lifted the keyboard cover, and ran his fingers over the ivories. "Booker Jones, you say?"
Villars nodded, "The man at the antique store told me the whole story. And now they say the piano is—"
"Haunted by Dixieland himself," the piano man finished, sat on the bench, rolled up his sleeves, and flexed his fingers over the keyboard. "Legend says you play Booker's piano, you channel the jazzman himself. Let's see if it's haunted, after all."
He nodded to the others who picked up their instruments. The drummer counted it off, and the band broke out in a rollicking version of "Down by the Riverside."
Within just a minute or two, the Presto-Chang-o Room was full of staff and guests standing around listening and tapping their feet to the rolling two-four beat.
Jack walked in, smiling, took hold of my hand, and twirled me into an energetic swing dance. I just about swooned.
When they were done, the piano man turned around. But he wasn't smiling as he should have been. "You want me to play this relic," he said, "y'all are gonna hafta get her tuned."
Huh? Didn't the piano tuner just walk out the door not even twenty minutes ago?
I reached for my cell phone to call him back.
* * *
The tuner worked on the poor old thing—the piano, not the piano player—for another forty-five minutes before he declared it to be "tuneful once again." He left scratching his head, trying to figure out why it hadn't stayed tuned the first time.
The band had a chance to rehearse for about another hour before they left the stage to get ready for their "gig" at seven.
I made arrangements to stay at the resort for the next two nights so I could watch over the Ragtime Players's sessions in the Presto-Chang-o Room while Jack took care of the other bands booked at The Mansion.
The place was already standing room only, thanks to all the promotion they'd done for the festival. The band hit the stage right at seven. The first two songs were flawless, and everyone came alive at the high energy level. The players were total pros, and there really was nothing quite as rousing as good old ragtime music. I knew Jack had high hopes the festival would be a rip-roaring success and would help put the fledgling resort on the map.
It was just after the break between the first and second sets that it happened.
The song was "Tiger Rag." The slide trombone and clarinet were hot. The piano player, sporting a dapper bowler, was so into it, he got up on his feet, kicked the stool back, and played on the hoof. I say on the hoof because all the foot stomping in the room shook the stage so much the piano began to shimmy, then to downright shake, rattle, and, oh my God, roll—toward the front of the stage. It backed the piano man up a foot at a time, and it just kept coming, as if it were chasing him—on its own. Alarm spread over his face as he and the old upright moved farther and farther away from the wall, and closer and closer toward the edge of the stage. The crowd quit clapping and gasped. The other musicians stopped playing. The stage ceased bouncing. But that didn't phase the piano—it kept coming. The keyboard man stopped playing and, arms windmilling, teetered on the lip of the stage until the piano screeched and lurched at him one final time, and he tumbled backwards two and a half feet down onto the floor.
He landed with a loud thump. The bowler flew off and rolled across the room.
The only sound was the fading ring of the vibrating piano strings, then that stopped too.
You could have heard a pin drop.
The keyboard man just stared up at the instrument, a look of disbelief on his face. "What the…?" he breathed. "Oh man."
He jumped up and ran from the room and straight out the front door.
He never looked back.
I turned around and saw the other five guys staring after him. After a minute, they looked at each other and moved back into position. The drummer counted off, and they rolled into "Alexander's Ragtime Band."
Now, I don't want y'all to think I've lost it, but, pretty as you please, that crazy piano rolled itself back up against the wall—right where it started.
I shivered and thought about running out the door myself.
* * *
After the show wrapped, the trumpet player, sweet-faced with a bald, freckled dome, came over and sat beside me at a table where I'd slipped off my heels and sat rubbing the arch of my left foot with my right toes.
"Did you talk to your piano man?" I asked.
He nodded, holding up his cell phone.
When he said nothing, I pressed, "Is he coming back tomorrow night?"
He shook his head.
"Well, why not?"
He took a deep breath and said softly, "He sez that there old eighty-eight has a haint." His drawl was so thick I could barely understand him.
"Eighty-eight?"
"That old piano," he said. "Eighty-eight keys, ya see, chère?"
"It has a haint?" I knew what a haint was. My grandmother always swore her house was occupied by a nasty spirit who ran back and forth over the roof all night and kept her awake. What the keyboard man was basically saying was the 1920s piano Villars bought in town was, indeed, haunted. I could just see myself sitting down at straight-laced, New York born and bred Jack Stockton's desk and saying, "Oh, by the way, chère, there's a haint residin' in that old piano."
He wouldn't believe it. I was born in New Orleans, pretty much brought up by my grandmother while my mama worked. Grandmama was old school, a believer who took strong measures to keep ghouls, ghosties, and all unseen creepy things away. I'd even been an extra body when she needed one for this ritual or that one. Yes, I knew all about the supernatural, and I didn't want to believe in haunted pianos, so there was no way Jack Stockton would.
The trombone player cleared his throat and brought me to the problem at hand. Two more nights of the jazz festival, which meant ragtime performances in the Presto- Chang-o Room, and we were minus one piano player.
"I know a keyboard man," he said. "Not my first choice, but he played for us a time or two, and we could do worse."
"By all means," I said, "Let's see if we can get hold of him."
* * *
The next afternoon, the twins showed up at the tattoo parlor. They were lovely, fey-looking women with wild, grey hair with lavender tips, and flowing maxi dresses reminiscent of a Renaissance fair. The Gemini tattoo I'd designed for them was of ethereal twins whose hands, feet, and arched bodies formed a heart. The astrological symbol occupied the space within the heart. It didn't take all that long for me to complete the work. Nothing nearly as complicated as the dragon for Roderick Bukowski.
After the girls oohed and aahed and totally approved, I went back to my room, showered, and dressed.
Outside, nestled in the main courtyard between the auxiliary wing where my room was and the auxiliary kitchen wing, all the contracted vendors had set up shop. There were booths for T-shirts, ball caps, and Mardi Gras beads. Fortune-tellers and magicians from the resort. And food vendors. Or maybe I should say…fooood vendors.
The wafting aromas were making me salivate like crazy. I went out a side door and headed straight for the tent where Ruby's Famous Bourbon Chicken was dishing out the best bourbon chicken in the South, along with a side of beans and rice, and a biscuit smothered in honey butter. Next time y'all are in town, you need to head over to my old stomping grounds, the Holy Cross neighborhood, and sample a plate at Ruby's place. I'm so intimately familiar with th
e food there because, for as long as I've been on this earth, my beautiful mama has managed the place for Ruby. I grew up on that chicken. She'd bring it home with her in a paper sack at the end of the day, and Mama, Grandmama, and I would sit around the kitchen table, eat, talk about life, and lick our fingers.
Since I moved into my own place in the Quarter after art school, I missed those nights in Grandmama's kitchen. The tantalizing scent of the bourbon chicken drew me straight to the tent where I was surprised to find Jack Stockton and Ruby with their heads together over a plate piled high with the food so near and dear to my heart.
Ruby's deep voice carried across the tent, her trademark whistle from the wide gap between her two front teeth present as always. "And den Mel, she go and dip her finger in the sauce, and I hafta trow da whole ting out."
Jack laughed out loud and took another bite of chicken. OMG. Me. They were talking about me. My first inclination was to spin on my heel and leave before they saw me. But I wasn't quick enough and Ruby called out. "And here's dat girl now. Come here, girl, and sit yo'self down. I got a plate waiting for ya."
So, my dinner turned out to be an uncomfortable half hour with my boss, the delectable Cap'n Jack Stockton, who laughed nearly the whole time at Ruby's stories of my antics as a child.
Once, he reached over and patted my hand. It was a pretty good time after all.
* * *
Jack walked back to the main wing and the Presto-Chang-o Room with me. Five of the members of the Ragtime Players were already on stage. I didn't see a piano player, and that worried me some.
"Where's the new piano man?" Jack asked.
I shook my head. "I don't see him."
"Huh, can they go on without him?"
I didn't know, so I shrugged and headed for the stage, stopping at the edge, waiting for one of the musicians to turn around so I could ask.
"'Scuse me, sugah." The voice came from behind me, and I turned to a short (about my height), blue-eyed, blond son of the South. He was top-heavy with muscular arms and chest that weren't matched by his skinny legs.
Killer Beach Reads Page 79