First, she tossed Jack a small burlap bag with a drawstring, then the blueberries. "Here ya go, handsome. Toss a few o' these here into this gris-gris bag."
Jack turned his head toward me with an expression that said, "I can't believe I'm doing this."
While he opened the burlap bag and put a few blueberries in it, Mambo took a small silver flask from the bag, unscrewed the lid, and glugged down a few swallows. "No worries, people, just a little cream sherry to take off dat edge, ya know?"
She turned on the boom box and a bouncing drum rhythm filled the room. Kind of made me want to boogie down, but I did my best to restrain myself. When I looked around, Desi and the ragtime players were groovin', and even Jack was tapping his foot to the beat.
Mambo lined up a half-dozen jars filled with powders and what looked like moss around the piano, lit a few candles and put them around it, too. She opened the vial of lilac oil. Its dense scent filled the air as she wiped it across the sides and top of the Story & Clark.
One hand reached down to Jack. She snapped her fingers, and he handed her the gris-gris bag, which she took and tucked into her bosom, grinning lasciviously at my Cap'n Jack who turned a glorious shade of red. "Don't you be eating the rest of my blueberries now, handsome," she cackled.
She turned up the music, lifted the dead bird hat off her head, and began to shake it (and her hips) at the piano.
"Oh, Baron Samedi." She threw back her head and moaned. "Come to us and watch over what we do here. Help this mixed-up spirit in dis pie-ano know he confused and need to leave." And then she began to chant dance in rhythm to the hypnotic beat of the drums. I think it was Creole. At least that's what it sounded like. I don't speak Creole, so I couldn't tell you what she chanted, but to me it sounded something like. "Jambalaya, pumpkin pie, ba-da, ba-la, oh Charlie boy, kiss my booty." Probably not.
This went on for about a half hour with Mambo dancing, shaking the feathers on the chicken hat, chanting, and every once in a while stopping to take a long swig from the flask.
She'd worked up quite a sweat and stopped at one point to lean one arm on the top of the piano while she sagged against it.
"So," Jack said, yawning, "Is that it? Is it decontaminated, or exterminated, or whatever?"
I shrugged. This was my first voodoo ritual. You could say I was a voodoo virgin, but from what I'd heard about some of the things they used in their spells, you know, eye of newt, bones of chicken, blood of virgins…well, let's just say, I wasn't going to mention the V word around Mambo just in case she got any ideas.
"What was that?" I asked, as our heads all turned to look at the piano.
It was at that instant, Mambo screamed and threw up her arms. At the sudden movement, the piano slid out from under her, and the chicken thing on her head fluttered off as she landed on her butt shrieking an oath I won't be repeating here. The entire stage shook. Heck, the whole Mansion shook.
Jack leapt onto the stage and hauled her to her feet.
Mambo's eyes were huge, with the whites showing all the way around. She seemed to be trying to tell us something. Her lips were moving, but the sounds coming out weren't exactly intelligible.
The piano rolled to a stop just a couple of feet away. It looked harmless enough, but I have to say I was beginning to wonder if maybe old Booker Dixieland Jones wasn't torqued off about us using his precious Story & Clark out here in the bayou.
Jack led Mambo to one of the tables, pulled out a chair for her, went to the bar, filled a glass with ice and club soda, and brought it back to her. She took a good long drink from it, then opened her flask and filled it up again.
She looked up at him and offered the flask.
He waved her off. "Thanks, no. I'm working."
"Yeah, boy," she said. "Me too."
When she seemed calmer, Jack asked, "What happened up there?"
"It was a haint. I heard it crying when I drove it out." She clapped her hands together one time, then brushed them against each other before lifting splayed fingers. "She's done, boss man. That haint's made like Elvis and left the building."
"Well," I said. "Good to know."
Jack just looked at me.
* * *
But it looked like Mambo might have been right after all.
The first two sets were smooth as satin and twice as fun. Desi fit in with the Ragtime Players like a size seven foot in a size seven shoe. The crowd loved it—laughing and clapping and singing along.
They took their last break along about nine o'clock, and when they came back some fifteen or twenty minutes later, Jack had joined me at my table, and we were both looking to finally putting this haint thing to bed.
Or not.
"When the Saints Go Marching In" was in the third chorus when I noticed Desi was starting to act a little weird, well, weirder than usual. He kept leaning over and putting the side of his head up against the front board panel. After a minute or so, he'd stop and sit back.
A couple of times he stopped playing altogether to reach down and jiggle one of the pedals before putting his hands back on the keys.
I thought maybe one of the pedals was sticking and messing him up.
But, no, nothing quite that mundane.
The song ended and without a word of warning, Desi jumped up off the bench and pulled the piano out from the wall. He stepped behind it until all we could see of him were his head and shoulders, then he grinned and disappeared altogether.
Jack and I looked at each other.
"Now what?"
The exasperation in his voice echoed my own as I said, "Oh man, not again."
We sat and waited a couple of minutes.
No Desi.
I was beginning to wonder if the haint was back, like maybe it ate Desi. I hoped not. We'd have a hard time explaining that to OSHA.
He stood, held out his hand. "Shall we?"
I sighed and stood.
By the time we went up the stairs to the stage, the rest of the band had crowded around the piano.
I thought I could hear a soft, high-pitched sound like squeaky brakes.
As we drew closer, the bass man and the drummer backed away and let us through. We went around to the back of the piano.
About eight or ten inches from the top was a ragged hole in the wood. Desi crouched between the piano and the wall. He was in his shirtsleeves, one arm up to the shoulder inside the piano.
"Desi?" I said. "What is it?"
The sweet-faced trumpet player held Desi's jacket stretched across his arms.
Nestled within the confines of the jacket was one tiny, mewling kitten. It was blacker than coal.
Desi leaned out away from the back of Booker's beloved piano, pulling his arm from the hole. By the scruff of the neck he held another kitten, this one even blacker than the first, if that was even possible.
Two more followed suit, landing beside their siblings in Desi's jacket. The trumpet player bundled them together and backed away from the piano.
A collective "Ahhhh" issued from the audience when they saw the kitties.
Desi stood up suddenly and stepped away from the piano as a sleek adult female jumped up on top of the piano. Her head swiveled. She cried pitifully until the kittens took up the chorus and responded.
"Well, whaddya know," Jack said, smiling down on the little family. "So that's what a haint looks like."
Jack and the trumpet player led a procession that looked like a second line celebration across the Presto-Chang-o Room to housekeeping where I heard he "signed off" on a wicker laundry basket and a couple of big, fluffy towels.
The first sanctuary that came to my mind was St. Antoine's, and I called Father Brian who said yes this time to taking in the refugees from Booker's piano. Desi offered to take them all back into town with him.
Jack stood under the front portico with me, and we watched The Mansion shuttle bus carry Desi, the Ragtime Players, a few other musicians and workers, and the haints (all five of them) back to the river ferry to cross o
ver into New Orleans.
Jack turned to me. The overhead lights shone down on his dark hair, the auburn highlights shimmering. His eyes were shadowed. At the end of the long day, his jaw was scruffy. Hubba hubba.
He glanced at his watch. "Midnight," he said. "The First Annual Summer Jazz Festival at The Mansion on Mystic Isle is over and done."
I nodded. "Looks that way."
"And all in all," he went on, "it was a resounding success."
"Congratulations."
"Thanks," he said. There was warmth in his eyes, I hoped because of me, not because of the summer night air and brutal humidity. "We couldn't have pulled it off without you."
He laid his hand on my bare shoulder—his hand warm, his touch light. He moved one finger across my skin. I trembled, and he seemed to realize what he was doing. He let his hand drop to his side. Our eyes locked. Strong emotion shone in his eyes, and I knew mine reflected it back. I wanted to tell him how I felt, that I wanted to be alone with him, to know him, to learn everything about him. But the words wouldn't come. I wasn't sure I could ever say those words, not after the reason he was fired from his last position. I couldn't risk jeopardizing his job.
But maybe he was willing to risk it.
"Mel," he began, "I wish we—"
"Boss man! Melanie! Get yo'selves back inside 'til I make sure all the bad juju is gone from dis place." Talk about a mood breaker. Bad juju, Mambo? Really? "Got to check 'er out one mo' time. Can't take no chances. Haints been known to hide out in dem black cats, ya know."
We looked at each other a long beat before both of us smiled, then laughed a little.
He loosened the knot in his tie and unbuttoned his collar before taking hold of my hand. "I guess we better do as she says. If there's one thing we don't want to fool with, it's bad juju."
I dug deep for my best Cajun accent. "Dontcha know it, cher."
But I was sad I might never know what it was he wished we could do.
* * *
Dearest Reader,
In case your mouth was watering when Melanie and Jack sampled Ruby's chicken, here's how to begin, then make it your own.
Ruby's Famous Bourbon Chicken
Ingredients
Original recipe makes 4 servings
4 skinless, boneless chicken breast halves
1 teaspoon ground ginger
4 ounces soy sauce
2 tablespoons dried minced onion
½ cup packed brown sugar
⅜ cup bourbon
½ teaspoon garlic powder
Directions
Place chicken breasts in a 9x13 inch baking dish. In a small bowl combine the ginger, soy sauce, onion flakes, sugar, bourbon, and garlic powder.
Mix together and pour over chicken. Cover dish and place in refrigerator.
Marinate overnight.
Preheat oven to 325 degrees F (165 degrees C).
Remove dish from refrigerator and remove cover. Bake in the preheated oven, basting frequently, for 1 hour (until meat registers 165 F), chicken is well browned, and juices run clear. Serve over rice or dirty rice (If you're from New Orleans, the dirtier, the better.) Enjoy.
* * * * *
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Sally J. Smith and Jean Steffens, are partners in crime—crime writing, that is. They live in Scottsdale, Arizona, awesome for eight months out of the year, an inferno the other four. They write bloody murder, flirty romance, and wicked humor all in one package. When their heads aren't together over a manuscript, you'll probably find them at a movie or play, a hockey game or the mall, or at one of the hundreds of places to find a great meal in the Valley of the Sun.
To learn more about Sally & Jean, visit them online at:
http://www.smithandsteffens.com/
BOOKS BY SALLY & JEAN
Mystic Isle Mysteries
Mystic Mayhem
Jordan Welsh & Eddie Marino Novels
Stealing the Moon & Stars
Stealing the Golden Dream
BLONDES' NIGHT OUT
(Barb Jackson Mysteries)
by
Anna Snow
* * * * *
CHAPTER ONE
Anyone who knew me knew that clubbing wasn't really my thing, but after the busy week I'd had, a girls' night out didn't sound so bad.
Working as a private investigator could leave a girl feeling a bit worn-out. One would think that tailing cheating spouses wouldn't be that much work, but one would be wrong.
As the owner and operator of Jackson Investigations I was always on my toes, looking for the next big case.
"Here we are, girls!" Kelly beamed a megawatt smile at me as she hopped out of the car. She'd been trying to get me to join her and Mandy for a girls' night out for quite some time now. But I'm a workaholic. At the end of the day all I wanted to do was curl up with my cat, Mickey, and a tub of Ben & Jerry's Chunky Monkey ice cream.
Kelly tossed her car keys to a grinning, wide-eyed valet.
I couldn't blame him for his gaping reaction to her appearance. Kelly's red dress was low in the front and so short that it bordered on being illegal.
I was dressed like a nun in comparison.
If I'd had my way, I would've tossed on a pair of jeans, Converse, and a cute T-shirt, but Mandy and Kelly refused to leave the house unless I dressed up a little, so I opted for a pair of black palazzo pants, a navy off-the-shoulder top, and a pair of lacy flats.
It wasn't that I didn't like to dress up, it was simply that I liked to be comfortable, and whom was I trying to impress, really? I wasn't exactly on the hunt for a man since I'd started seeing hunky detective Tyler Black. We'd met a little more than a month ago when we'd worked together to catch a killer. Okay, we hadn't actually worked the case together, but we had met while working the same case, and that was kind of the same thing, wasn't it?
Tyler was tall, dark, and hot. And I may or may not have it bad for him.
I opened the passenger side door of Kelly's little blue Fiat, stepped out onto the crowded sidewalk, and peered up at the redbrick building. I was a bit surprised by the throng of people lined up on the sidewalk. I'd known the place was popular, but I hadn't thought the line would extend around the block.
Kelly had been my closest friend as far back as I could remember. She was a little wild and crazy, but she was as loyal as they come. When I opened Jackson Investigations, she was more than happy to step in as my assistant, and I couldn't run the office without her. Kelly had told me that Club O'Shea was known as the place to be if you were looking for delicious food, live music, and a good time. She swore that it was the only choice for a girls' night out.
Beer, day-old pizza, and Netflix was more my speed, but I had to admit, as I continued to stare up at the building, that Club O'Shea looked as if it could be fun… maybe.
I pulled my top away from my lower back where it had latched on to me when I'd begun to sweat.
Even late in the evening it was muggier than usual for late October. Most of the women in line looked as if they were close to having their immaculately applied makeup melt right off their faces. I was immediately glad that I'd opted to only wear mascara, lip gloss, and a little highlighter.
I grimaced at the glowing blue neon sign that sat sprawled across the side of the building and above the door. I kind of thought that an upscale club would have something classier than neon lights flashing, but what did I know? I wasn't exactly a nightclub connoisseur, now was I? Perhaps neon was still hip. Did people still say "hip"?
A night helping my eighty year old neighbor, Mrs. Grady, complete her crossword puzzle in exchange for a tamale casserole constituted a good time for me, and when I caught some greasy car salesman look-alike leering at me, I starting longing for Mrs. Grady's company.
"This place is packed," Mandy said as she exited the car and came to stand beside me on the crowded sidewalk.
Packed was a huge understatement.
Mandy looked just as put together as always in a silky, cantaloupe-co
lored, spaghetti-strap drape top, a short black skirt, and a pair of matching black heels.
I'd hired Mandy as a receptionist when I'd first opened the office and the three of us had been nearly inseparable ever since. She was loyal, knew how I liked my coffee, and kept me from letting Kelly talk me into any harebrained schemes. She was also a top-notch hacker, thanks to her older brother, who just so happened to be serving five to ten for hacking the wrong peoples' files. She was, in a nutshell, amazing.
"It's a good thing Kelly got us a reservation," she said.
"You can reserve a table in these places?" I asked as I tossed my purse strap over my shoulder. Again, I'm totally not a nightclub chick.
Kelly joined us on the sidewalk and nodded. "Absolutely. I called a couple of days ago and reserved a table. The dancing and dining area are two separate spaces. We go upstairs onto the balcony to eat and have drinks. The dancing and real partying goes on downstairs on the main floor."
"Makes sense I suppose." I shrugged.
"Now come on. I'm about to melt," Kelly said as she grabbed my hand and practically dragged me along behind her.
A round of groans, moans, and some obscenities flew in our direction as we passed what seemed like a mile-long line of miniskirts and teased hair to reach the line reserved for those of us with a reservation.
There were about a dozen groups and couples ahead of us in line. Kelly prattled on about her on-again, off-again boyfriend Mark, while Mandy nodded her agreement. I couldn't tell you what was actually being said. The investigator in me wouldn't seem to shut off, and I found myself scanning the crowd.
Nothing unusual caught my eye, but I couldn't shake the feeling that we were being watched. I gave the crowd another slow, easy scan, but all that met my eyes was the ever-expanding line of patrons waiting their turn to be let into the club.
Killer Beach Reads Page 81