"Uh," I took a minute, trying to come up with something diplomatic. "Sure."
"You know what they're saying, right? 'Bout that crazy gator that's been terrorizing the place?"
I had no idea what she was talking about. "Gator? No. I haven't heard. What are they saying?"
"I've only been here a couple of days, but I hear for the past week this gator's been running around here. They don't ever know where it will show up or when. A few of the resort staff have been assigned to try to corner the thing when it does make an appearance and hold it for the fish and game people. I saw it last night. It's a sight. And people are saying that the ornery critter's channeling Jean Lafitte himself."
Had the old girl lost it? "Really?" I asked.
"You bet."
I didn't want to encourage her, and we did have a tattoo to ink, so I just said, "Interesting." Then I put my hand on her shoulder, coaxing her back into the chair.
For her tattoo she'd chosen one of my favorite designs, a wood sprite in a scanty off-the-shoulder gown whose gossamer wings of purple, fuchsia, and pink were spread wide and graceful. For its location, her thigh. I knew that particular design backwards and forwards. It was one of my own copyrights and a favorite among my female customers.
The older lady, Ethel Sheridan, had pointed to it enthusiastically and cried out, "That's it. That's the one. Looks just like me in my twenties. I was a stripper, you know. And darn good at it too."
Stripper, eh? I made a mental note to take a second look at that particular design.
Throughout her appointment, Ethel had gone on and on about The Mansion at Mystic Isle and its unique place in the resort industry. "I'm a charter member and honorary national board member of Women in Search of Booty, and I plan on recommending this place for our annual international conference next year. And wow. Your salon is the bee's knees."
"Why thank you, Ethel."
Harry had given me a free hand in the design of the studio. I'd gone with a castle motif with flickering wall sconces, stonemasonry wallpaper, and red and gold drapery swags. Everyone seemed to love it.
A tough cookie, Ethel hadn't even needed a short break from the intensity of being inked, left me an incredibly generous tip when we finished, and promised she'd send her friends and "Booty" sisters my way if they needed a "real nice piece of body art."
I had a break around eleven. After hanging my Back at 1 o'clock sign on the door, I headed for the Presto-Change-o Room. It was Saturday, and the lunch special was a bowl of crawfish gumbo and a shrimp po' boy for $10.99—a quarter of that with my employee discount. Harry Villars, a Louisiana gentleman of the finest ilk and the resort's owner, was nothing if not generous with his employees. What he asked us to pay for food barely covered the cost of the ingredients, much less dishing it up and serving it. And he didn't have to give us a discount at all.
To get from the tattoo parlor to the Presto-Change-o Room, I had to cross the lobby. Back in the antebellum days when The Mansion was a cotton plantation, the lobby had been a graceful entry hall, a large circular room with a sweeping ornate staircase to the mini-suites and guest rooms on the second floor. I'd always loved the look of it, the rich wood on the walls, the beveled glass panel on the staircase landing. These days, those stairs were navigated by tourists in Bermuda shorts and flip-flops and their rowdy kids in tow, but once it had been elegant ladies in long gowns with voluminous ruffled skirts and men in waistcoats and trousers supported by suspenders.
The idea of a romantic tryst between Jean Lafitte, affectionately known in my hometown as the Pirate of New Orleans, and the beautiful mixed-race slave stirred my imagination. How it must have broken her heart when the dashing pirate left her to take advantage of his amnesty. I was especially sympathetic now that the beautiful morning with the hint of a Southern autumn in the air had brought with it a fly in the ointment—Sydney Baxter.
I was just wondering if I should do anything about the blonde showing up when it happened—something that made me thrust the cutesy little piece of fluff right out of mind.
My head was turned by a scream. I looked in that direction just in time to see a woman vault to the far side of the reception desk. Other shrieks, both men and women, followed as people scattered in several directions.
Survivalists say when you see people in a crowd turning to run, the smart thing to do is follow suit.
But I didn't move—couldn't. I could only stand glued to the spot, mesmerized at the sight of an alligator, at least eight feet long, scuttling in through the double front entry doors, its short gator legs carrying it across the lobby. It was moving fast. Something was clamped between its powerful jaws, but I couldn't make out what it was.
So this is the rascal Ethel told me about.
The funeral dirge the gator was too short to have activated now rang out, and I turned my head back to the front.
A ways behind the gator but losing ground, Lurch put in a valiant effort at pursuit, his tree trunk legs taking enormous strides. Over his resort costume, a formal three-piece suit fitting for a funeral director, he wore a heavy down jacket that made him look like a thinner version of the Michelin tire man, a football helmet, and over one hand an ice hockey goalie glove. In his ungloved hand he carried…
What is that?
I squinted—a collapsed umbrella from one of the tables by the pool. Huh.
Odeo, the sturdy head grounds keeper, similarly outfitted, loped along behind Lurch. Both arms were rolled in heavy quilted moving pads that had been taped to stay in place. His weapon of choice was an enormous pair of hedge shears.
Behind Lurch and Odeo, two of Odeo's groundsmen followed, more slowly and with much less enthusiasm—one carrying a rake, the other a shovel.
"There they go again." Cat had stepped up beside me. "The Gator Brigade."
If it hadn't been for the gator who was now terrifying the guests in its attempts to find an escape route, it would have been hysterical. The gator ran one way, opened its jaws, and dropped what I could now see was a straw tote bag on the floor then hissed at the scattering tourists in its path. Then it scooped up the bag and scooted another way only to be met by the Gator Brigade who chased it back toward the front desk in an effort to get it out the door.
But the gator didn't seem to have checking out in mind, and when it neared the open double doors, it turned yet again, heading back into the lobby. At one point Lurch managed to corner it using the now open patio umbrella as both shield and rapier.
The gator refused to surrender and lunged at the umbrella, sending Lurch and his backup team of Odeo and the two groundsmen backpedaling like crazy. The gator raised itself up as tall as its T. rex legs could and made a beeline for the front desk, circling around behind it, sending the desk clerk, Lucy, leaping onto the top of the counter.
Everything went suddenly quiet as Lurch, Odeo, and the two quaking groundsmen did their level best to sneak up on it.
The Gator Brigade came to a head-scratching, dumbfounded stop, and Odeo asked, "Well, where'd she go? She can't just up and disappear like that? Can she?" He looked up at Lurch who lifted his impossibly broad shoulders in confusion and moaned. Odeo shook his head. "Ain't right no gator be acting like that. Something wrong with it. Maybe it's a haint."
"A haint?" Cat was skeptical.
I shrugged. "Nothing a little haint blue paint wouldn't cure. My Grandmamma Ida would surely know what to do." Grandmamma Ida knew all about how to keep spirits at bay. "You think maybe this gator really is the pirate Jean Lafitte who's come back to find his letter of pardon?"
Cat's turn to shrug. "Well, if it is possessed, I guess Jean Lafitte's as good a spirit to be possessed by as any of 'em."
"But the gator's gone now." I looked at her. "Where'd it go?"
She grinned, shook her head, and spread her fingers. "Poof."
"Seriously?"
"This is what's been happening. The gator shows up on the grounds out back of the resort or runs around inside, creates a bit of chaos, and disap
pears into thin air. But it always comes back."
"What was it doing with that tote bag?"
"Well, a pirate's a pirate, after all—gather a little treasure here and there. It's what pirates do."
"Right," I said. "If that gator's the reincarnation of Jean Lafitte, then I'm Marie Laveau."
She laughed and took me by the hand. "Well, come on then, Marie, and use one of your voodoo spells to rustle us up some lunch."
CHAPTER FOUR
After lunch, Cat went back to the House of Cards for her afternoon appointments, and I headed back over to Dragons and Deities Tattoo Parlor, where I had a couple of hours working on a teenage boy who'd asked for the elaborate Hogwarts crest on his right back shoulder and then a newlywed couple who'd asked for the other's astrological sign and birthdate to be tattooed over their hearts.
It was after three o'clock when I met Cat back at the Presto-Change-o Room for a glass of wine and catching up on my trip and her life.
She was appalled at the way Jack's mother had behaved toward me and about as miffed as I was that Jack hadn't seemed to set her straight. "If I'd have ever thought anyone wouldn't stand for the woman he loves to be cold-shouldered, it'd be your Cap'n Jack. Always figured that Yankee boy to be as hot-blooded and passionate as any Southern man."
I sipped the Roux St. Louis, one of my favorites from Pontchartrain Vineyards, and tried to sort out my feelings while Cat went on about how Jack should have handled it, which had a lot of remarks about setting the "old girl straight." Having Cat waxing indignant about things surely was a comfort, and I appreciated it. But I wasn't sure her unflagging loyalty was what I really needed at that point. I'd heard Jack's side of things from him, how he'd supposedly taken his mother aside and asked her to be kinder and more considerate of me. Whether he'd done it or not hadn't seemed to make a difference in the standoffish attitude Mrs. Stockton presented, and that had made me wonder if he'd actually spoken to her. But I'd mellowed since yesterday, and I'd already halfway forgiven him for what I thought of as being wimpy about it. Although the thoughts of an unbiased individual at that point would probably have helped me really see Jack's point of view.
As if reading my mind, Cat said, "You kind of have to look at it from behind Jack's eyes too, though. I mean, she's his mother and all—you know, a certain amount of respect's involved. And nobody knows her better than he does. Maybe she's the kind you can't hit over the head with something. Maybe all you can do is plant the seed of suggestion then stand back and let her water it and nurture it until it blooms on its own."
She sat there looking at me, waiting for a response, which I gave in the form of a hug after finishing off my wine. "Wise beyond your years, Gabor. Wise beyond your years. I'm going to find him, hug him, tell him I love him, and make sure he knows I understand."
But all those good intentions went straight down the toilet when I walked back into the lobby and saw Jack and Sydney coming through the front doors to the accompaniment of the funeral dirge. They were laughing and looking very chummy. She stepped around in front of him, and when he stopped walking, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him square on the mouth.
I saw fifty shades of red, and without stopping to think about what I was doing, I marched over, took hold of her arm, and pulled her off him.
I couldn't say who was more startled, Jack or Sydney.
"It isn't how it looks, Mel," he said quickly, his face flush—from guilt, maybe?
"It better not be." I stood back, crossed my arms, and waited.
Sydney smirked and tossed her curly locks. "And how does it look?"
Instead of punching her in the face, which was what I wanted to do, I turned to Jack. "She needs to leave. You should tell her to leave. Now."
He looked upset, even confused (which I didn't understand). There was no response right away, but when it came, it couldn't have been worse. "I can't do that," he said, his voice so soft it was almost a whisper.
My movement backward was more stagger than step, as if I was the one who got punched in the face. "Can't? Or won't?"
"Mel." He reached for me, but I leaned away, out of his reach. "She's a paying guest."
My heart broke in two, but somehow I managed to bottle up the sob that rose from the deepest place in my soul. I wouldn't cry in front of Lurch and Lucy and the twenty or so guests in the lobby area, and I certainly wouldn't give either Jack or Sydney the satisfaction of crying in front of her.
I started to snap back at her, but my voice was gone, so I drew myself up to my full height—at least I was taller than the bitch—lifted my chin, and walked out.
I didn't even have to think twice about it. I had to leave Mystic Isle, at least for a while. I couldn't occupy the same space as Sydney Baxter. It would eventually wind up with assault charges being filed against me, and I felt Jack needed to handle this by himself. It wasn't up to me to hand out her orders to vacate the premises—and the man.
Marching straight out front, I flagged down one of Odeo's groundsmen on a golf cart—it was Ralph, one of the guys I'd seen on gator detail earlier. I breathed in and out a few times to let off some steam so as not to scare him away. "Y'at, Ralph? Got time to run me over to la petite maison?"
He was a lanky scarecrow of a guy with scraggly straw-colored hair sticking out from under a Pelicans cap. He smiled and nodded. "Sure thing, Miss Hamilton. Hop on."
La petite maison was at the end of a zigzag roadway a ways from the hotel building. Back in the 1700s, when the plantation had come to be, the smaller one-story red-brick version of the big house served as an office where the plantation owner went over his accounts and who knew what else. Now, centuries later, it had been elegantly remodeled into a Southern manor worthy of a gentleman like Harry Villars. He lived there with my gentle good friend and resort faux medium, Fabrizio Banini, affectionately known as the Great Fabrizio.
Ralph let me off in front of the house behind a big black limousine. Harry and Fabrizio stood by the rear of the limo as the driver unloaded luggage from the trunk.
Fabrizio came over to me as I stepped away from the golf cart. "Lovely timing, my dear." His British accent made him sound as wise and dignified as it always did, although there was a tinge of fatigue behind it. Fabrizio was fifty or so and probably not as spry as he'd once been. Striking and tall, still slender, with longish grey hair that he mostly wore pulled back in a low ponytail, Fabrizio was handsome in the distinguished way aging stage actors always seemed to be. He had a kind and tender heart he wore on his sleeve where it was easily bruised by even the slightest of bumps.
"I'm so sorry," I began. "You must be tired." I couldn't believe I'd forgotten Harry and Fabrizio had taken a week's sojourn to Key West at the same time Jack and I had made the fateful trip to Palm Beach. "I should give you two some time to get your feet under you before I come marching in."
He took hold of my hand. "Don't be silly, my dear. You're always welcome here. Harry feels the same way." He pulled me closer to the limo. "Don't you, Harry?"
"Don't I what?" Harry turned toward us, reaching out to clasp my free hand. "How are you, Miss Hamilton? So pleased to see you."
"And you," I said. "Did you enjoy Key West?"
He smiled and lolled his head to one side. "Why, yes, we did. Didn't we, Fabrizio? But it's surely so hectic there, running here, running there, trying to see all our friends and fulfill all our social obligations. It's just real nice to finally get home. And how was your trip with Mr. Stockton?"
I looked at my feet as emotion surged. Both Harry and Fabrizio picked up on how things were as if they were the real deal psychics Harry purported to employ at The Mansion.
"Oh no, my dear," Harry said.
"What happened?" Fabrizio trilled.
"I…I…" I didn't want to go into it, but knew I'd have to before I could state the reason for my visit.
"You come on in the house, dear, and let us fix you a lovely cup of chamomile tea," Harry said.
I shook my head.
"Of course she should."
"Ralph's waiting for me. He has work to do." I lifted the hand held by Fabrizio to indicate Ralph in the golf cart.
"Ralph, is it?" Harry began, and Ralph nodded. "You can wait here a while for Miss Hamilton. If there are any problems from Mr. Fournet about you shirking your duties as groundsman, you can refer him to me."
Ralph shrugged and nodded before shutting off the golf cart motor.
Harry and Fabrizio led me to the porch and up to the glossy red front door where we paused.
"I need to leave The Mansion," I said. "I have to get away from here—from things. If I clear my calendar, could I have a week off? Or even a few days? I just can't bear it." Oh my God, I thought, the Scarlett O'Hara is coming out in me. Oh, Rhett, wherever shall I go? Whatever shall I do?
But that was straight up in Harry's wheelhouse—Southern sympathy. His voice took on a soothing tone. "Come in, Miss Hamilton. You can tell us all about it once we're inside. This sounds as if it might be a matter of the heart, and those things are best discussed behind a closed door where there aren't any big ears to pick up on things."
I looked behind me to see Ralph rubbing his earlobes, a puzzled look on his face. I almost laughed. I did smile. Harry Villars nearly always had that effect on me.
He took his key from the pocket of his lime green rayon slacks and fit it into the keyhole. It turned freely, and he said, "Well, now that's peculiar. The door's open."
Fabrizio said, "That is rather strange, Harry. I distinctly remember having watched you lock it prior to our leaving."
Harry took hold of the handle and pressed down on the latch. He pushed, and the door swung open.
All three of us stepped back and covered our faces.
Mystic Mischief Page 2