I didn't say it out loud, but it struck me that he'd taken this terrible thing that happened to Mrs. Elway and somehow made it about him.
"You know, my dear, that bonus money was earmarked for a good cause. A very good cause. I think I know you, in particular, have a weakness for good causes."
"Good cause?"
"Harry has a balloon payment coming up on the property remodel. I was going to give the money to him."
Harry and Fabrizio were the sweetest couple I knew. So caring, so considerate, not to mention generous. "Maybe you should speak to the stepdaughter. She might honor Cecile's promise. She even seemed more keen to hear from Mr. Elway than his wife."
He seemed to perk up a little at that and reached down to pat my wet head. "Brilliant, my dear." He beamed, seeming to feel better about things. "Absolutely brilliant. I'll seek her out this very minute." He stood. "You should continue with your laps."
"Nah, I'm done," I said. "I lost count."
He walked away, tossing back over his shoulder, "Thirty. I counted thirty."
* * *
An evening mist settled over the lake. Somewhere on the far bank a gator splashed into the water, looking for dinner. The cricket song was swinging into full chorus. My own was waiting for me in the kitchen where all us employees would gather in the staff dining room. On Mondays, Valentine prepared either sausage-and-okra gumbo or red beans and rice. For dessert, melt-in-your-mouth bread pudding with bourbon sauce. I was excited about a hot meal. It was a rare occasion I wound up at the resort at suppertime. Cat and Mel's place tended to serve items that came out of the freezer in a box or out of the pantry in a can. I was honestly hoping Chef went with the beans and rice tonight. It was a chore picking the okra from the gumbo—nasty stuff. I didn't care how healthy it was, I just plain old didn't like it.
I stood there a few minutes longer trying to figure out a way I could cozy up to Cap'n Jack without either of us getting in trouble with Harry Villars, the owner. An appropriate solution didn't pop into my head right away, and my stomach was starting to growl.
I turned from where I stood at the end of the wooden dock and started back for the main building and Valentine's hot dinner. An SUV from the Jefferson Parish Sheriff's Office sat in the circular driveway under the portico.
Quincy. He wouldn't be there if he didn't have something new. I started to jog. God forbid I should miss even the smallest bit of news.
Just as I approached the front, two deputies, one Quincy, one I didn't recognize, came out the double-wide doors with Fabrizio walking between them. His hands were cuffed behind him. The face he made when he saw me was tragic at the very least, suffering and full of shame at the very most.
What in blue blazes was going on?
Quincy stopped beside me as the other deputy moved toward the SUV with Fabrizio in tow.
"What's going on, Quincy?" I looked from Quincy to Fabrizio. "Fabrizio? Why are you—"
Quincy took hold of my arm and turned me to face him. "So sorry, chère. I know he a friend of yours."
"But what? Why?" I was dumbstruck.
"Dat Terrence fella say he's the victim's main squeeze, say the lady brought some big money down here to the swamps, say I should check it out."
"So…?"
"I did. No big money in the lady's room."
I didn't understand what that had to do with taking my friend away in cuffs. "So it wasn't in her room. Maybe she had them put it in the hotel safe."
He shrugged and looked truly unhappy about all this. "No, girl, not there either. But den I check out Fabrizio's room, and I was damn sad to find big money hiding there."
"What?" I couldn't believe it. Hadn't my friend just told me he wasn't going to get that hundred thousand she promised him? What changed? "Fabrizio had the money?"
Quincy shrugged. "Some of it anyway. Ten thousand in nice, crisp, bee-u-tiful hundred-dollar bills. Now, I ask you, how you think he come by that money?"
The last vestiges of dusk left the sky, and the mood lighting came on. Fabrizio didn't have ten thousand dollars to his name, much less in cash kept in his room. It didn't make any sense.
"You're taking him away because…"
"Because we thinking he take dat big money."
"You think he stole from Mrs. Elway?" I shook my head. If I didn't believe it, how could Quincy?
I turned my head away and noticed Jack standing to one side of the open doors. How long had he been there? Did he believe Fabrizio stole the money?
"Dat I do," Quincy said with a big sigh. "It's a right shame, it is. We just hoping he didn't kill her, too, while he at it."
CHAPTER FIVE
"Damn that Quincy!"
Cat got that hurt look on her face I knew so well. "Why would you say that? Poor thing, he just can't help it, Mel. He has to do those mean things. It's his job."
My hands seemed to have a mind of their own. They kept waving at her. "Cat! He took Fabrizio! To jail! Our Fabrizio!"
She put her arm around my shoulders and leaned her head against mine. I loved that about her. The resort might have hired her to read tarot cards, but in my opinion, she was more empath than anything else, always in tune to what others felt.
We had caught the ferry back across the river, and then because it was early enough that the streets were still busy with tourists, shoppers, and diners, we walked the few blocks to our place.
Cat and I split the outrageous rent in a two-bedroom apartment, an old two-story brick building facing Dumaine Street. You wouldn't ever think our apartment was cute just looking at the plain face, but it opened onto a beautiful little paved courtyard that said old New Orleans with a French accent—ooh-la-la.
The green shutters, wrought iron patio benches, and potted palms said, "Bienvenue, mademoiselle."
Before we even put our bags down by the double French doors, our beautiful Satchmo, one of a very special litter of kittens whelped at The Mansion, came running from my bedroom and curled around my leg. I reached down to scratch him behind the ears.
Cat carried her bag into her bedroom. "Hot shower first then I'll take care of the dishes we left in the sink Saturday morning."
"Good." They were her dishes anyway. Cat ate breakfast at home while I'd gotten my sugar fix at Café du Monde that morning.
I snagged an apple out of the bowl on the counter and wandered back into the living room, where my half-finished painting of our lovely little courtyard sat alone and neglected on its easel, awaiting my further TLC. I had the feeling it would be a while before I could get back to it.
I took care of the litter box and gave Satchmo fresh food and water. Like any good neighbor, Beauregard was always kind enough to help us out with Satchmo when we drew overtime or took a weekender to the Gulf Coast casinos. Cat and I, in turn, helped him handle his laundry, which always seemed to be just a bit beyond him. He would have pink socks and underwear if left to his own devices. I often suspected he did it on purpose just so we'd feel sorry for him and give him a hand. Typical Southern man.
Thoughts about the terrible thing that happened at The Mansion and about poor Fabrizio sitting in a cell in the Jefferson Parish jail had been racing through my mind at Mach three. I heard the shower running, saw that the door wasn't closed all the way, and went into the bathroom. The curtain was drawn, and Cat was already splashing away, singing some Zydeco song Quincy had taught her.
I closed the lid then sat on the toilet. "Cat?"
She didn't stop singing.
I said it again, louder. "Cat?"
She grabbed the edge of the curtain and poked her head out. "Hey," she said. "What?"
It took nearly fifteen minutes to convince her Fabrizio needed our help in beating this bad rap and that we needed to go back to Mystic Isle, dig around, and see if we could find anything. I truly believe the only reason she finally agreed was that she was turning into a prune.
We took Satchmo and his traveling gear over to Beauregard next door.
He pulled a late shift
and was just getting ready to go to work. Beauregard was one of the most colorful bartenders on Bourbon Street. His finesse with a bottle and a shaker was legendary.
He agreed to watch Satchmo for as long as we needed, which left us girls free to undertake our recon mission.
* * *
It was pouring rain as George took us back across on the ferry, so Cat and I sat together in the middle under the canopy. The rain let up and stopped within minutes of docking on the opposite bank. Cat talked George into letting us use his car, parked in the employee lot at the ferry dock, to drive to the resort.
His car turned out to be a shabby army-green Volvo station wagon, circa 1975 or so. In the hazy glow of pole lights, the thing looked like a big old toad squatting in the middle of the parking lot.
He handed the key to Cat like it was a frickin' Bentley, for crying out loud. "Your carriage, Princess Catalina."
Sheese.
Inside, the car was every bit as wrecked as one would expect from a vehicle of that ancient age. The seats were worn so thin in spots the foam stuck up. A blanket was draped over the backseat. Cat and I looked at each other. It wasn't necessary to say neither of us was interested in what lay beneath that dusty old thing.
So as not to seem like we didn't appreciate the use of the vehicle, we both hugged George before getting in, starting it up—sort of—and driving away. The poor old thing coughed and choked like a three-pack-a-day smoker. But we were up and mobile and making our way along the unlit bayou back road that wound its way to Mystic Isle.
At least we were for a while.
After about twenty minutes, or maybe three-quarters of the way there, the ancient Swede burped, wheezed, and stopped dead.
Cat tried her best to get the engine to do something, but even her most persuasive sweet talk and gentle stroking were to no avail. The car was dead or, at the very least, comatose. The Mansion at Mystic Isle was still at least five miles away by way of pavement, but if we cut across, we could shave four miles off that distance.
Whining like spoiled ten-year-olds, we locked up George's albatross, left it on the side of the road, and set out on foot. Thank God we were in our comfortable shoes.
The bayou at night is about as hospitable as a cemetery on Halloween. And that particular night, with a light wind rustling the trees and bushes and clouds blacking out the moon, the woods around Mystic Isle were probably even worse than that—at least according to Cat.
"You know what they say 'bout the bayou at night?"
"Yes," I said, sighing. "You've told me." At least a dozen times. New Orleanians can be a superstitious lot, Cat way more than I. "That's just a boogeyman story people tell their kids to scare them into being good."
"Uh-huh. It's Rougarou."
"Right." I was out of breath. Slogging through the swamp was tiring. "Didn't you tell me you saw it one time?"
"Not me," she said, her voice quivering. "Quincy."
That explains it.
"He told me he saw that big ol' thing one night under the full moon. Quincy said the Rougarou was eating a chicken."
I glanced sideways at her, but in the dark I couldn't tell if she was kidding or not. "Chicken?"
"That's what he said."
"Did he say it was Southern-fried, fricasseed, or roasted?"
"Mel," she whispered, "don't make fun. It's bad juju."
It was the one thing about Cat that made me a little bit crazy. She knew every creepy story about every creepy thing ever said about Louisiana. And believe me, there were plenty of them. She and Grandmama Ida could (and did) sit up all night sometimes talking about ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggedy beasties, and things that go bump in the night.
I didn't buy into all that spooky talk—much. But it was pretty dark out there, and who knew what all those weird noises were? I took pity on Cat and pulled out my cell phone and switched on the flashlight just for her benefit though, just so she wouldn't be so scared.
And it seemed to work for a while. She quit talking about the Rougarou and walked boldly along beside me—until the battery gave it up, and we were out in the middle of friggin' nowhere in pitch dark, listening to the sounds of the wind rustling the cypress trees and water slapping against their trunks.
Things croaked and squawked. I'd be lying if I said that after a while it didn't get to me too. We clutched each other and crept along through the wetlands barely able to see each other, much less anything beyond that.
The operative words were creeped out, and it didn't help when something grunted nearby, then hissed, then growled, and Cat shrieked, "Ohmigod, what is that?"
Suddenly it was scary as hell, the air humid and thick, mist floating around our feet, the soft ground sucking at our shoes, while tendrils of the trees grazed our skin like the trailing fingers of witches sizing us up like Hansel and Gretel for a late-night snack.
"Oh, and what was that?" Cat whirled, nearly knocking me down in her panic.
I'd heard it too. "I don't know." I squinted into the darkness.
"Let's go," she said, turning back around.
We picked up our pace, walking faster, trying not to step off solid ground into a bog that might swallow us up to the waist.
A banshee-like wail pushed the two of us closer together. My breathing was as hard and fast as hers.
Whatever we'd sensed behind us was still there, coming, and keeping up. And then whatever it was seemed to multiply. The rustling and sounds of movement expanded, like stereo, spreading from behind us to all around.
"How big did Q say that Rougarou was?"
Without another word, we began to shuffle along even faster. The sounds were closer, the scurrying of some ungodly, nameless thing pursuing us through the dark, around the fallen trees and dangerous holes.
Slugging it out through the mud now, we moved faster, at a run. I was near to crying, and thought I heard a sob from Cat too.
And then she wasn't beside me anymore.
I stopped, frozen to the spot like a statue. "Cat? Where are you?"
"Uh," she groaned. "Down here."
"Oh, lordy." I bent down and helped her to her feet. "What happened?"
"It was that gol'danged big tree root." She tried to kick it but shrieked instead and went down again.
In the dark, I couldn't see anything except her outline. Her hands moved to her ankle. "Damn it, Mel. I don't think I can walk."
"Really?" I looked around frantically, like that would help. "I guess I could go for—"
"Don't you even think about leaving me, missy. Here. Give me a hand."
With my pulling and her pushing, we managed to get her on her feet just as more rustling from the bushes posed a new threat.
"Oh, man." I whimpered.
The clouds parted, and I could see her face now, the whites of her eyes huge and luminous. I was pretty sure mine were just as big.
Something behind seemed to lunge at us from the darkness.
"Oh, crap!" I screamed.
Up ahead, we could see the lights from The Mansion peeking through the trees. We were close. Could we make it before whatever was after us caught up?
"Rougarous are partial to chicken, right?" An illustrated image of the big, ugly man-beast thing popped into my mind. What I seemed to remember most about the Rougarou were its big teeth and razor-sharp talons.
Leaning heavily on me, she began to hobble alongside. We weren't moving very fast, and it certainly wasn't easy going—but at least we were putting up a good fight. No way in hell I was going to be eaten by that swamp monster. Winding up as some creature's hot lunch wasn't how I pictured ending my days.
My heart screamed in my chest. Terror clawed at my throat. Whatever it was closed in.
Then bam!
I ran straight into something, tall and warm and hard.
It moved. I screamed. Cat struck out.
"Ouch!"
Huh?
"Melanie? Is that you? Miss Gabor?"
Oh, thank God.
My voice s
hook. "Cap'n Jack?"
There was no immediate reply, then, "Uh, yeah. I guess."
It hit me then. In my panic, I'd just called my boss by my pet name for him. How the hell was I going to explain that?
* * *
Turned out it was a pack of those ugly twenty-pound swamp rats curious about the two of us girls wandering around in the bayou—not the Rougarou. If we'd just turned around and yelled at them, they probably would have scattered like cue balls on the first break. But no, we decided to run like sissies. How embarrassing.
Not to mention we'd made so much racket, the resort's general manager had to come out to see what all the racket was about.
As a reward for his concern, my best friend hit him in the nose.
And then to top it all off, the pièce de résistance, I called him, dear Lord say it isn't so, Cap'n Jack. The fact that it had started to rain again seemed irrelevant in the face of such disaster as that.
CHAPTER SIX
It was after midnight, officially Tuesday morning, by the time I iced Cat's sprained ankle and found an Ace bandage to wrap it. We'd headed straight for one of the housekeeping lounges because there was easy access to the hallway ice machines. I finally located one that wasn't on the blink and filled up a plastic pail that Cat put her sore foot in for about fifteen minutes.
I was in the process of wrapping it for her when Jack showed up with an elegant mahogany cane. "Mr. Villars left it in my office the other day," he explained.
That made sense. Harry Villars was such a clotheshorse, everything, even down to the cane, was an accessory to him. Harry always seemed to be dressed to the nines in three-piece suits, both summer and winter, patterned real bow ties, pastel leather moccasins, and a straw Panama hat. He usually made sure the hatband matched the bow tie and pocket square. He wouldn't consider himself fully dressed without the cane to help his strut, and I was surprised he hadn't returned right away for it. Then again, he probably had twenty or thirty more in his closet at la petite maison.
Cat took the cane gingerly. "Thank you. I'll be exceptionally careful with it, and if I'm not much better tomorrow, I'll find some crutches so you can return this to him."
Mystic Mayhem Page 5
