After I scarfed down the po'boy—and by the way, if you ever stop over at The Mansion at Mystic Isle, I highly recommend you give one a try. It's the kind of food that makes you want to stand up in church and testify—we headed out to the tennis courts where Jack said Terrence Montague, the tagalong friend of the victim, had an appointment with the resort tennis pro.
It had rained all the previous night and well into midday, but it looked as if the weather gods had taken pity on Terrence and cleared things up just in time for his tennis lesson. From my perspective, the gods would have been kinder to conjure up a thunderstorm and keep him off the court.
We stood and watched the fiasco for about fifteen or twenty minutes. While Terrence looked sleek in his white shorts and polo, he got around the court like a hippopotamus. He even tripped on his own shoelace once. When he held up his hands and his racquet in surrender, by my clock he still had ten minutes left on his lesson.
Panting like a sixteen-year-old with a pinup of Jennifer Aniston, he bent and placed his hands on his thighs, sucking in deep breaths. "Ah, my dear." He straightened and smiled at our gorgeous blonde two-time French Open–winner tennis pro, a big draw for the resort. "In my opinion the best strategy is to regroup and live to fight another day. It would seem tennis isn't my game." He wiped the sweat from his brow so dramatically, I truly believed it was something he might have practiced in front of a mirror.
Jack and I approached him. He looked up at us in question as he gathered his jacket and bag and prepared to leave the court. "Mr. Stockton," he said pleasantly. There was a hint of the Northeast in his accent, Connecticut maybe, some Yankee state anyway. "How nice to see you again." He turned to me. "Miss…"
"Melanie, Mr. Montague," I said. "You can call me Melanie."
"Excellent, and I'll be Terrence."
Right. Because you are.
Jack took pity on Terrence's beet-red face in spite of the cloud cover and suggested we take our conversation to a shady table on the courtyard terrace outside the Presto-Change-o Room.
Iced teas were ordered and delivered almost immediately to our table. Something to be said for being in the company of the hotel manager, something besides the eye candy aspect.
Jack began, "We were hoping you'd have time to talk to us a little about the tragedy in the séance room."
"Oh." Terrence set his iced tea back on the table and leveled his eyes at Jack. "You mean Cecile's…" He hung his head.
Terrence's face was lean, his jaw square. There was something about him that reminded me of a wolf, hungry—something about the set of his jaw, the undisguised steel in his hazel eyes behind the heavy-rimmed glasses. He lifted a hand to push a lock of light-brown hair off his forehead. His posture stiffened, and for a moment he seemed a different kind of man, someone more shrewd, calculating. Then he relaxed and took another deep pull on the tea.
"Of course, I'm at your disposal," he said in that offhanded way a professor announces a pop quiz.
"How well did you know Cecile Elway?" Like Jack said, it was my investigation, so I decided to get this show on the road.
"Ah," Terrence breathed softly. "Cecile was like a guardian angel, watching over my little friends, the Lepidoptera Alien Caterpillars. The little fellows were the glue binding me and my Cecile together." He shook his head sadly. "Now what will they do? How will they survive without her?"
And without her checkbook, I thought. And now that he'd brought it up, I had to ask. "Did you know her well? Were the two of you—you know?" I gulped, hoping my investigation didn't carry me across the line of acceptable conversation with a paying guest. Couldn't afford to lose my job.
Cap'n Jack came to my rescue—again. "Romantically involved?"
Terrence hesitated and seemed to be considering his answer. "We were indeed. Cecile was a breath of fresh air in a world of toxic fumes. How could I not love her?" And her wealth? Good old fresh air Cecile Elway. "She had so much to offer." Yes. We heard—a few hundred million or so. "How will I ever manage without her?"
"And what did you get out of the relationship?" Even I cringed. I shouldn't have dropped out of Subtlety 101 midsemester.
"She was a lonely woman. I was a lonely man. We offered each other companionship. We were in love. We were going to get married."
Terrence looked to be around forty. I would have said Cecile was sixty if she was a day, and that was putting it kindly. I would have thought Rosalyn, Cecile's stepdaughter, would have been more to his liking, age-wise that is. But you never knew what would turn a man's head unless you listened to my grandmama, who'd told me on more than one occasion the way to a man's heart was through his wallet. And Cecile was certainly quite alluring in that way.
According to Terrence, Cecile had brought more than one hundred thousand dollars with her to spur the Great Fabrizio to the highest heights of his abilities. Terrence swore he tried to talk her out of coming down here to "this godforsaken swamp."
Godforsaken? Really? Them's fightin' words.
"But she was determined that she needed to make peace with Theodore before we were married, and for some reason had it in her head Fabrizio was the only man who could get the job done." When she died, it had occurred to Terrence someone should locate the cash, so he mentioned it to Deputy Quincy.
"Mr. Montague," Jack said slowly. I knew how carefully he chose his words, making a supreme effort to avoid insulting a resort guest. "Did Mrs. Elway ever discuss the circumstances surrounding her husband's death?"
Terrence didn't answer right away. He just looked at Jack, and I immediately thought about what Rosalyn said in the séance room. "Daddy, tell us. How did you really die? Did someone murder you?"
When Terrence's answer came, it was cryptic and terse. "I don't know why you'd ask me such a question."
"Well, I—"
Terrence interrupted. "As far as I'm aware, Mr. Elway's demise was due to a sudden heart attack, in less delicate terms referred to as a widow-maker. I believe at one point she said he was under a great deal of stress."
Jack and I glanced at each other, both obviously asking ourselves why a multimillionaire would be under all that much stress. But we never had the chance to ask, as Terrence stood and brought our interview to a close. "Now, if you don't mind, I need to leave. Everyone has been raving about the European-style spa here. I made an appointment for a deep-tissue massage, which I'm late for already. And, besides, I assure you I've told you everything I know."
That remained to be seen, but we couldn't hog-tie him, put him under a bright light, and grill him. At least not yet.
Terrence excused himself, leaving Jack and me alone at the table.
It was late afternoon by then, closing in on evening. The thunderclouds that had rolled in nearly blotted out the setting sun completely. The air was thick. There was barely a breeze to cut through the humidity. It was like swamp soup.
The sound system music floated out from the bar. "Witchy Woman." I smiled, remembering that when Jack first came onboard, he had the brilliant idea for him and Harry to put their heads together and compile a themed playlist of songs relating to all things supernatural. It was played at low volume throughout the main building, a bit louder in the bar and restaurant areas. I couldn't tell you how many of my clients commented on it.
Jack laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back in his chair, stretching the knit of his T-shirt tight across his abdomen, his six-pack clearly defined.
He sat forward. "Six what?"
Had I really been counting out loud? I was losing it. "Six of one, half a dozen of the other?"
CHAPTER EIGHT
It began to rain again, you know, like cats and dogs, except in the bayou it was gators and bullfrogs. It had been a really wet week.
Cat wasn't scheduled to close up shop yet, so I was at loose ends for an hour or so until dinner. Jack walked me back to my hotel room.
We didn't talk, and it was a bit uncomfortable. I was aware of how tall he was, walking beside me, and his body he
at was giving me hot flashes. I kept trying to think of something sophisticated and witty to say, but nothing came to mind.
We stopped outside my door. He looked down at me. I looked up at him and caught my breath. We stood close together. If either of us swayed forward, he bent down, and I stood on my tiptoes, our lips might meet. Okay, so I was really reaching. The picture filled my mind, and I was momentarily lost in the glow.
He cleared his throat. "So, what do we do next?"
"Oh." He probably wasn't speaking of the next move I had in mind. "You mean in our…"
He grinned. "Our investigation."
I ducked my head. "Well, I'm not sure. I guess look up the next person on our interview list."
At that moment, a bone-rattling scream pierced the air.
We both jerked then turned as one and ran back up the hall the way we'd come.
As we entered the main lobby, the desk manager on duty ran up. "Mr. Stockton. Thank God. We've been looking for you. There's an emergency on the property."
Jack frowned. "Emergency? What kind of emergency? Who was screaming? Is someone hurt?"
The front desk man, a recent hire whose acquaintance I hadn't taken the time to make yet, turned and lifted his hands helplessly. Behind him, on the floor beside the check-in counter, the staff groundskeeper and head of maintenance, a huge man named Odeo Fournet, was on his knees in a muddy puddle, crying like a bride left standing at the altar.
Jack rushed to his side and helped him to his feet. "Odeo, what is it? Tell me."
"They's rising up." The white of Odeo's eyes shone like flashlight beams in his ebony face. His tears left crusty tracks down his cheeks. His nose ran. All in all, he looked like he'd fallen in a big hole. "On their own, Mr. Stockton, on their own."
Jack looked at me like maybe I had a clue, which I didn't. I shrugged. "Show me," he said to Odeo, who took Jack's hand in his bigger, grimier one and headed out the front entrance.
I followed along behind them. I had to know. If someone said, "They's rising up," you'd go see what the heck he was talking about, too.
* * *
The Villars family boneyard was on a slight rise not far to the rear of the public areas. Every employee of the resort was required to know the history of the property, and I was no exception.
The Villars clan had first settled in the area under French rule in the mid-1700s. The family had somehow managed to hang on to the land throughout the turbulent Louisiana history until, of course, it was handed over to Harry Villars, our charming but inept leader. Over the centuries, many family members had been interred in the fenced-in cemetery on the crest of that hill. But none in the last fifty years or so due to the ever-rising water table.
The week before, it had rained for two solid days. The levees in town rose. The bayou too. The runoff soaked in, and the water table rose. That was the way of the Mississippi Delta. You dug down a few feet, and you hit water. That was why most of our dearly departed were interred above ground, in big stone tombs. Floating bodies were bad for the tourist trade.
As it was, our dead got shuffled around quite a bit anyway. The way to make room for the recently passed in the family tomb was to move the current occupant to a bone bag, relocate him to the back, and deposit the next unfortunate soul's coffin in the tomb. It was our way. Not good. Not bad. Just our way, and as a general rule, it kept the bodies from floating downstream.
I never imagined it was very popular with those who actually resided inside the tombs, crowded and all, and they never could know when or if they were going to get relocated. Such a transitory afterlife might be one explanation for the restless spirits said to roam Crescent City.
It was obvious all the rain from late the week before had caused the water table to rise and the coffins to make an appearance. The shadows were lengthening, and the rain had momentarily let up, but from looks of the gloomy sky, not for long. The air cooled. The critters were coming out for the day's last serenade, and birdcalls, the croak of frogs, and the buzz of swarms of insects rose all around us.
I've never been a big fan of cemeteries, although those in the city were quite beautiful and serene. I've visited many times to sketch and ponder the rows of magnificent tombs—in the daytime. Never at night. I may be ignorant, but I'm not stupid.
Jack stood on the crest of the hill, hands on his hips. He looked as good from the back as he did from the front—maybe better. Since I was all about that bass.
I trudged up to stand beside him. It was impossible to miss the devastation. Several of the graves had popped open, the coffins, as Odeo accurately said, had "risen up."
The look on Jack's face would have been comical if it weren't so full of horror and astonishment. "What the hell?" he said. "So, let me see if I have this right. It rains—a lot. The water table rises and pushes against the old coffins. And they pop up above ground, scaring the holy crap out of everyone."
I nodded. "Pretty much."
He turned, and in the fading light I could see his bemused expression. "Don't y'all hate it when that happens?" His drawl was a near dead-on imitation of Harry Villars, Southern gentleman extraordinaire.
"I dunno," I said. "If you ask me, this is the kind of thing Harry Villars hopes for. Fits right in with the motif here."
He agreed. "It does."
I can only imagine how this scene must have looked to him.
Big cast stone and concrete grave covers had slid to the side like they were made of Styrofoam. Some cracked. Others broke clean in half. Mud banks pushed up against them. A few of the coffins had been shoved out of the ground by the rising water table to sit crossways over the opening. One poor soul had been deposited a good ways from his resting place—the coffin tipped on its side, the lid stood open. I didn't look too closely at that one.
Another coffin had slid halfway down the hill, stopped from going farther by a crumbling marble grave marker.
It was somewhat of a disaster.
Jack shook himself and took charge. "Odeo, we're gonna need a couple of men with strong backs and a good deal of intestinal fortitude. Also a forklift." He took a long look at the clouds gathering overhead. "Sandbags too, lots of them. The weatherman said we're due for another downpour—if not tonight, tomorrow for certain."
Odeo nodded. "On my way, Mr. Stockton." He turned and moved a few steps away before turning back. "I know where there's a forklift, and I know a couple of guys in maintenance who can give us a hand, but sandbags? I don't…" He lifted his hands, palms up.
"I know where to go," I said. "Odeo, send a couple of your guys to meet me at the boathouse down by the dock."
Jack took hold of his shirt hem and pulled the T-shirt off over his head. Oh, my. I knew I was staring, but who wouldn't?
He draped his shirt over a fence post. I couldn't help but notice how the muscles in his back rippled when he did. It was going to be entertaining to watch the restoration of the Villars Cemetery. Too bad it was getting dark.
Jack turned around and offered me a different viewpoint. His chest and abdomen were smooth, his skin tan, the muscles defined. The six-pack I'd seen earlier through the knit of the T-shirt didn't disappoint in the flesh.
"Miss Hamilton?" he said softly.
My gaze lifted to his face. His eyes were amused, aware. "Mel?"
"Yes?" This time I caught myself before saying Cap'n Jack.
"Sandbags?" He smiled.
I punctuated with my index finger. "Right. Sandbags."
Before I turned away, he took a step and sank up to his knee in mud but didn't seem to mind. Within only a minute, he was straining to lift one of the coffin lids. Already covered in mud, he looked like a man who was actually used to getting his hands dirty. It was a pretty good guess he probably never had to do anything quite like this in NYC, and his willingness to get down and dirty side by side with his team was one of the things that made Jack a really good manager—and I was thinking he was also a really good man.
* * *
Word was that the b
oathouse was leftover from a time back in the early '90s when the family was trying to raise money by giving guided airboat tours of the Barataria Preserve. When Harry did the repurpose, it became a place where the resort mechanics could work on boats and other equipment, as well as a general storage facility. Sandbags were always kept there in case of floods.
Cat had told me about the building in great detail. One day Quincy needed an extra set of jumper cables. She'd taken him out to the boathouse, and while they were there, they made good use of the sandbags for a bit of a romantic tryst.
When I thought about how Jack Stockton had looked standing on the hill without his shirt, I thought maybe Cat and Quincy had the right idea.
I trotted back to the main building, down to Maintenance in the lower level, located the key labeled Boathouse on the pegboard at the back of the room, grabbed it, and headed out the front door.
After sprinting across the circular driveway and lawn, I pushed my way through the copse of low bushes. Ahead of me, the boathouse and wooden dock were visible in the twilight.
I used the key to open the door just as a pickup pulled up with three strapping men in the bed.
They made short work of loading a couple of dozen sandbags, plus a few more for good measure then turned and headed back along the service road around the building to the hilltop graveyard.
I took a second to lock up the boathouse and was just turning to retrace my steps back to the main building to return the key, when the sound of a woman's voice gave me pause.
"What was that all about?"
For some reason I'm still not sure of, I eased back against the wood-shingled wall and listened.
A second voice, male. "Dude, beats me. They sure were in a hurry." Unless my memory failed me, it was Cecile's stepgrandson, Billy.
Something made a slapping sound. "Gosh darn mosquitos." It was Rosalyn, Theodore's daughter, Cecile's stepdaughter. "How can these people stand it? I'm covered in welts."
His voice was disdainful. "Living in the swamp is all these people down here know."
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