Mystic Mayhem

by Sally J. Smith

  I waited and when she didn't continue right away, I prompted her with a tug on her hand. "All right, Grandmama, let's hear it."

  "It was your granddaddy, you silly goose."

  "Oh, really?"

  She nodded, helped me pick up the tarp, and then turned back toward the uncovered pews. "Maybe you don't remember, but that last day, the day before he died, he made you sit down beside him for a long talk."

  "I remember." He hadn't looked sick, Granddaddy Joe. He spent a lot of time on the front porch stoop in his rocker, reading the newspaper or the Bible and listening to Dixieland jazz and gospel music. I had just turned eighteen, a high school graduate at loose ends, trying to figure out who I was going to be, where I was going to go. I'd just come back from registering at Loyola University, where I planned to attend classes that fall.

  "Mellie gal," he'd said. "If someday you come home and I've moved on, I want you to know that I'm not really gone. I'll always be with you, girl, whenever you need me, watching over you."

  He and I sat there, him in the rocker, me on the top step. Grandmama Ida had come out and joined us, bringing a pitcher of sweet tea with her. We talked well until after the sun had gone, about all kinds of things, the weather, the music on his boom box, the awesome green beans Grandmama bought down at the green grocer and was cooking up for dinner. When Mama came home, we all ate dinner together, and then we went to our side of the house and my grandparents to theirs.

  In the morning he'd gone, "moved on," as he liked to say. I missed him every day. His laugh. The way he used to take out his teeth and make them chatter at me. The stories he told me. The love of art and music he instilled in me. I never had a father to speak of. He left for parts unknown when I was just little. But Granddaddy Joe made up for that in spades. Fabrizio reminded me so much of him. I figured that was why I felt so close to my friend.

  I hadn't thought about the promise he made me for years, not until today.

  My grandmama is one of the few people I feel I can talk to about some of the weirdness that goes on in this world. She's a strong believer in God and Jesus, as well as some of the spookier things none of us really has an explanation for. So I know if she thinks something's a load of cow dung, it probably is.

  "Grandmama, really? You think that voice I heard those times was him? Granddaddy Joe?"

  She smiled that smile that told me I was a silly young girl, but a silly young girl that was well loved. "Why of course it was, child. Does your subconscious call you 'Mellie gal'?"

  I grinned back at her. Now that I thought about it, no one ever called me that. No one but him. It made me feel warm. It made me feel safe. It even made me feel a little nervous.

  Along about ten, the shuttle from The Mansion pulled up out front, and about twenty of my favorite people piled out. They usually brought the bus across the river via the Crescent City Connection bridge. Jack came, of course, looking cool and sexy in a pair of loose jeans that hung low on his hips, a thin white T-shirt that had seen better days, and old canvas sneakers he'd probably had since high school. His hair was a little messy, and he didn't look like he'd bothered to shave. I'd never seen him like that, and he looked adorable.

  Fabrizio and Harry came, although neither was dressed for painting. Maybe they were just there to supervise and lend moral support. Valentine and some of her kitchen staff. Lurch, looking very unusual in a pair of Bermuda shorts and a tropical print shirt with huarache sandals. He reminded me of Frankenstein on vacation, only nicer looking and happier. Odeo as well as four or five others from the maintenance department. It was a good showing from Mystic Isle, and not only was Father Brian extremely grateful for their help, so was I.

  When lunchtime came, we all put down our sprayers and paint brushes and headed out in back where Mama, Grandmama, and a few of the other ladies had set up an enormous potluck table. The South was well represented, with spicy Cajun food, battered and fried chicken and shrimp, rice and beans, banana cream pudding, chocolate cake, sweet tea, lemonade. You name it, I bet it was there on that table.

  I sat down in one of the folding chairs trying to balance my plate on my lap and eat without creating a total disaster of spillage.

  Jack came and sat beside me, and it wasn't long before just about the whole Mystic Isle group had joined us. Even Quincy, who'd shown up just in time for lunch.

  It was like a family reunion.

  Fabrizio looked restored. He smiled and laughed and joined in on the conversation. I got up and refilled his glass of tea.

  Never having been to a séance until that disastrous night a couple of weeks ago, there was something I'd been dying to know. I bent down and whispered in his ear. "Fabrizio, at the séance? How was it done? The cold? The sound effects? And the levitating table? That was awesome!"

  I pulled away and looked down at him, that face so like my grandfather's. A light came into his eyes, and the corners of his mouth turned up. He put his index finger to his lips. "Shush," he whispered.

  "Was it real, Fabrizio? You can tell me."

  "Apparently Mr. Elway's daughter, Rosalyn, believed it was real. She decided to pay tribute to her father and honor Cecile's bequest. Harry can breathe easier." He just shook his head, looking very mysterious. "I love you, dearest Melanie, but the Great Fabrizio can never reveal the secrets of the dark."

  I sighed and gave it up, returning to sit beside Jack.

  When we'd finished eating and helping pack away the foodstuff, Jack took me by the hand.

  "Let's go for a walk until they get back to work."

  I nodded, more than ready for a little alone time with my Cap'n Jack.

  He'd been pleasant and friendly over the past week, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't expect more than that after that hot lip-lock he planted on me that night by the pool.

  The sun went behind a cloud, and the air cooled, for the time being anyway. A light breeze ruffled through my hair. The birds were going crazy in the trees, but they were high enough above us that it wasn't annoying. Back at the church, Harry Connick, Jr. sang "Just the Way You Are," and Jack pulled my hand up and kissed the back of it.

  We stopped walking, and he pulled me around to face him. I encircled his neck with my arms. He began to lean down, his eyes on my mouth, and I knew he was going to kiss me, so I stood on my tiptoes to make it a little easier for him.

  The meeting of our mouths was just so nice, so warm, so perfect, and the longer it went the more perfect it became. I began to get that feeling inside, the one that made me squirm a little, the one that made me want him all around me, as part of me.

  "Jack." When we parted, his name was on my lips.

  His mouth turned up in a sweet smile. "Melanie." Apparently my name was on his lips too. "You're not like any girl I've ever known, and I want to know you better. I want to know everything about you that you'll share with me. You're so different from all those career women in New York. Their idea of a relationship is drinks and sex."

  My cheeks warmed, and I had a hard time looking him in the eye. I wouldn't mind the sex either.

  "But you're real and warm. Sincere and giving. I bet you have a saying in New Orleans for the kind of girl you are…" I waited. "The kind I'd like to introduce to my mother."

  I caught my breath. Really? Did he really just say that? I grinned up at him. "Hmm. That's a pretty good saying, Jack, only around here they'd likely say, 'Kinda girl I'd like to take home to Mom 'n'em.'"

  He grinned. "I've learned something else they say around here." He took in a breath before, "Laissez les bon temps rouler." Let the good times roll. It was sexy as hell and darn near close to perfectly executed.

  "Oh, my, it drives me crazy when you speak French," I said, quoting him, quite breathless at hearing my Jack parler. "Cap'n Jack, looks like we might make a N'awlins man out of you yet."

  * * *

  Chère,

  If y'all want to savor some of Valentine's N'awlins cooking, try this on for size. Yum, f'true.

  Valentine's Shri
mp Creole

  Ingredients:

  6 to 8 slices bacon, diced

  1⁄2 cup chopped sweet onion

  1⁄2 cup chopped green onion

  1½ cups chopped green bell pepper

  1 cup chopped celery

  1 clove minced garlic

  2 (14½ ounce) cans diced tomatoes, with juice

  3 Tablespoons tomato paste

  1⁄2 cup chicken broth or stock

  1⁄4 cup red wine vinegar

  1⁄2 teaspoon mustard

  Splash of Tabasco sauce

  Salt and pepper to taste

  1⁄2 cup dry red wine (plus some to splash in if sauce gets too thick)

  1 lb large raw shrimp, peeled and deveined

  Total time: about 50 minutes

  (Prep: 10 minutes / Cook: 35-40 minutes)

  Fry the bacon until crispy over medium-high heat in a large skillet. Set it aside, leaving 2 tablespoons bacon drippings in the skillet. Reduce heat to medium. Add the onions, bell pepper, celery, and garlic. Sauté until tender, 5-6 minutes. Add tomatoes, tomato paste, chicken broth, vinegar, mustard, Tabasco sauce, salt, and pepper. Return bacon to pan. Simmer it all over low to medium heat, uncovered, for 15-20 minutes, stirring occasionally. Add wine and shrimp, and cook until shrimp turns pink (don't overcook), about 4-5 minutes. If sauce is too thick after, splash in some red wine to desired consistency.

  Serve over rice or biscuits. Makes 4 to 6 servings.

  * * * * *

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  * * * * *

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  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 J. SMITH & JEAN STEFFENS

  Mystic Isle Mysteries:

  Mystic Mayhem

  Mystic Mojo (short story in the Killer Beach Reads collection)

  Jordan Welsh & Eddie Marino novels:

  Stealing the Moon & Stars

  Stealing the Golden Dream

  Other works:

  An Off Day (short story by Sally J. Smith)

  The Night Before Christmas (short story by Jean Steffens)

  * * * * *

  SNEAK PEEK

  If you enjoyed this Mystic Isle Mystery, check out this sneak peek of another exciting novel from Gemma Halliday Publishing:

  ONE GARISH GHOST & BLUEBERRY PEACH JAM

  by

  JENNIFER FISCHETTO

  CHAPTER ONE

  I drop my purse on the dark hardwood floor and giggle. I'm not really a giggler, more of a boisterous chuckler or even a rib-aching laugher, but in this moment a giggle trickles up from my chest and bursts in front of me like tiny bubbles. Or maybe that's spittle. The apartment is small, the bathroom so tiny there's only room for a shower stall, not a tub, and the toilet is close enough to the sink that I think they're married. But it's all mine. I don't have to share one single square foot.

  I half-twerk, half-chicken dance across my new space. Yes, it's as bizarre as it sounds, but I only do it in private.

  Having my own place is a first for me. Of my twenty-six years, I spent the first twenty-three living at home. Then I moved to Connecticut and lived with my very chatty, absolutely self-absorbed cousin for two years. She got married, and what did I do? I moved in with the super hot, super new boyfriend, Julian, hereafter known as Douche Nozzle. I should've immediately known we weren't soul mates. Who finds true love and moves in with them after one week?

  I moved back home to South Shore Beach, New York four days ago and it's been super awesome. I forgot how entertaining it is listening to Ma sing show tunes while she cooks and cleans. This week's theme is My Fair Lady, and yes, Ma, it would've been lovely if I could've danced all night in the rain in Spain. The only down part about being back home is my sister and niece are staying with my folks, too, and I've had to endure sleeping on their lumpy couch. But I've missed my family tremendously, and being home simply feels so right. And the cream cheese icing on the pumpkin cupcake—I'm craving sweets—is that the folks handed over the keys to the apartment above the family deli. The one my parents lived in when they first married. The one my siblings and I were conceived in. There's irony there. I know it. Despite the pungent stench of salami and Pine-Sol, and what an eye-watering combination that is, I choose to believe this twist of fate, this full circle, is the universe's way of pushing me down the right path. Hopefully I'm correct and the universe isn't mocking me. Or worse, giggling.

  I open my arms wide and take in a long, deep breath. Then immediately gag, sputter, and choke like a dying car. Dear God, my brother lived here for five years. How did he stand it? Stupid question. This is the same person who left a pepperoni and Swiss cheese sandwich in his backpack in the trunk of the car during a camping weekend with Pop. In June. Not only does he have seriously odd taste buds, but he could live in a can of sardines and not be bothered.

  I rush forward and open each of the three windows facing the street out front. I press my nose to the middle screen and breathe in lungfuls of clean air until I'm lightheaded and almost pass out. That would be one way to not notice the smell.

  My phone plays Cyndi Lauper's "Girls Just Want to Have Fun," which means it's my sister. I swipe the green flashing circle while making a mental note to use the rest of my credit balance on cases of Glade PlugIns.

  "Izzie, I shouldn't be much longer," I say. She and I have a night of drink, dance, and darts ahead of us. This will be our first night out since I've been back. I'm just waiting for my bed to arrive.

  "Why are my husband and his buddy hauling a mattress out of his truck?" Her words are garbled, as if her mouth is directly pressed against the phone.

  The answer seems pretty obvious to me. "Where are you?" I ask, and spot her car parked down the street by Park Place Bakery.

  "In the deli. Pop's cleaning the front counters, and I'm in back."

  No doubt peering through the peephole in the door. I don't know what's wrong with her marriage. When Ma and I pressed her on it, she said something about lonely nights and cabana boys. She gets muddled when upset. This was two days ago. I figure a pitcher of margaritas, a few hip thrusts to the latest bebop, and she'll be spilling her guts.

  Ma gave me explicit instructions to report all findings back to her pronto, but I won't betray Izzie's trust. Ma knows this. All those times Ma tried bribing me with ice cream or cookies so I'd spill about Izzie's latest crush or whether she really went to the library after school. Not once did I tell what I knew, and I knew tons. Izzie was not a reader. Despite her being five years older than me, she's my sister, and I'm not a tattler. Besides, Izzie knows a wild shopping cart didn't dent Pop's car when I was in twelfth grade. I accidentally inhaled some secondhand marijuana smoke—that's my story anyway—and got slightly high. Then I volunteered to go on a munchies run. I didn't see the Return Carts Here sign when backing out of the space. I only tapped it. Nine years isn't long enough though for that truth to come out. Not that Pop is violent or easily angered. I just don't want to see the disappointment on his face. He restored and adored that car.

  "You couldn't ask someone other than Paulie to help you move?" Izzie's voice penetrates my memories.

  Heavy boots clamor up the back steps.

  "Pop asked him. I couldn't very well say no. Ma and Pop aren't bringing the rest of the furniture until tomorrow after Sunday dinne
r. As appealing as it sounds, sleeping in the shower stall is out of the question."

  I turn to let Paulie and his buddy in and spot an unfamiliar guy standing by the breakfast bar. I scream and freeze, because that will save my life.

  The phone slips from my hand as I remind my heart to beat.

  "What is it?" Izzie shrieks from beside my shoe.

  Something hard hits the door. "Gianna?" Paulie calls through it. He sounds concerned. Good brother-in-law. No matter what's going on between him and my sister, he has a lifelong duty to help me move, kill spiders, and protect me from murdering, raping, stealing home intruders.

  Technically the guy doesn't look threatening, but I read that Ted Bundy didn't either. How did this guy sneak up behind me? The downstairs entrance has a dim light bulb, but it's only two walls and a narrow staircase. How didn't I hear him?

  He's wearing khaki shorts, a light blue polo shirt, and beige flip-flops. He holds his skull. "Whoa, dude, you can see me?" He looks barely legal and sounds like he's spent one too many hours surfing waves.

  What is he talking about? Of course I can see him. Did he accidentally inhale secondhand weed smoke?

  Paulie manages to open the door without letting go of the mattress and knocking his buddy down the stairs.

  Izzie still calls my name. If she was a loving sister, she'd run up with Pop's cleaver, regardless of the fact that her husband is making his way in.

  "Are you okay?" Paulie asks as he turns the corner. His sweaty face is pink, and his eyes are wide. He stares wildly around the room, which is really one half-stretch of the neck, and looks straight through Surfer Dude.

  Oh crap. I take a step closer and realize Surfer Dude isn't standing but hovering. Well isn't this interesting? My brand new apartment comes equipped with its very own ghost. How many have I seen in my lifetime now? Close to a thousand? What is he doing up here? And does he do windows? That's the worst chore in the world.