As we went through the lobby, I couldn't help but notice the eerie background music usually heard throughout the public areas had been replaced with Christmas music, specifically, "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer."
Jack looked at me, his expression ironic. "Remind me to have that taken off our playlist, at least this year."
I nodded. "Good idea."
We crossed under the portico, out onto the lawn area, and then beyond to the old boathouse that had been converted into sort of an all-purpose utility building. Resort mechanics worked on paddle boats, airboats, and other equipment there. It was also a general storage facility for landscaping tools and materials. Odeo Fournet was sort of king over that part of the realm as all his grounds keeper gizmos were kept there.
One of Jefferson Parish Sheriff's Office SUVs was parked on the service road, and a male deputy stood by the door waiting for us.
We went inside. The lower level of the old boathouse consisted of two water bays where boats could be pulled in under the roof and lifted out of the water for maintenance. That section butted up against a portion that was built over land and basically housed a tool shed complete with workbenches, winches, and lifts extending out into the open area where boat motors could be repaired. That took up about half of the interior lower-level space, the rest of it being dedicated to bags of fertilizers, gardening tools, mowers, and seed bags. Dark and musty with shafts of sunlight slanting in at odd angles, it smelled earthy and moist, like a root cellar. The slap of the water against sides of the walls and walkways was the only sound.
Creepy, much? It was right in keeping with the rest of the resort.
Sergeant Mackelroy—oops, my bad, Pammie—led us to the far side and up the stairs to the second level, which was even darker and spookier than the downstairs.
It was less humid—drier—up there, and extra chaise lounges, cushions, tables, sun umbrellas, and other poolside furnishings were stored there during the off-season when fewer were needed. One portion housed crates full of enormous baking pans and serving dishes. Other areas were used for storing Mardi Gras, Halloween, and other specific decor. The holiday items would be brought back here after they were taken down.
"There." Sergeant Mackelroy pointed to an area in the middle of the room occupied by about thirty or so cardboard boxes. "You see?"
The printing on the outside identified the contents of the boxes as Jack Daniel's, Captain Morgan, Absolut, Johnnie Walker, and other brand names—it was all liquor, or as Harry Villars would have said, "Ardent spirits, potable courage, fortified libations, alcoholic beverages."
Jack walked over for a closer look, and I followed.
He stood over the boxes, scratching his jaw as he looked at them. "What the heck are these doing way out here?"
It seemed rhetorical, but Pammie answered. "We were wondering the same thing. Didn't seem like you'd want something this valuable and easily disposed of in an unsecured location like this."
"Well," Jack said. "This place is locked most of the time, but there are several people who have access to the keys. The main one being Odeo Fournet, but there's no reason for these cases of liquor to be out here."
"So you're saying this doesn't belong out here."
"Yes. That's exactly what I'm saying, and if you don't' mind, I'd like to get someone out here to explain it to all of us."
Odeo was summoned to the boathouse from where he'd been working on adding gravel to one of the access roads that had gone horribly muddy during the previous night's rain.
He came up the stairs slowly, followed by the deputy who we'd seen outside when we first arrived.
He stood with his hat in his hand, twisting it around.
"Mr. Stockton, sir. You need somethin'?" Odeo's skin was like ebony, his teeth way whiter than piano ivories, his scalp as hairless and round and smooth as polished onyx. He was big, over six foot four if I'd had my guess, and strong—physically beautiful. His process might have been a little slower than most. He always seemed to think carefully before he spoke, and when his words did come, they were measured and slow. Odeo was easily overstimulated and cried like a child whose candy had been taken away over the most minor issues. His gaze landed on the liquor boxes, and his eyes went wide. "Oh, man, what's they still doin' here? I done told him to leave off that stuff."
"What, Odeo? Who?" Jack asked.
"Slim. Poor dead Slim. I done told him I didn't want him selling this stuff out o' my boathouse no more. And he was supposed to get all this out of here."
Sergeant Mackelroy, back in sheriff mode, stepped in. "Slim Conner, the murder victim? You're saying he was trafficking stolen liquor from this boathouse? And you're saying you knew about it and didn't report it?"
Odeo's expression was filled with fear and confusion. "It wasn't no stolen liquor. He was just selling what was rightful his. His commissions, he say, for doing good at selling drinks in the Presto-Change-o. But I told him to clear it all out, else I might get in trouble for letting him run it out of this place. I knew and he knew that it wasn't right."
"Slim told you these boxes of liquor were his commission?" Jack said.
Odeo nodded, looking from Jack to me to the deputies.
I kept my voice low. Odeo looked so scared I didn't want to alarm him any further. "Could Slim have been stealing from the resort?"
Jack shrugged. "I'm assuming so. There was no commission, certainly not cases and cases of liquor. He had plenty of access to the key to the storeroom. He probably had a healthy list of buyers since I'm betting there's a big market down here for underpriced tax-free booze."
"And you'd win that bet." Pammie added in her two cents.
Jack turned to Odeo. "If you knew he was doing it, Odeo, why didn't you come to me with it? Knowledge of this makes you complicit."
"Compl-what?" Odeo stammered.
"It means you participated in what he was doing, Odeo," I said as gently as I could. "It means you sort of took part in it too."
"Oh, no, ma'am, Miss Melanie. I didn't take no part in it. Once I found out about what he was doing, I said, 'Slim, you need to clear all this out, and don't be doing it again.' I told him, 'Or else.' We shouted about it too. He said he needed a lot of money, and he couldn't help doing this bad thing, and he wasn't going to stop it. He pushed me, and I had to hit him to get him off me." Shame and guilt filled his eyes before he hung his head. "I just couldn't have Slim selling out of my boathouse. And I told Slim he'd better be careful, or I was going to do something about it, and he sure wasn't going to like it."
Pammie Mackelroy opened her mouth to speak, but Jack cut her off. "You threatened him, Odeo? You hit Slim Conner and threatened him?"
Odeo took a minute and finally said, "I reckon I did do that, and I meant it too. But I had to. If he wasn't going to leave off doing this bad thing in my boathouse, well, I could have got fired. And I like this job."
CHAPTER NINE
I left Jack, Odeo, and Sergeant Mackelroy—since the contraband liquor gave her something to think about besides Jack—and the other deputy to hash out the issue of the purloined alcohol and headed back to Dungeons and Deities to finish Chance Walker's rising phoenix. It took the rest of the afternoon. When I finished, he made a good effort at springing up, but the process of getting to his feet was accomplished more in jerky increments than in the swift, panther-like swagger the general public associated with Chance. The ink, if I said so myself, was incredible—all gold and red and purple, and once the swelling, bruising, and scabbing healed up, it was going to be something to see. I wondered if they'd cover it up in his shirtless scenes on the series.
He gave me a really nice tip, $300.00, for my efforts then kinda hunched over and cringing, he shuffled out. "I think I'll check at the front desk and see if I can get a room for the night. I don't want anyone to see me on the streets in case I pass out. Not good for my image."
I didn't smile. He hadn't done well with the pain. It didn't mean he wasn't as macho as some of my other customers,
at least not to me. But I could see it bothered Chance a lot. I decided not to say anything about it to anyone.
I closed up shop and headed out to the lobby to wait for Cat whose last appointment was running late.
About twenty-five or thirty members of the Circle of Ravens, a pagan group that showed up every year to celebrate the season, were milling around in the lobby. Jack said they had chartered a bus to take them over to St. James Parish for a night of ritual around a bonfire on the levee, for which Jack and Harry had received special dispensation from the parish to hold on the winter solstice instead of Christmas Eve when the other bonfires would burn in the normal Christmas Eve tradition.
Jack said they'd seemed to be everywhere around The Mansion since the weekend, gearing up for their big night of the year. They were pretty darn easy to pick out in a crowd. The men all had long hair and beards, and if it weren't for all the heavy jewelry, robes, and other accoutrements, they would have looked like people from the Duck Dynasty family. The women all wore hooded robes with bell sleeves and had long, untrimmed hair with sprigs of holly and what might have been actual tree branches stuck in it.
Jack walked up to me and slung an arm around my shoulders. He watched the Ravens mill around, a confounded look on his face. "Gotta say I never had a group like this stay at the hotel in Manhattan."
I laid my hand on top of his and laced our fingers together. "You mean the Circle of Ravens never booked their Yule festivities at that slick business property you used to manage?"
He grinned and shook his head.
"Well, my lands, son," I said. "Why not? You wouldn't build them a bonfire on the banks of the Hudson?"
"You having fun picking on me, woman?"
I looked up at him. He ran his free hand through his short, thick hair, making some of it stand up straight. My lips wanted to feel his against mine. My body wanted to feel his warm arms around it. But we'd agreed—none of that romantic stuff would go on in front of guests. It wasn't easy.
When Jack had first arrived at The Mansion, he'd been a little stiff—unsure, he'd said, of whether or not he'd be able to assimilate. And he hadn't, not really. He was still a big city Yankee boy trying to make a go of it in the Louisiana bayou among the bizarre cast of The Mansion and the eccentric guests who arrived on a daily basis to feed their paranormal fixations. But when we'd all seen how even-handed and good-natured Jack was, we'd rallied around him, accepted him, and taken him in as one of our own. Especially me. I just wanted to be with him all the time, but we both worked long hours, especially Jack, and finding alone time to learn about each other didn't come as often as either of us wanted.
"Mr. Stockton?"
I let go of Jack's hand, feeling a little guilty about how cozy we probably looked to an outsider.
It was Diane Conner who had walked up to us and addressed Jack. She looked haggard, her hair stringy and dull, her face tired and older than when I'd seen her the night before. And why wouldn't she? Her husband had been murdered.
Jack's voice was kind. "Mrs. Conner, how are you doing?"
She shrugged. Her grey eyes were flat, lifeless, but her tone was just as sharp and a little witchy like it had been last night. "Oh, just dandy. How do you think I am?"
Jack cleared his throat. "I know this must be the hardest thing you've ever had to go through."
She frowned, looking up at the ceiling as if she were trying to recall, and I half expected her to come up with another time in her life that had been harder. But instead, she scratched her chin and said, "Who on God's green earth are all these weirdos running around here?"
Jack's eyes widened. He may have thought the same thing himself, but hearing it out loud when the weirdos themselves were within earshot was another matter altogether. "It's a…a special interest group, Mrs. Conner."
"Hmmph." She snorted. "Freaks if you ask me. And that one in particular."
I looked in the direction she pointed. It was Lurch, skin made up greener than the Grinch, wearing a suit of holly leaves, a hat of holly leaves, and yes, shoes of holly leaves. His legs were snug in the same green tights he'd worn at last night's gala when he'd been dressed as Papa Noël's elf. He lumbered through the lobby, thumping the rubber end of a staff decorated with, what else, holly leaves.
The Ravens cheered when Lurch showed up, circled around him, and led him to the front entrance. He wasn't smiling.
I looked at Jack, who lifted his hands. "Slim had agreed to be the Holly King for the group. I had to find someone else last minute, and Lurch already had the tights."
It was at that moment that Diane let out a shriek and lunged at Jack, wrapping herself around him. "Oh, Lord have mercy! It's him. Save me, Mr. Stockton. Don't let him get me!"
Jack and I both looked up. The lobby was pretty much empty since the Ravens and their so-called Holly King had left on their chartered bus that would take them out to the levee bonfires.
The only person I saw Diane could possibly be talking about was Stella by Starlight's enigmatic client, Zachary Jones, the bookie.
Diane swung around behind Jack then leaned out, peeking around him as the bookie made his way toward the front entrance then out.
Hyperventilating and wheezing like an old bellows, she gasped, "What in the Sam Hill is he doing here?"
We both stared at her. "Mr. Jones?" I asked. "Are you talking about Zachary Jones?"
Her eyes were dilated, and it was obvious her fear was all too real. "I don't know his name, just that he's a demon seed, a mad dog, and Slim was scared to death of him. And now…" Her voice caught. "…it looks like he's come for me too."
That cute but nerdy college boy didn't look like a mad dog to me. "But…why would he come for you? And why was Slim afraid of him?" I was confused.
"That man's been at my house. My house," she shrieked. "And Slim and him fought, almost went to fist city. Young guy like that would have beat the living snot out of my husband. I don't know what that stupid husband of mine did to get that guy so ticked off at him that he'd come around like that and poke his finger at Slim, and yell, and carry on like some bull on a rampage. Slim wouldn't tell me. But it must have been bad. Slim, he never had the sense God gave a goose, anyway. Not a brain in that man's head. But whatever it was he wanted from Slim, it looks like he's coming after me now."
"Mrs. Conner—" I began.
But she cut me off, grabbing hold of Jack's lapel and shrieking. "Oh, dear God, what am I gonna do? I'm in danger, Mr. Stockton. Don't let him kill me."
Jack walked her over to a bench and had her sit.
As upset as she seemed, any other woman would probably have been sobbing her eyes out, but there wasn't a tear in sight. Her mouth twisted. "No good Slim Conner. I was crazy to think he'd ever be any darn good. Working all the time, and for what? There never was any money. And this wasn't the first disreputable-looking character who ever came around our place giving Slim a hard time. But this one, he was real mad. Madder than any of the others, and he scared Slim, and he scared me too." Her hands shook, and she clasped them together.
"I'm sorry to see you like this, Mrs. Conner," Jack said. "Can I get someone to drive you home? Maybe you'll feel safer there."
She looked up at Jack. Her eyes, so dull before, were now filled with terror. "Are you freaking nuts? Why would I go home knowing that crazed son of a gun is out there stalking me like a wolf?"
I couldn't do much more than just stare at her. Zachary Jones didn't exactly seem like a wolf to me, more like one of the Geek Squad guys who drove around in Volkswagen Beetles.
Her reaction to him had been real, but that wasn't what I'd found so intriguing.
I couldn't help but remember how interested the bookie had been when he'd heard Jack and me speak of Slim's murder and how he'd said they were just "friends." Going to someone's house, getting into a shouting match with them, poking them in the chest, and nearly coming to blows didn't sound all that friendly—but maybe that was just me.
Jack got up from beside Diane
and went over to the front desk. I followed him.
"Lucy," he said.
The reception clerk on duty walked up. "Yes, Mr. Stockton?"
"If we have the room, I'd like to offer Mrs. Conner another complimentary night."
Lucy checked the computer. "No problem, Mr. Stockton. We have room. I had to double-check because Chance Walker, you know, the actor?" She blushed. "He just booked a room for a couple of nights. Left word not to disturb him unless he called down for a doctor."
I snorted.
Jack gave me a look.
"I'll tell you later," I said. "I think having Slim's wife stay here is a great idea. There's something going on there we need to figure out. It's pretty plain the way she talks about him that she didn't really like Slim much, and there's gotta be more to the story about Stella's client and Slim coming close to a knock-down, drag-out." I paused. "Don't you think?"
He looked thoughtful for a minute, obviously considering what I'd said. "Okay," he said. "I'll ask Harry first, and if he says it's all right for her to stay here—"
"He will. I know he will. He wants Valentine back here as bad as we do, if not worse."
"You're probably right. And Mrs. Conner seems to want to be here anyway." He narrowed his eyes. "Are you thinking she might be a suspect? Wasn't she at the dinner last night?"
"Yes, she was." Sure I was talking out of school, but Valentine's freedom was at stake, and all bets were off. "But she didn't come to the table until well after six, and she was all kinds of sweaty and messed up, like she'd been doing something physical, you know, like maybe running down her husband with a van."
CHAPTER TEN
Jack offered to walk Diane back to her room and see her safely inside.
I stood by with my hands crossed in front of my waist, calm and smiling like a nicely mannered Southern girl until they were out of sight, and then I went tearing back to the auxiliary wing like a bat out of hell (which I probably looked like in my long black costume with the stand-up Count Dracula collar). I had to double-time it if I was going to catch Stella before she left for the night.
Mystic Mistletoe Murder Page 7
