My timing was just about perfect. She was locking the door as I ran up. She turned in surprise.
"Hey there, girl, what do you have your panties in such a bunch about?"
I stopped and took a minute to catch my breath, thinking it might be time to partake in a little regular exercise. "I wanted to ask you a couple of questions about your client Zachary Jones."
"Oh." She looked skeptical. "Like what?"
I explained what had just happened in the lobby, how Diane Conner had nearly fainted when she spotted Zachary walking through the lobby.
"She freaked out?" she asked.
I nodded. "Big time."
Stella looked at me for a minute as if she might have been considering whether or not talking about her customer was somehow a breach of trust. "I don't know if I should…" she began.
"Oh, come on, Stella. What can it hurt? It's not like you're his lawyer."
"Funny you should say that. Zachary has actually threatened me with his lawyer if word ever gets back to him I was talking about his business. And, after all, he is my client."
"Yes," I said evenly, "but Slim was your friend."
After another long pause, she shrugged and hooked her arm through mine. "Well, come on then. Walk me to my car, and we can talk on the way. I guess it doesn't matter since I've already mentioned it to you before, and I know you're the soul of discretion anyway."
"Sure." I crossed my fingers and asked her what she knew about Zachary Jones and whether or not there'd been a connection between him and Slim Conner.
"Remember. You can't tell anyone you heard this from me. That little geeky bookie is one of the resort's most lucrative customers. Not only does he come to see me nearly every day to cast his chart, sometimes if it's late when we finish up, he'll stay over if there's a room for him. I don't want to lose his business, and neither will Harry or your Cap'n Jack."
My mouth hung open. "How'd you know I call him…?"
She just gave me a mysterious smile.
We walked a few minutes in silence before she began to speak. "I don't know much, but what I do know is that Slim Conner liked to bet on the horses. A lot. And he wasn't good at it. He owed money to Zachary. And he was behind in his payments."
I stopped walking and stared at her. When she realized I'd stopped, she did too. "Stella, if it was enough money for him to go out to Slim and Diane's house and threaten him if Slim didn't pay up, it might have been enough money for Jones to make an example out of Slim so his other customers wouldn't default on their payments as well."
"I don't want to think that about a gorgeous hunk of flesh like Zachary, but who knows what lurks in the hearts of men?" She shrugged dramatically. "But, like I said, I don't know much."
"But that doesn't work out," I said. "Zachary Jones wasn't here last night." I added, "Was he?"
"Not as far as I know, at least not inside at the party where we were," Stella said.
We'd come to the stone wall on the kitchen side of The Mansion that set off the employee parking lot. Stella used her gate key to go in.
Stella lived in a two-bedroom frame house on Fisher Street over in Lafitte, only a hop, skip, and a jump from The Mansion. The house was painted haint blue to keep the evil spirits away, and the living area was lifted up out of flood danger on stilts. She drove her 1965 VW minibus back and forth. Every time I saw it, I marveled she could still get parts for the thing. Considering the minivan and my mama were the same age, the old girl was holding up pretty well—the VW, not my mama, although she was pretty cute too.
The outside of Stella's bus was painted in bright psychedelic colors of green, blue, yellow, and fuchsia with the sun and moon and shooting stars. It sat out under one of the Victorian-style pole lamps in the employee parking lot, looking like it belonged in a Pixar movie and might smile and come to life any second.
"So, whether or not he was highly motivated, if he wasn't here, it wasn't him who killed Papa Noël."
She took my hand and patted it. "Whatever you think, Mel. We all know you're the sleuth around here, but I didn't say it wasn't Zachary who killed Papa Noël, and I didn't say he wasn't here that night. I just said not as far as I know."
She turned before she got into her VW and asked, "You want to come over to the house and get high?"
"Oh, gee," I said. "No thanks, I'm good."
She shrugged, got in, and started the engine. I turned and went back around to the front of The Mansion. A bus was parked out front that looked a lot like the one that had taken the members of The Circle of Ravens out to celebrate the bonfires on the levee, but what was it doing back so soon?
Inside, a uniformed bus driver was talking to Jack and waving his arms around like something exciting was going on.
"You've got to be kidding," Jack said, running his long fingers through his short thick hair. "Just what I frigging needed."
"What is it?"
"The bus driver says the Ravens and the Cajuns are getting ready to rumble."
"What?"
"That's what I said." He looked at me, and I could see the exasperation. "What's next?"
It seemed like a rhetorical question, but I answered anyway. "Beats me."
He turned around just as Aaron Bronson wheeled a room-service cart out of the elevator.
"You," Jack said.
Aaron looked up.
"It's Aaron, right?" Jack went on. "You look like you can handle yourself." He wheeled around toward the front desk. "Lucy, get somebody out here to take that cart back to the kitchen, please."
Lucy picked up the phone.
"I'm gonna need somebody to help me," Jack said. "We have a bunch of guests about to get themselves in some hot water out on the levee, and I need to go out there and get it stopped before they find themselves in real trouble."
Aaron grinned and said, "Heck yeah, I'm game. In the army I worked on the bomb squad. These days I can use a little action."
I was struck by how handsome and strong the two men were, fierce and intense, and ready to go out and save the day. Why it was enough to make an old-fashioned girl swoon. But there clearly wasn't time for that.
"Mel," Jack said. "Run and get a first aid kit, and anyone else you can find who can help, then grab your clothes from your locker, and meet us back here. You can change on the bus."
"But who should I—?" But he was already on his way out the door.
I ran to the employee locker room, yanked open my locker, grabbed my jeans, T-shirt, jacket, and boots. Then I went to the main cabinet where a few towels, name tags, paper plates, plastic forks, and other things employees found a use for were kept, among them a well-stocked first aid kit.
As I headed back to the lobby, I ran into Fabrizio. He was still in costume, a white jumpsuit and cape, white patent leather boots, and a silvery turban with a big old fake diamond in the middle.
"Fabrizio, come with me. Jack needs us." I grabbed his hand on the fly and pulled him along behind me.
He came without a question. It was just the kind of man he was, always ready to help in whatever way possible.
As we headed across the lobby, I spotted Marvin Pendleton, the little elf who'd performed with Lurch at last night's gala. He was at the reception counter, and it looked like he might have been hitting on Lucy—in his elf costume. Oh, my, Catalina would be heartbroken at his perfidy.
"Marvin," I called out. "Marvin, come with us."
He looked up, startled. "Who, me?"
"Yes, you. Jack Stockton, the manager, he needs help. Please come."
Marvin came at a run and passed both me and Fabrizio.
Out front, the chartered bus was already running, Jack and Aaron already aboard.
Odeo was boarding just ahead of me. He turned and took my hand to steady me. "Mr. Stockton, he say they's having trouble out on the levee."
"I know," I said. "I hope we can stop it."
I clambered up the steps, Fabrizio and Marvin right behind me.
Jack was in the seat right behind th
e driver, and Aaron directly across the aisle.
I handed the first aid kit to Jack. "I'll head on to the back and get out of this costume."
As Fabrizio and Marvin headed up the aisle after me, I heard Jack say. "Okay. Not what I expected, but you guys will be great. Fabrizio, at least take off the turban."
And then, after a pause when all I heard was the engine running, the whoosh of the bus door closing, and the bells on Marvin's hat and elf shoes jingling as he made his way up the aisle behind me, Jack said, "Seriously? God help us."
I went all the way up the aisle to the last row, tossed my clothes and boots on the seat, and reached for the zipper on my dress.
"I could help you with that."
I turned around. Marvin was standing on the seat directly behind me, his hands in the air, making a zipping motion.
"Oh, no you don't." I said, pointing my finger back toward the front of the bus. "Go. I can take care of this myself. Thank you very much."
He sighed—"Just trying to help."—jumped down off the seat, and moped all the way back to the front of the bus, leaving me to shimmy out of my dress in the dark.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
After changing into my street clothes, I rolled up my costume, made my way up the aisle, and took the seat next to Jack, stopping to stash my costume in the overhead bin above him.
It took a little over forty minutes to make our way from The Mansion at Mystic Isle to St. James Parish along the banks of the Mississippi River, where Louisiana tradition held that December bonfires lit the way for Papa Noël making his way to all the good little boys and girls.
It was obvious trouble was brewing when we crossed over the levee and took in the scene.
The Mansion had sponsored the winter solstice event for the Circle of Ravens. It was meant to be a private party. The bonfire had been erected in the shape of The Mansion herself, complete with log pillars along one side to simulate the veranda pillars at the resort.
But the body count let us know that way more than the number of Ravens who'd left the resort were milling around on the levee.
The bonfire blazed, sending sparks into the dark, clear night sky. The tempers were also blazing. The robed Ravens and whoever else was out there were pushing each other around.
When the driver levered open the door, sounds of shouting and swearing assaulted our ears. Jack grabbed onto the rail in front of the seat and hauled himself up. My best bet was to leap up out of the seat and get out of his way.
It was a mini stampede as all five men left the bus and ran out onto the levee. I didn't know what else to do with myself, so I grabbed the first aid kit and followed.
The cold night air hit my face. The familiar smells of the Mississippi washed over me. Some people think the river stinks, but to me it smells like home and always will.
The bus driver jogged past me and leapt into the fray behind Jack, Aaron, Fabrizio, Odeo, and Marvin, who had all surged into the crowd and begun to try to separate the rabble-rousers.
There was a lot of shouting.
"Go back to your Sherwood Forest, ya freaks."
"Get the heck off me, Gandalf."
"Go back to the bayou where you belong, Neanderthal."
I got the impression it wasn't all as bad as it looked and sounded. The Cajuns were sloppy drunk and barely upright, and the Ravens weren't all that athletic to start with. Their idea of a brawl was using their staffs to knock the feet out from under their opponents then sitting on them.
It only took about ten minutes for the men who'd traveled from the resort to begin bringing people back to the bus. All the people who came with them were Ravens.
The Cajuns had begun to disburse on their own when police sirens became audible in the distance.
Everything settled down. Out on the levee, two of the resort employees, who'd probably been sent out early to the bonfire, stood watch over it as the mini Mansion imploded on itself, and the flames began to die down.
The solstice celebration was apparently over.
I reboarded the bus and made my way to the back to take an inventory of injuries.
All in all, the damages were minor. A few bloodied noses, some scrapes, folks who'd have trouble hauling themselves from bed in the morning due to bumped knees and elbows. Nothing major. No one wanted to make a stop at the local urgent care, and the conversation was pretty animated as we pulled back over the levee and headed back to the resort.
The bus was fairly full, so I took the empty seat next to Odeo.
We rode in silence for a few minutes until he said, "I surely hope Chief Deputy Boudreaux will be finding somebody to take to jail on account of old Slim. I truly like Chef Valentine. She a fine lady. She didn't no more kill Slim than she be running for President."
Aaron had evidently been eavesdropping. "She is that. A fine lady. Have you decided to help her, Mel?"
I didn't hesitate. "Yes. I'm going to do everything I can to find out who really killed Slim. It couldn't have been Valentine. I just don't believe it. What motive could she possibly have had?"
Odeo made a little noise that sounded somewhat like a low growl. I turned to look at him in the darkness of the bus. The moonlight coming through the window cast a pale sheen over his dark skin. He raised one hand to rub over the top of his head. "Chef Valentine, she ain't got no motives. Heck, I got me more motives to kill that man than her."
I didn't like the way he said that. There'd been a quality in his voice that sounded almost like a confession. "But you didn't kill him. Did you, Odeo?" My voice sounded sharp even to me.
He didn't answer at first, and when he did it wasn't an answer, more like a dodge. "Well, I did hit him," he said. "I did do that. He wasn't a very nice man. They was lots of folks didn't like Slim. And I was one of them."
I sat back against the bus seat and tried to figure out if an enraged Odeo would have been capable of scheming to run over the man who was trouble to him. I didn't want to think it. His childlike manner had always made me fond of him. Please don't let him be the one. I couldn't bear it any more than I could if it turned out to actually be Valentine. And I had to wonder why it seemed my friends tended to get themselves in this kind of pickle.
Fabrizio was in the seat across the aisle beside Aaron, next to the window. He'd leaned his face against the cold glass. "Are you all right, Fabrizio?" I asked.
He turned away from the window. "I believe I am, my dear." He sounded pretty chipper for a man who wasn't used to having to stop such a fracas as the one at the levee. "I also believe I'll be sporting what you call a shiner in the morning."
"Oh, no," I said. "I'm so sorry."
"Not at all. It's my first, a battle scar I'll wear proudly until it fades away. Although I must say I am a bit miffed over the stains on my costume."
That made me smile.
Lurch was folded up on himself in the row behind Fabrizio and Aaron. He was doing quite a bit of his low, forlorn moaning. I understood. He wasn't the outdoor type to begin with, and the idea of the poor man being paraded around the bonfire in that leafy Jolly Green Giant outfit for everyone to see made me feel a little sorry for him.
He began to hum, low in his throat, and I soon recognized it as "99 Bottles of Beer." It wasn't long before others heard it and began to sing the words.
We'd gone through several rounds and were taking down and passing around even more bottles of beer by the time the driver pulled the chartered bus back under the portico at The Mansion.
* * *
When we'd arrived back at the resort and everyone had piled out of the bus and gone inside, under the lobby lights I saw that Jack had some bumps and scrapes on his face, as well as a little mouse swelling under one eye.
"Oh, no." I reached one hand to lightly tap it.
He flinched and pulled back. "Ow."
That settled it. My Cap'n Jack never complained. Never. I reached up, placed my hands on his shoulders, and turned him around. "We're going to your place and putting an ice bag on that," I said
.
He didn't object.
Jack had lived in the honeymoon cottage on the resort property since he'd first been hired and moved to Louisiana from New York. I'd always thought it was meant to be a temporary arrangement between Jack and Harry Villars, but when he wasn't asked to relocate after several months, I got the idea that Harry liked having his general manager at The Mansion twenty-four/seven. It certainly helped when a crisis arose. Jack didn't seem to mind either. He was a hands-on manager who loved his job, and the honeymoon cottage, small and self-contained, was just right for a bachelor who worked long hours.
It was a three-room suite with a kitchenette—remodeled into a modern lodging from the original plantation kitchen. Jack had put his own stamp on things. There was a photographic poster of the Manhattan skyline Jack said he himself had taken from the top of the Empire State Building and had blown up. Posters of Phantom of the Opera and West Side Story hung over his bed. And don't ask me how I know that.
He sat quietly, eyes closed, on one of the stools at the kitchen counter while I ever so gently pressed a Ziploc baggie full of crushed ice up against his face. He laid his hand on top of mine and sighed.
After a few minutes, he opened his eyes, and I found myself staring into his dark gaze that spoke of his intelligence, good-humor, and kindness—and at the moment his desire for me.
"What a night," he said.
I laughed a little. "Have to say I've never been to a bonfire quite like that one before. Guess that's what you get if you deviate from the Christmas Eve tradition. If it's usual, you just sit around, eat gumbo and drink spirits, watch the fires and the fireworks, and get the little ones all excited 'bout Papa Noël coming."
Jack snorted. "Curse of the Circle of Ravens, I guess. Don't tell Harry I said this, but I kind of hope they don't come back next year."
"No luck. They come every year. It's one of the few places they're actually welcome, if they don't cross paths with the Cajuns that is. Yes, sir," I said. "God knows you don't fool with tradition when there's even one Cajun around. Those people are great believers in the past, tied to it even. And they're not shy about public displays of out-and-out disagreement."
Mystic Mistletoe Murder Page 8
