After a couple of air kisses, we disconnected just as I arrived at St. Antoine's Children's Home.
My old friend and mentor, Father Brian, was shooting hoops in the courtyard with some of the boys. I sat down on a bench and watched. Brian was a good man. He was probably in his late forties. His shaggy hair had been grey since I'd first met him when I was graduating from high school. I loved him for his generous spirit, kind patience, and good humor.
After a few minutes, he looked over and saw me sitting there, and after dribbling the ball a few times, he bounced it over to one of the boys. "I'm gonna go talk to Melanie awhile," he said, "give you boys a little break."
He sat down beside me, his head turning as he watched the boys running circles under the hoop. "I heard about the terrible thing that happened at Mystic Isle on Tuesday. How grim. Did you know the man?"
I nodded. "Not all that well, but he seemed like a nice enough guy. He was funny. But I just learned that he wasn't all he seemed."
Father Brian shrugged. "Who of us really is?"
"He owed a lot of money to someone." I turned toward him. "A lot of money and to someone who might or might not be capable of killing him to get paid back by taking Papa Noël's gift bag."
Brian sat there a minute. "Did you hear that a bone marrow match has been found?"
"Really? That's great." But then I remembered all the money we collected to put toward Nicole's procedure was gone, taken from Slim's poor dead grip by some low-life, killer scum. Sure, I was being a bit dramatic, but when was drama called for if not now?
"The really bad thing about it is this woman's a missionary who's come forward and volunteered to donate, but she's leaving for her mission in Africa in a week."
I felt like crying but held it back. Father Brian was a sensitive soul and seemed to pick up on my emotions. He laid his hand on my shoulder.
"I just connect with these kids, you know." It was hard for me to talk about it. "They don't have anyone except you and the sisters."
"Well, and you and others who care about them."
"Yes, but they're not family. Not the kind of family a kid really needs. I had Mama, Grandmama Ida, and Granddaddy Joe. But I understand how vulnerable they must feel. When my father just up and left when I was five, even with Mama and my grandparents there to love me and support me, I felt like my world had turned upside down. I watched at the window for months, thinking he'd be coming home any day."
"These things are hard to understand." His voice was soft, kind.
"It's just due to that, I get how these kids must feel, on a smaller scale of course. I had more love when I was a kid than I knew what to do with. These boys and girls…they don't have that. And poor Nicole. She must be so scared and not have anyone to sit by her bed and…" I couldn't go on.
Father Brian seemed at a loss. "Sister Catherine is close to the child. We all do our best."
"I know you do, Father Brian. I just wish that money hadn't disappeared. She really needs it, especially now."
"We're making a plea to the congregation, but…" his voice trailed off.
"It doesn't look good?" I finished for him.
He shook his head, sending his unkempt hair falling down onto his forehead. His eyes were worried, a sentiment I shared with him.
"Man," I lamented. "I thought we had this covered. What kind of person would do that—kill Slim in the first place then take funds and gift cards intended for your kids?"
"Not a good person," he said. "And I want you to keep that in mind when you go running off trying to find the bag and get it back."
I just looked at him.
"Don't give me those big old innocent green eyes," he said seriously. "I know how you are, Melanie Hamilton. I also know it won't do any good to tell you not to try to track it down, so I'm just going to say a prayer you won't put yourself in danger to do it."
"A prayer, Father? How about if you say two?"
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
What Father Brian had said about poor Nicole felt like a bull elephant sitting on me. I couldn't breathe right, and my head spun with worry. The sweet little girl had been waiting for a blood marrow donor for over a year. In the meantime, her condition had grown worse and she'd grown weaker. We'd raised $70,000.00 in our holiday drive earmarked specifically to help defray the cost of her procedure should a suitable donor come along. And here we were with someone who matched, was willing and able, but who was also on a tight timetable—and no money.
I leaned over and told the cabbie, a Bobby DeNiro double, seventyish with the down-turned mouth and piercing dark eyes, "Please take me to the ferry dock by Café du Monde."
"You got it, girl."
Traffic was light on the freeway until we headed into the Quarter where holiday shoppers bustled around from store to store. When we neared the French Market, cars were stacked up like it was a parking lot, so I paid the hefty fare, got out, and walked the remaining few blocks.
I slipped off the jacket and stuffed it in my tote in case the bookie happened to be on the boat. Then I waited on the dock, watching the Mystic Isle ferry head back across. It was a flat-bottom ferry with a canopy. The canopy and sides were painted with fleur-de-lis and scrolls in Mardi Gras colors of purple, gold, and green. As it drew closer through the whirling water, I saw George, the conductor, leaning against the rail.
George had a mouth full of big ol' teeth that looked too large for his face when he grinned. His Adam's apple was so prominent I yearned to tease him about swallowing a Ping-Pong ball. But George was a really good guy with a heart of gold, and neither Cat nor I ever wanted to say anything that might hurt his feelings.
The ferry pulled up then sidled up beside the dock. George went straight to open the gate and put out the gangplank.
"Hey, Mel," George hollered when he saw me. "How you doin'?" He took my hand and helped me onto the gangplank. "I already ferried your counterpart across a while back."
"Cat's working," I told him. "It's my day off."
He gave me one of his endearing aw-shucks grins. "So you're probably crossing over just so's you get to talk to me. Ain't that right?" He winked.
"Absolutely, George. I just can't stand going even one day without talking shop with my favorite ferryman."
After about fifteen minutes, when no one else came, the ferry headed southeast cross-river to Algiers Point where, with any luck, the Mystic Isle shuttle bus was dropping off several departing guests for George to ferry back across.
It was a thirty-minute drive from the ferry landing to The Mansion at Mystic Isle, and I was the only passenger on the shuttle. The driver, a new guy I'd only met once before, tried to engage me in conversation, but I wasn't in the mood to chat—too preoccupied with Slim's murder, the theft of the bounty from our holiday charity drive, and what that might mean for Nicole's medical procedure if we couldn't find out who killed Slim and recover it.
He finally gave up, and we rode most of the way in silence. When he pulled the shuttle up under The Mansion's portico, I stepped down just in time to see Valentine Cantrell cross the threshold, where Lurch grabbed hold and lifted her off her feet in a big old bear hug while he snapped off a selfie.
When he set her back on her feet, he reached down and patted the top of her head affectionately like she was a wayward stray dog come back to the old homestead. Lurch was good people, odd people, but all the same good people.
"Valentine," I called out.
She turned around. I'd never seen her look as tired as she did just then. Her beautiful golden eyes were dull, her hair frizzy and unkempt.
"Hello, Mel," she said. She even sounded exhausted.
I hurried up the steps and across the veranda, where I wrapped my arms around her. "I'm so glad to see you," I said. "They let you go? That's wonderful."
She shook her head. "They didn't 'xactly 'let me go.' More like Harry posted bail. I'm still facing a court date in a couple of weeks, but at the hearing, the judge didn't deem me no flight risk, so I am coming back to
work for as long as I can."
"Oh." That was disappointing news. I took hold of her hand. "Well, don't you worry, Val. I'm not going to rest until we figure out who killed poor Slim and took Papa Noël's bag. And we all know it wasn't you."
She smiled and nodded as tears welled in her eyes, and I could see she didn't trust herself to speak.
Valentine and I walked inside, and just as I was turning away to go find Jack and discuss whether or not he'd be able to help me do some gumshoeing…
"Hell's bells! I don't believe it!" It was Diane, Slim's wife, crossing the lobby. She grabbed hold of Valentine's arm and whipped her around.
Startled and maybe even a little frightened, Valentine drew back, yanking her arm away. "Mrs. Conner?" she said. "What is it?"
"Don't go and tell me they let you out of the slammer, you brazen man-stealing hussy!"
"I…I…" Valentine couldn't do anything but stutter. She looked around as if she was unsure what to do. And who could blame her?
Diane was on a rampage, grabbing Valentine's arm again. "Don't you think I didn't know you was shackin' up with my Slim? And don't you think he didn't tell me he was going to stop seeing you just to please me? And don't you think we all don't know you was probably so jealous-mad you ran him down just for spite?"
Valentine tried hard to loosen Diane's hold on her arm, but Diane hung on like a bulldog with a bone, going so far as to shake Valentine.
"Let go of me," Valentine said. "You're making a scene, and besides, I don't know what you're talking about. First of all, I wasn't 'shacking up' with poor Slim. He was a friend of mine, and he had some serious problems he didn't feel comfortable talking to anyone else about. Money problems. Gambling debts, if you want to know. He was worried about owing all that money. Woman, that man wasn't cheating on you as far as I know and f'sure not with me."
"You're lyin'," Diane screeched and grabbed Valentine's hair, jerking her head to one side.
Poor Valentine had no choice but to retaliate, lunging at Diane.
All heck broke loose then.
The two women went down on the floor, grappling. I felt sort of helpless and stupid and just stood there a minute watching them.
Someone up on the second floor landing who must have been looking down yelled. "Cat fight!"
Lurch, moving pretty darn fast for a Goliath over seven feet tall, leaned over and grabbed hold of both women and pulled them apart.
Diane stood there, struggling, heaving, and—I was pretty surprised—hissing at Valentine.
Valentine was crying. "What's wrong with you?"
I came to my senses, took hold of Val's hand, and pulled her outside with me, while Lurch stood passively, holding on to Diane almost tenderly, the whole time making a low disapproving sound in his throat.
I didn't look back to see what the outcome was going to be but instead propelled Valentine out the door, across the lawn, and over the property. She dug in her heels, stopping us outside the old boathouse on the dock.
She stood there a minute, tears flowing down her cheeks, her chest heaving with exertion and probably frustration and anxiety. "I just…I just…" She took a deep, ragged breath and let it out. "That woman is just plain old nuts."
I didn't add anything. In my opinion, that pretty much said it all.
At that moment, the door to the boathouse opened, and Odeo came out, carrying a big bag of fertilizer on each shoulder.
The minute he saw Valentine and me standing on the dock, he set them down and lumbered over to us.
By the sheer grief on his face and the shaking of his hands, it was obvious he was upset. "Oh, Miss Valentine," he moaned. "What is it's gone wrong with you? Why you cryin'?"
The very soul of patience and calm, Valentine took yet another deep breath then laid her hand on Odeo's muscular arm. "It's nothing, Odeo. Just pure spite that don't mean nothing really, and I'm just kind of tired is all."
At that point Odeo had worked himself into a fit and stood there shaking his head and shifting his weight side to side. "I knowed it," he whimpered. "I shoulda done what I meant to and told Chief Deputy Quincy it was me."
Both Valentine and I turned to stare at him.
"What do you mean it was you?" I asked.
"Well, Miss Melanie, if I had said it was me all along, none of this trouble would've landed at Valentine's feet. They would've taken me, not her."
Valentine's voice was so soft I could barely hear her. Her hand stayed where it was on Odeo's arm, but her fingers curled a little tighter. "Are you sayin' it was you killed Slim Conner?" She couldn't hide the fear and shock in her voice. "Tell me it wasn't you, Odeo."
I held my breath.
He looked down at her. "If I said I did, maybe things'd be better for you. I love you, Miss Valentine, and I hate it that they's all giving you so much trouble."
You could have shoveled my jaw up off the dock, and that set Valentine and me both to crying.
He went on. "I'm a gonna do it. I'll be telling Deputy Q it was me all along, and they gonna be letting you get on back to your life."
Val shook her head. "You can't do that, Odeo. Not if it wasn't you."
I remembered what he'd said on the bus, about how he'd hurt Slim, and all I could think was how big he was, and how easily it was to upset him, and that a man as simple as Odeo could easily have done something in a fit of rage he might not even have remembered doing.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
We never got a straight answer from Odeo as to whether or not he'd actually been the person who ran over Slim Conner with the utility van, but we did manage to convince him not to go running to the Sheriff with some crazy kind of confession just to save Valentine. I was having a hard time believing he could be cruel or vicious. And even more trouble believing if he'd killed Papa Noël in an act of passion over the issue of the purloined liquor that he would have taken the bag of holiday goodies well known to have been intended for the orphans.
I walked Valentine around the building to the side entrance then into the kitchen. Everyone turned when we came in. A cheer went up, and we were immediately surrounded by the ten kitchen workers who made up the day staff.
There were smiles, laughter, and even some tears. Only Aaron stood back, but by the look of relief on his face, I could tell he was as happy as everyone else to see her.
Valentine stood and accepted the hugs and well wishes of her staff for a moment, and then she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "All right, people, thank you for such a spirited welcome, but let's get back to it." She crossed the room and removed a freshly laundered chef's jacket from a cabinet, donned it over her T-shirt, and buttoned it, leaving the top button loose.
Aaron came up to us and handed me a plate with an egg salad sandwich and a scoop of coleslaw. "Take a load off, Mel. And thanks for bringing her back to us," he said. "She was missed."
The sandwich, piled high with The Mansion's Cajun egg salad on a hoagie roll, looked delish. "I didn't bring her back. Mr. Villars paid her bail. I just walked in with her." I hadn't had anything solid to eat since early that morning, and I didn't hesitate to sit down in the corner away from the food prep area. "She's still charged, Aaron. The real killer's still out there somewhere, and we still have to convince the sheriff's office it wasn't Valentine." I couldn't help thinking of Odeo.
Valentine stopped at the sink and spent more than a couple of minutes scrubbing her hands then came back to me, still drying them on a paper towel. "But you did keep me from clawing that Conner woman's eyes out, and I wanna thank you for that."
Aaron looked back and forth between us, but Valentine just smiled at him and moved over to a counter where she opened a laptop and began to scroll through menu options.
"She's just a special person, isn't she?" Aaron said.
My mouth was full of sandwich, so instead of even trying to answer, I just nodded.
He stood looking at me a minute, and rather than let all that goodness go to waste, I took another huge bite out of the sandw
ich. He went on. "What can I do to help you? We need to get her out of harm's way. It just kills me that such a good person has to go through this."
I swallowed hard then answered. "Listen, Aaron, if you really mean it. I can use all the help I can get. I don't want them to pin this on her any more than any of you do." I swept the room with my hand, er, make that my sandwich. "We all love her."
"Well, I mean it," he said. "Just tell me how I can help."
I hadn't considered asking him specifically for help investigating the case, but the minute he'd offered, an idea popped into my head. "You're a good-looking guy," I said.
He didn't look surprised when I said it, even if the timing of such a bold-faced remark was odd. A guy like that probably had women panting around him all the time, which brought me to—"Do you think you might cozy up to Slim's wife?"
He looked at me for a minute, obviously trying to work out what I was getting at. I hurried to explain. "She was badmouthing Val and is one of the main reasons Chief Deputy Boudreaux arrested Valentine, that and Val's fingerprints on the van."
"Yeah." His voice was low, his tone dark and sad. "And don't forget the blood and mud all over her rain boots."
"Diane put it in Quincy's head that Valentine was having some sort of clandestine affair with her husband, and because he wanted to end it, Val killed him."
"She said that?" He shook his head. "Doesn't make sense, does it? A woman like Chef Valentine with a loser like Slim Conner."
"No, it doesn't, and Valentine already said she was just friends with Slim."
"Just friends?" He seemed to be struggling to put it together. "So you think Diane lied to the deputies?"
"I don't know if she lied exactly. I think she believed it, maybe even believed it enough to kill her husband in a jealous rage. If you could somehow get Diane talking about it, maybe she'd make a mistake and let something slip."
"But why me?"
Mystic Mistletoe Murder Page 10
