Mystic Mistletoe Murder

by Sally J. Smith

  I led Benjy back to the parking lot where Quincy was just pulling in.

  One of the resort's gaily painted SUVs followed close behind his sheriff's unit. The SUV stopped, the passenger door flew open, and Valentine jumped out, her feet barely making contact with the ground before she ran to us.

  The driver's side door opened, and Jack stepped out.

  At the sight of him, all the courage from the adrenaline surge flagged, and the need to feel his arms around me bubbled up in barely contained tears.

  Benjy jerked away as Valentine stopped running and knelt, her arms opening wide to pull him in.

  The tears she held back were there in her voice. "What were you thinking, child? Going off with someone like that."

  Benjy sobbed, his voice catching and breaking. "Sorry, Mom. She said you sent her. When I saw the car, I knew she wasn't taking me to you like she said. I was scared, Mom. I didn't know what…" He broke down, wailing now, shivering with reaction.

  Hugging him to her, Valentine rose to her feet, her son against her chest. Her gaze fell on me. The crinkle of her eyes and the nod of her head expressed more gratitude than spoken words would have.

  She turned and carried him back toward her car as Jack rushed up and threw his arms around me, his gaze roaming my face. "Thank God you're safe," he said. "When we got the call, I couldn't think about anything else but your safety."

  I snuggled even closer to him, wrapping my arms around his back, burying my face against him. Breathing in the clean and manly scent I'd labeled Eau de Cap'n Jack, I relaxed. Safe. Benjy was safe. I was safe.

  I twisted my head and saw Aaron walking toward us.

  And Aaron was safe.

  We were asked to make brief statements right there at the scene.

  Agatha from the day camp showed up and identified Diane as the woman who'd come in and taken Benjy away.

  Diane had been taken to Quincy's vehicle and placed in the back seat with the door remaining open. She yelled out every so often, demanding to be uncuffed and let go. She worked herself up into a near frenzy, hollering, "That slut doesn't deserve to have a beautiful child like that."

  Quincy turned away from his conversation with Agatha. "Knock that stuff off, you hear?"

  But Diane was on a roll. "Can't you all see I was doing him a favor taking him away from her? Why, she's a monster. Bewitched Slim, led him down the Devil's road to an eternity of hellfire and brimstone. Good thing he died. If he hadn't died, he'd have been damned for sure."

  While I didn't check to be certain, I felt pretty sure every head within the sound of her voice must have turned. Mine sure did. I stared at her. Beside me, Jack stared at her.

  "What's that you're saying?" Quincy asked.

  Diane looked around and seemed to realize she might have gone further than she intended. In a quieter, more subdued voice, she said, "Well, it's true. All of it."

  "No wonder Slim sought out Valentine's calm spirit for advice," I said. "That woman's flat-out nuts." And I had to wonder if she'd go so far as kidnapping a child, wouldn't she also be capable of killing her husband.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  I'd given Valentine her car keys back, and after making a call to the resort to be certain the food for the memorial service was taken care of, she and Benjy left for home.

  Jack drove me back to The Mansion in the SUV.

  We were still both pretty shook up.

  "Did you hear what that Conner woman said about Slim getting killed?" he asked. "I mean, really? Who says that about their own husband?"

  I didn't have an answer to the question but had one of my own. "Do you think she's crazy enough to have run that poor man down?"

  He kept his eyes on the road and shrugged. "Don't know."

  I sighed. "Me neither. But it'd be good for Valentine if she had, and even better if she'd admit it."

  The sun through the windows was warm and comforting, making me a little drowsy. We drove the rest of the way to The Mansion in comfortable silence, arriving a little before three thirty. Jack dropped me off in front of his place then drove around to the fleet garage to return the SUV he'd signed out.

  I had just enough time to take a five-minute shower, put my hair up in a messy little top knot, slather on some eye shadow and lipstick, and slip into the little black shift I kept at Jack's place in case we wanted to go out to dinner after work.

  There were already quite a few chairs taken in the garden for the memorial service when I arrived exactly at four p.m. Jack was already there. I took the empty chair beside him and looked around. The white fold-up chairs were what the staff normally used to set up for weddings. But this wasn't a happy occasion. At least Harry had the good Southern taste to take down all the spooky Christmas decorations. That would have made it all pretty weird.

  Many of the resort's employees were there: Stella, Cat, Lucy from the front desk, others—some I knew, some I didn't.

  A jazz trio who worked the main salon a couple of nights a week had set up off to one side. They wound down from "Swing Low Sweet Chariot" and began "In The Garden," which seemed to be a cue for Harry who got up from his seat in the front row beside Fabrizio and mounted the two steps to where a podium stood on a raised deck.

  Under one arm, he carried a Bible. Our fearless leader was dressed in the Harry Villars version of somber, wearing a pale blue suit over a dove-grey shirt, grey and blue striped bow tie, and leather mocs so close to the color of the suit they might have been dyed to match. Once he was behind the podium, he removed his signature Panama hat, today, white straw with a blue hatband, laid it on the seat of the chair beside him, and opened the Bible.

  He removed a sheet of paper that had been marking the page, put on his glasses, and began to read Psalms 23 in a quiet, respectful voice, the lilt of his Louisiana accent lending a certain sweetness to the recitation.

  Once he'd finished with the text, he opened the sheet of paper. "All of us here at The Mansion at Mystic Isle called our friend Phil Conner, Slim. It was a loving endearment to the man who readily acknowledged his love of good food, good liquor, and good times kept him rounder than some of us. More to love, I guess, like my own dear mother used to say. Slim always had a friendly smile and a good joke ready for anyone he encountered. He was a generous man, generous with his time and good spirits, and when he died, he been on a mission to make children happy. We're going to miss Slim. Yes, we are. And while I'm not a chaplain, I'm hoping those of you who pray will join me in the Lord's Prayer."

  He bowed his head and began. "Our Father…"

  I bowed my own head and began to say the familiar, comforting words. Beside me, Jack's voice joined my own, and the voices of sixty or so others commended Slim's spirit skyward.

  When we were done, the jazz trio began to play "Amazing Grace," and Marvin, in a tiny tux fancy and well-tailored enough that it could have come straight off Rodeo Drive, went to the podium, pulled the chair over, and climbed up on top of it, smashing the crown of Harry's Panama hat in the process. He leaned in to the microphone and began to sing.

  His voice was haunting and emotional. Even if the man was only three and half or four feet tall, his angelic voice gave him stature—well, that and the chair he stood on.

  I was willing to bet by the time he finished there wasn't a dry eye in the house. It did kind of spoil the moment when he swung his arms and hopped down off the chair, his feet hitting the deck with a thump. But it looked like I might have been the only one who noticed because he was immediately surrounded by several fawning women from clerical and housekeeping, and of course Stella, who all gushed and oohed and aahed over his heartbreaking rendition of the old song.

  Harry picked up the flattened hat off the chair, put his fist into the crown, and tried to push it back into shape. Still working on it, he stepped around Marvin and his fan club and bent to the mic again. "If you'd like to join us in the Presto-Change-o Room, there is a gorgeous buffet and open bar in honor of our friend."

  With the sun lowering
in the sky and a chill settling over the garden, we all made our way through the garden, across the pool deck, and into the French doors of the Presto-Change-o Room.

  Warm air and the tantalizing aromas of the hot food from the buffet met us as we all filed inside and took over the venue.

  The doors leading from the lobby into the Presto-Change-o Room had been closed and a Private Party sign set in front. As full as the hotel was with holiday guests, it was a tribute to Harry's and Jack's thoughtfulness and genuine concern that they were both willing to forego revenue the venue generated, especially on December 23, to pay homage to a friend and employee.

  Jack and I had opted to wait until the lines at the buffet let up before checking it out. Cat and Stella came up to our table.

  "Want some company?" Cat asked.

  Jack got up and pulled out a couple of the chairs for them. "Of course," he said.

  I had my eye on Cat's plate. She'd piled it high with Cajun wings, Andouille pigs in a blanket, some big old gorgeous pink shrimp, sweet potato fries, and chopped salad. My stomach grumbled, and all three of them looked at it. "I haven't eaten since breakfast." I shrugged.

  "Well, you two go on," Cat said. "We won't let anyone take your places."

  Jack sent me to the buffet while he headed for the bar. I loaded up a plate with enough food for us both and headed back to the table. He was right behind me with two iconic bottles of Ghost in the Machine brew from Parish Brewing.

  I set the plate on the table between our two chairs and had almost put my butt back into the seat when I looked up and saw Odeo Fournet hovering nearby. I wouldn't have known him except for his bald head and neatly trimmed beard. I'd never seen the man wear anything except overalls, a work shirt, and boots. But today Odeo was dressed up like Sunday go to meetin' in a pair of khakis, a pale yellow sport shirt with embroidered columns on the front, and what could have been described as nurses' shoes only they were black.

  Shifting from one foot to the other, looking around the room, he had a plate of food in one hand and a can of Coke in the other.

  I waved at him, gesturing toward the empty chair at our table. He started over but stopped when he saw Jack. Odeo had always been a little nervous in Jack's presence, even if Jack had never really given him any cause. "Jack?" I said softly as he sat beside me. "Let Odeo know he's welcome to come and sit with us."

  Jack looked up. "Oh, sure," he said, got back to his feet, crossed the space between our table and Odeo, took Odeo's plate from his hand, and led him back to us. Odeo shuffled his feet, hesitating to sit down until Jack said, "I'm so glad to see you, Odeo. It'll be nice to chew the fat with you." I smiled. It wasn't something Jack would have said a few months ago, but N'awlins was rubbing off on him.

  That did the trick. Odeo sat down in the empty chair beside Stella and grinned. "I'm happy to see you too, Mr. Stockton. I been wantin' to talk to you 'bout that thing with Slim. You know? How he was sellin' that hooch out o' my shed?"

  Jack looked up, chewing on a chicken wing. He swallowed and swiped at his mouth with a napkin. "Yes, Odeo? What's on your mind?"

  "I was thinkin' 'bout this really old pirate I saw with Slim one night."

  "Pirate?" Jack, Cat, Stella, and I said in unison.

  Odeo nodded, serious as a guy at a tax audit. "A pirate in a Mardi Gras shirt." He raised one hand, three fingers together, like he was a Boy Scout. "I swear. They was walking together, and for all I know they might have been doin' some business. You know, like maybe having to do with all them spirits Slim had been haulin' out to my boathouse? Thing I remember about that old pirate was his shirt. It was different, you see. I never saw a shirt like that one afore. It was purple and green and gold, just like Mardi Gras, and the front of it said Tip the Bartender, and the back of it said Chauncey's Roadhouse."

  Jack looked at me, one eyebrow arched.

  "Chauncey's Roadhouse is just up the road," I said in explanation. "They pride themselves on 'Mardi Gras 24/7/365.' It's a biker bar. Everyone except the tourists know it's too sleazy to hang out in, and the liquor runs three times higher than it should."

  Jack nodded, and we all turned back to Odeo to see what he had to add to his tale.

  "If'n something was to go bad in the kind of deal they was makin', a man who'd buy bootleg liquor might not have any problems killin' off someone who'd done something he didn't like much." He spread his hands to let us know he'd pretty much finished laying out his theory. "What do y'all think 'bout that?"

  "Hmm." That was Cat.

  "Yeah." That was Jack. "You just might be onto something. But what makes you think he was a pirate?

  "The patch. He had a pirate's patch on his eye. And a sword too."

  "Odeo, that's so smart." That was me, and I was both giddy with the possibility of what he was saying and impatient that he hadn't said anything about this before. "It would have been good to know this before they hauled poor Valentine off to jail for the night."

  Stella laid her hand on Odeo's arm in a calming gesture. She looked at me, her voice controlled. "Well, he's telling us now, Mel. Isn't that a good thing?"

  Odeo's brows were knit together, his expression hurt.

  I'd momentarily forgotten how sensitive and vulnerable The Mansion's grounds keeper was. I took a deep breath. "It is good, Odeo."

  Odeo smiled, tied a napkin around his neck, and dug into his plate.

  Jack, Cat, and I put our heads together while Stella chatted with Odeo about the upcoming takedown and storage of the holiday decorations and subsequent redecoration with the hearts and flowers for Valentine's Day.

  We kept our voices low.

  "We need to go to Chauncey's and find out who this guy is. What if he's the one who ran down Slim with the company van?" I said.

  From across the room, Desi Lopez de Monterra came strutting in dressed in a three-piece magenta suit and matching tie. The suit fabric was splattered with jolly snowmen, sparkling snow crystals, and silver Christmas trees. The purple patent Cuban-heeled shoes with the hot pink block heels added a couple of inches to his diminutive height. The matching purple pocket square and zoot fedora were the perfect finishing touches to his zesty holiday costume.

  He pranced by our table on his way to the stage.

  "Mel." He stopped to lift my hand to his lips, raise his hot dark gaze to mine while he bowed low over one extended leg like a medieval courtier. "Man, you look slick tonight, mamacita."

  Beside me, Jack bristled and put his arm across my shoulder. Really, Jack? Men!

  "Why thank you, Desi."

  He was such a player, a real ladies' man. And underneath all that swagger was a good soul who loved and cared for his mother and volunteered at the church every chance he got. Harry always kept Desi in mind when he needed a lone musician or even someone to sit in for another pianist.

  Desi looked around the room that was full of those who'd attended Slim's wake. "Looks like you cats gave old Slim a real fine send-off," he said to Jack. "Only thing better would have been a second line parade."

  Cat nodded.

  Stella's smile was small and sad. "You got that right, Desi. Slim would've been knocked out with a second line parade." She and Desi high-fived across the table. "But this was real groovy. Especially what Marvin did. He just rocked it. Never knew I could be so attracted to such a small dude."

  Desi grinned and wiggled his eyebrows. "Woman, you got no idea what a short man can do. Just because a dude's got short legs doesn't mean he short everywhere." He reached into his vest pocket with two fingers, slid out a big gold pocket watch, and flipped it open. "Well, guys and dolls, gotta run. My true love awaits."

  "Your true love?" Stella actually sounded a little jealous.

  "Yeah, my sweet baby with the ragtime rhythm." He jerked his head toward the stage.

  A sudden thought occurred to me. "Could you wait just a couple seconds, Desi? There's something I'd like to ask you."

  "Sure, doll. I always got time for a hot chick."

  Yes,
he was always a little over the top, but for some reason it never offended me, probably because I never took him seriously. He was a lot like the outrageous skirt-chasing hound from The Mask. I half expected him to howl any minute.

  Desi pulled an empty chair over from a nearby table, turned it around, and straddled it. "Lay it on me."

  "Do you ever work at Chauncey's Roadhouse?"

  He let his chin drop against his chest then looked up with a rueful expression. "Mmm. Not if I can help it, lovely. They ain't exactly what you'd call generous over there, and whenever I play there, I make sure I'm wearing body armor. But if they make an offer, and I don't have another gig, I figure why not. Low bread's better than no bread. Right?"

  Jack saw where I was going. "Ever see"—he glanced at Odeo—"a pirate there?"

  Desi looked at Jack and grinned. "Oh, sure, all the time" He did a double take when no one laughed. "You serious, cat?"

  Jack nodded. "As a brain tumor."

  Desi pulled off the fedora and ran his fingers through his hair to bring his poufy pompadour hairstyle back to life. "Pirate, eh?"

  Odeo spoke up. "He has a pretty purple shirt from Chauncey's Roadhouse and a patch like a real pirate. And a pirate's sword too."

  "Sword?"

  "Oh, yeah. He was waiving it around in front of him when he walked."

  Desi's dark eyes shifted to the side as he considered what Odeo said. "Oh. Yeah, man. You're talking about old Chauncey himself. But I'm pretty sure he had a cane, not a sword. Chauncey uses a cane. But Pirate?" He raised his hand to Odeo, and they executed an odd high-five—Desi's small, delicate, long-fingered musician's hand slapped against Odeo's huge, calloused gardener's hand. "Good one, man."

  "So the guy with the patch is the owner?" I asked. "Chauncey?"

  Desi nodded, reaching to snag one of the miniature pigs in a blanket hors d'oeuvres off Odeo's plate and pop it into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed. "Yeah, poor old Chauncey. Dude's about as old as the Mississippi and twice as crooked."

  "Crooked?" Jack asked.