Mystic Mistletoe Murder

by Sally J. Smith

  And he certainly looked the part in a black long-rider coat and a black flat-brimmed undertaker's hat. He looked like an old-time gunslinger out to take care of business. I fully expected him to mumble, "I'm your huckleberry."

  But instead he said, "If you know where she is, Stockton, I can make it worth your while to tell me."

  I was still a good eight to ten feet away from them, but I could tell Jack was angry from where I stood. He cleared his throat, probably to keep the anger from it. "Mrs. Conner isn't here."

  Zachary narrowed his eyes. If he'd had a moustache, he'd have been stroking it. "Hmm. Not here. Not at home. You think she left the area?"

  "No." Jack shook his head, his tone ironic. "Pretty sure she hasn't left the area."

  The bookie stared at Jack a few beats then turned his glare on Lucy.

  She shrugged and tried to smile but was clearly upset.

  "You people know her loser husband owed me a boatload of money, right?" His voice was tight.

  Neither Jack nor Lucy answered him.

  He went on. "So I'm looking for his wife. In my business, we expect someone to stand good for a man's debts. Even after he dies. If she knows what's good for her…" His voice trailed off.

  I swallowed—hard.

  Jack's jaw clamped shut, and his face went hard. I stared at him. I'd never seen that look on his face before or heard that steel in his voice. "You wouldn't be threatening a man's widow now. Would you, Mr. Jones?"

  Zachary shrugged, but he didn't look away, and the serious expression on his face was more than enough of an answer.

  "Really?" Jack said. "Doesn't sound like a good idea for a man who makes illegal book and is maybe even a homicide suspect to be tossing around hints that he might be going after a sick, grieving woman. What do you think? Sound like a good plan to you? A person might believe a man who'd threaten a woman wouldn't think anything about killing a man."

  Jones stepped away suddenly and practically shrieked, "Homicide suspect?"

  He looked around the room as if he expected a SWAT team to jump out from behind a pillar and arrest him. "What makes you think I'm a suspect in Conner's death?"

  Jack's voice was calm and even, like he was explaining unexpected charges on a bill to an irate guest. "Death? You mean murder. Don't you? Well, let's see. You were here that night, captured for posterity on the digital video, with enough time in between your arrival and departure to have done the deed. And you've made it plain you had a serious problem with Slim. Why wouldn't you be considered a suspect?"

  I looked back and forth between Jack and the bookie. The way Jones was dressed, I almost expected him to draw a six-shooter and fill my man full of lead. He brushed aside the coat and reached inside.

  I drew in a sharp breath and said, "Wait!"

  But Jack and Zachary Jones just kept staring at each other like cowboys at high noon.

  "Wait for what?" Jack said, his eyes still fixed on Jones.

  I felt a little foolish. This was Mystic Isle, not Dodge City, and it was the 21st century, not the 19th.

  Everything slid back into perspective when Zachary relaxed and shoved the brim of his hat back a bit. "You people watch too much television. Why on earth would I want to kill someone who owed me fifty-two large? That doesn't make any sense—I'd be in exactly the crappy situation I'm in today. Out an enormous amount of money and nowhere to turn for payment. You must think I'm an idiot." He looked around the lobby and said loudly, "Does anyone here know where I can find Mrs. Conner?"

  The few people in the lobby looked up in confusion.

  I moved over beside Jack and cleared my throat, anxious to get rid of Zachary Jones and the tension he brought with him. "You might check with the sheriff's office," I said.

  He looked at me, blinking. His voice seemed to have risen in pitch. "Why would I want to talk to someone at the sheriff's office?"

  "Because," I said, "the sheriff will know how you can get in touch with Diane Conner. They took her into custody a few hours ago."

  Zachary Jones went pale and opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He turned abruptly toward the front door and walked quickly away, looking around and back over his shoulder as he went.

  We watched him go.

  Lurch saluted as he left. "Thank you for visiting The Mansion, sir. Have a Merry Christmas."

  I wasn't sure, but I thought I saw Zachary Jones give Lurch the bird.

  "Mr. Jones seem a little nervous when you brought up the sheriff?" Jack asked.

  "Little bit," I said. "Yeah."

  Seeing Jack go up against Zachary Jones without flinching. Exciting.

  Realizing Jones wasn't the badass he represented himself to be. Enlightening.

  Seeing the big bully speechless. Priceless.

  Jack and I stopped at the employee locker room where I picked up my overnight bag, and then we walked across the grounds to Jack's little domicile.

  After his shift, Quincy planned to cross the river and spend the night at our place with Cat. Awkward—for me anyway. I'd twice caught him in his tighty-whities, bum turned up, head stuck down, rummaging through the refrigerator in the middle of the night. It hadn't seemed to bother Quincy. The first time he'd just straightened up, waved a fried chicken leg at me, and gone back to Cat's bedroom, and the other time he'd poured a glass of milk and stood there in his briefs talking to me about how most people never got enough calcium and vitamin D in their diet. Then there was the time I'd left the house early and walked down to Café du Monde at the French Market for some warm breakfast beignets only to return to find Quincy strolling out of my shower, a towel wrapped around his head and nothing else.

  "Oops," he'd said. "Cat's having a bubble bath in the other tub. Thought you wouldn't mind if I used your shower."

  I'd been so traumatized I'd gone back outside and ate all the beignets myself. You just can't unsee something like that, and the handsome Cajun didn't seem to have a modest bone in his studly bod.

  So when Cat told me she and her lover boy were having a slumber party at our place, I'd asked Jack if he was up for a sleepover at his place.

  "You betcha I am," he'd said.

  As we walked across the grounds under a clear night sky, I pointed at a bright star low on the horizon. "That one's Venus," I said.

  "Yeah? How do you know?"

  "Stella," I said. "She knows all the stars and planets, where they are, what they portend to us?"

  "Nice," Jack said, swinging our clasped hands between us. He was quiet for a while then said, "That bookie is an interesting guy."

  "Where do you think he got that outfit?" I asked. "That'd look real sexy on you. If you had one, we could do some role-playing, pretend you're the nameless gunslinger in town, and I'm the schoolmarm."

  He brought my hand to his lips and kissed it, a wicked glint in his eye. "Let's hurry on over to my place and check out that scenario."

  "But you don't have the outfit," I said.

  "Outfit?" He pretended to snarl. "I don't need no stinking outfit."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I sat straight up when my cell phone went off. I'd fallen asleep waiting for Jack to come back. He'd been called away when the alarm had gone off at Harry's house, la petite maison. Harry and Fabrizio were spending the night across the river in one of those fabulous hotels in the Quarter. They'd spent the day Christmas shopping and the evening attending a performance of The Nutcracker at the Saenger Theatre.

  The phone rang with "Aquarius." It was Stella. My phone screen said it was after ten. "What the heck?"

  I clicked on the call, and before I could even speak, the tone of Stella's voice alerted me that something was wrong. "Oh, thank the stars, Mel. I'm so glad I got hold of you. I'm so scared. Can you help me?"

  It was one of those questions you weren't sure you should just say yes to, but I never seemed to learn and said, "Of course. What is it?"

  "My client. Zachary Jones. He called me. Threatened me. Said he's coming here. When he got back
to his place, the police were there, asking him questions about Slim Conner, and he's worried they'll find out about his whole book business and shut him down or worse, send him to prison. And he's fit to be tied, Mel. Says he knows it was me who narced him out. It wasn't, but how do I make him believe that? He's coming. Coming to get me. What should I do?"

  So the police were sniffing around Zachary Jones, eh? Perfect. Except it wasn't good for Stella. I had heard the fear in her voice. Stella by Starlight, one of the most laid back persons I'd ever run across had screeched so loud I'd had to hold the phone away from my ear.

  "I'm at Jack's, but I'll go to the main building. Lock your house. Get in your minivan and come here. Right away. I'll meet you in the employee lounge, but first I'll find someone to hang out with us, someone bigger and stronger than we are, so if Zachary shows up here, there won't be any trouble."

  "Yes." She was breathless. "I'll be right over."

  It wouldn't take long for her to drive back to The Mansion from her place in Lafitte.

  My mind raced. Jack wasn't here. He'd been called away when the alarm had gone off at Harry's place. I tried to call him but just got voicemail. "It's me. There's trouble. Please hurry back." Before I clicked off, I added, "Hurry, Jack."

  What was I going to do? Who could I get? Odeo knocked off work at six, and he lived all the way across the river in New Orleans with his sickly mother. Lurch's shift was over by now too.

  But Aaron Bronson. Yes! His place in Estelle wasn't far from Valentine's, and definitely not too far from The Mansion. He could well have the breakfast shift in the morning, have to get up at three, and hate me for calling him this late. But if Zachary Jones, bookie and possible murderer, was coming all the way here to get even with Stella for something she hadn't even done…well, I was willing to risk making Aaron a little miffed at me just to get him over here to take care of things.

  After a few rings, he answered. "Yeah?"

  "Aaron, it's Mel Hamilton. I need help. Well, not me exactly. It's Stella. That crazy bookie guy is on his way to her house to hurt her."

  "Huh?"

  Every second counted, so I rushed through the story as quickly as I could, explaining everything about Jack, and Odeo, and the security guards, and Stella, and Zachary Jones—finishing up with, "I know it's a lot to ask, but how long would it take you to get here?"

  "I am here," he said. "I worked late. Thought I'd take a few laps in the pool before heading home."

  A huge weight lifted off me. "Oh, thank God. The indoor pool?"

  "Well, yeah," he said. "It's December. Didn't want to freeze my butt off."

  "Right. Stay there. I'm on my way."

  I hung up, slipped my shoes back on, and left Jack a note. Crossing the grounds from Jack's cottage to the main building, I remembered what I'd been dreaming about when Stella's call woke me.

  I was in a cemetery. At night. Cold. Granddaddy Joe kept showing me a shovel, and when I asked him what he wanted me to do with it, all he said was, "Whomp wid it." Whomp. Weird.

  It only took me about five minutes or so at a slow trot to get to the main building. I was still out of breath. I was anxious, worried, and feeling more than a little guilty. Without knowing for sure, I was pretty confident the reason the NOPD had been around to the sports book was because I'd given Chief Deputy Boudreaux a heads up to check that guy out.

  And now Stella might be in danger because of it.

  I let myself in through the back patio doors and made my way around to the indoor pool.

  It was surprising to find the main door unlocked. Harry always insisted the place be locked up after ten.

  Aaron was still swimming, his long arms arcing over before slicing back through the water. His clothes, towel, a key to the pool door, and some other personal items lay poolside. I walked over by them and knelt down.

  Aaron was doing a flip at the far side of the pool and headed back in my direction.

  I reached over and picked up the big fluffy towel as he started back on what I was going to insist would be his last lap. I needed him dressed and ready for whatever was coming our way, if anything. I didn't know for sure Zachary Jones would go so far as to come here looking for Stella, but I wouldn't put it past him, and I had a really queasy feeling about this whole thing.

  As I shook out the towel, a small object flew out and clanked against the pool tiles. "Oops." I picked it up and looked at it.

  Dog tags on a chain. I remembered that Aaron had said he'd served in the military on a bomb squad. Curious, I took a quick look at the tags, frowning as I read the inscription.

  But the tags didn't appear to be Aaron's.

  I read silently, my lips moving: Tyrell R. Cantrell. Followed by a Social Security number. O Positive. Christian.

  Tyrell Cantrell. I looked up from the tags just as Aaron closed in. His hand found the edge of the pool, and he climbed out, running one hand back through his hair, shaking the water from his face.

  He looked down, smiling. "So, you ladies need a hero?" He laughed. "I'm your…"

  His gaze fixed on the tags in my hand then moved quickly away. He held out his hand. "Towel?"

  I handed it up to him, got my feet under me, and stood. "These aren't your dog tags." Duh, Melanie. But I was too confused to say anything else.

  Aaron was scrubbing the towel over his wet head, down along his arms. He pulled it around the back of his neck and let it hang there.

  "No," was all he said. "I lost mine a long time ago. Those? Hell, I won those in a poker game a while back."

  "But why would you wear someone else's…" I let it hang there.

  "Just wanted to have a set. You know how it is. You get used to something." His voice was as smooth as ever, but suddenly I wasn't buying the story.

  "So you didn't know Tyrell Cantrell?"

  He shrugged. "Tyrell Cantrell? The guy on the tags? No. To me, that's just a name on the tags I wear to remind me of my deployment."

  No way on the face of God's green earth something like this could just be a coincidence. He wears the dog tags of Valentine Cantrell's deceased husband and shows up here to work with her, rents an apartment only a few minutes from her house. Nope. Not a chance. I opened my mouth to challenge his story but could swear I heard someone say, "Keep your trap shut." It had the ring of Granddaddy Joe's voice, but lately I tended to think I just imagined my inner voice sounded like him.

  "Hmm," I said. "I get it. You don't have tags to wear, but for sentimental reasons, you just wear these."

  He nodded, but he was watching me pretty close.

  I smiled, or tried to, and shrugged. "Okay, well. Why don't you get dressed, and meet me in the lobby? Stella ought to be here any minute, and we can figure out what to do if that Zachary guy follows her here."

  After a pause, he said, "Sure. Just give me a sec."

  Something was wrong. So wrong, but I wasn't sure what it was. My stomach churning, my brain on overload, I smiled at him. At least I thought I did.

  Aaron Bronson wore the dog tags of Valentine Cantrell's deceased husband, a man who died serving in the military over seven years ago.

  And he won them in a poker game? No freakin' way.

  I'd only taken a step or two away when Aaron said from behind me, "Sorry you had to see those, Mel. I really am."

  I started to turn around, but he wrapped one arm around my neck from behind and pulled me up against him, pushing down against my head with his opposite hand. My airway was cut off. Struggling, I tried to remember how to get out of a choke hold from all the movies I'd seen—hands down, hips thrust back, stomp on the toe. It didn't work, even though he was barefoot. He grunted but tightened his grip on my neck, and as my vision darkened, I thought I heard him say, "Maybe you should have minded your own damn business."

  Everything went black, and then—nothing.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  It was windy. The air blowing across me was cold. Sounds of the bayou—water slapping against the shore, night animals serenadin
g each other. The odd smell of ancient swamp assaulted my nostrils. I was outside, lying on the cold, damp grass.

  My throat hurt.

  Another sound. What was it? Scraping. Something was scraping against the ground. In the few seconds as I regained consciousness, I grew more and more aware of my surroundings. Someone was here with me. Labored breathing underlay the scraping sound.

  I remembered then.

  Aaron. Aaron had attacked me, and now I was outdoors in the cold. And someone was with me. There was no doubt in my mind it was him.

  Opening my eyes to a slit, I tried to see what was going on without alerting him I'd awakened.

  Aaron was only a few feet away, and he was dressed now. Beyond, the full moon illuminated the gravestones. Well, crap. I was back in the cemetery—just like in my dream. And Aaron was working on one of the old graves. Digging. That was the sound I'd heard.

  I tried to think, but my head was still fuzzy from the choke hold the creep had laid on me. Lie still. Make a plan.

  Right. But what?

  He stopped digging, buried the blade in the dirt, and leaned on the handle. He stood still a moment, and even though his face was in shadow, I could feel his eyes on me.

  I didn't move.

  After a minute, he said, "I know you're awake. The rhythm of your breathing's changed. Won't do you any good to play possum."

  Good thing I never had aspired to be an actress.

  I opened my eyes and looked right at him. "What's going on, Aaron? What are you doing?"

  "Don't be coy," he said, standing up straight and yanking the shovel from the ground. "You know what I'm doing, and you know why."

  He must have been hanging around a different kind of Louisiana woman. "I'm never coy, Aaron. And I don't know."

  He hauled out another shovelful of moist Louisiana dirt and tossed it aside. "You saw the tags."

  "Tyrell Cantrell's tags."