Goodwin's cameraman hit the play switch for the third time, and the footage he'd shot of me inchworming my way over to the front of the house came up again. What there was of it anyway. The camera had only rolled on me a short way into my adventure.
Yep, there she is, folks—Melanie Hamilton skulking around in the sludge under the house like an oversized mudbug. Not your best moment, girl. Was Jack seeing this? I cringed.
Quincy took off his cap, scratched his head with the same hand, and then put the cap back on. "Dunno for sure, but it looks like to me somebody's been under there not too long ago. You can see older tracks like the ones Mel left under there. Elroy, maybe he did get in there and took that letter before he went sneaking around Mr. Villars' house, fell down, and killed hisself."
Harry, Nancy Villars, and Percy stood close by, eavesdropping. Percy kept shaking his head until he finally blurted out, "No. None of this makes any sense. My brother had the journal. We both knew the document was under the house, not in it. We were just waiting for Harry to get back home from his trip before we went looking for it. Why would Elroy have gone to the house much less inside it? And if he was the one who got to Lafitte's pardon first, then why would he tear the page from the journal and throw it away? Elroy knew that journal had to be kept intact. The advance from our publisher was contingent on a clean trail leading to the pardon. With all respect, Deputy, you're wrong about this. Really wrong."
Quincy cocked his head. "I admit I was wrong. Once. June 16, 2011. Wrong as I could be. We'd had this hellacious string of crab trap thefts. It went on for months and months. Man, every fisherman within eighty miles of here was losin' they catch. Dat thief was pretty smart. Turns out, smarter than me—but not for long. I bring in dis young guy after some bodacious police work, and then I charge him and toss him in the hoosegow. Then you know what? His mama, she come 'round and tell me it been her all the while, and she got the tools and the boat, and she even had some selfies proving it was her stealin' them crabs." He hung his head in shame. "I was wrong. It ain't been easy living it down." His head came back up. "But I got this one."
I had to admit, I pretty much agreed with Percy. Quincy's theory didn't hold together.
Quincy seemed to consider things before asking, "All right, Mr. Percy Villars, what do you think?"
Percy pulled himself up straight and tried to look like someone who should be taken seriously. It occurred to me that with his sweet, goofy face people probably disregarded him most of the time. Double that for when his twin brother was alive. I couldn't imagine what a big-time publisher would have thought when these two freckled gingers with enormous ears and foolish grins walked in claiming to be descendants of the notorious swashbuckling pirate, Jean Lafitte, and to be keepers of a secret journal that held the key to a document so valuable droves would search for it. It must have been a tough sell for the Villars twins, such a hard sell that the publisher demanded hard evidence.
So they'd come on down to NOLA and set out to follow the journal of Belle Villars to find the letter of pardon that would ultimately bestow fame and fortune on them.
But it had gone horribly wrong, and now Percy was left without his twin. "I don't believe my brother was in the house to steal anything. I don't know why he was there, but neither of us would have insulted Harry by breaking into his house—especially since we knew Belle hid the letter under the house. So, I'm not buying it that Elroy died by accident, and I'm not buying that he already had the letter. There's something else going on here, Deputy. And if you aren't up to finding out what it is"—he looked around at Nancy, Harry, and finally at me—"then maybe we are."
Harry picked up the gauntlet. "I truly believe that Belle Villars bore a child of Jean Lafitte and that her poor hurt soul lashed out at him by taking that letter of pardon which meant so much to him. I also believe that Percy and his unfortunate brother are my relations, by name and spirit if not by blood. And since I believe all this, if it turns out that poor young man was killed by someone's harsh hand, then I demand justice for him."
Quincy narrowed his eyes and looked from Percy to Harry to Nancy and then to me. "If the ME comes back and says Elroy's death was a homicide, then Jefferson Parrish Sheriff's Office goin' launch an official investigation. But not before. You wait for that. It's police business, and I don't want to hear 'bout you people goin' round sticking your noses in here like some"—he fixed his stare on me—"have been known to do in the past." He paused before adding, "You hear me?"
* * *
Since I was with Harry, I was one of the first to take the shuttle back to the main building. Fastidious Harry had the shuttle driver spread a pad on one of the seats where I could rest my muddy bum—which sounded like heaven to me. It had been one of the longest days I could recall. My morning work schedule, followed by the stress of Miss Man-stealing Hussy sniffing around Jack, the friendly neighborhood gator paying us a visit, the discovery of poor, dead Elroy in Harry and Fabrizio's bathroom, a busy afternoon of inking, spending the whole evening with the swamp rats, millipedes, cockroaches, and other creatures of the dark beneath la petite maison.
I could hardly wait to go to the room Harry had arranged for me where I'd shower and crash.
In the lobby I took possession of the room key at the front desk then turned back to find Harry and Fabrizio standing with Percy and Nancy Villars.
I walked up behind them just in time to hear Harry say, "It'll be over my dead body if any Villars dies by malicious means and the culprit isn't made to answer for it."
"It's kind of you to open your arms to us, Harry," Nancy said.
A distant gleam in his eye, Percy started to speak. "I keep expecting to look up and see Elroy walking toward me. I just can't—" He broke off, his voice cracking, his eyes glistening. Nancy took hold of his arm comfortingly.
Harry's brows lifted sympathetically. "I vow we'll get to the bottom of this, dear Percy."
Percy shook his head sadly and excused himself. We watched him walk away with his sister, his head hanging between hunched shoulders.
Harry's voice was quiet. "I worry that with this sort of thing seeming to happen more and more often around here that it won't be long before folks begin to think twice about paying us a visit."
He rubbed two fingers above his eyebrows.
It hadn't occurred to me before, but he was right. This wasn't the first time a dead body had turned up at The Mansion—although I did hope it would be the last—and how long before travelers began to think of Mystic Isle as murder central? I could hear the conversations now. Darling, let's book a week in the bayou at Mystic Isle. Sure, sweetie. Is your will in order?
If business slowed, how many of us would Harry have to lay off? Or could he even keep the place open if Frommer's travel guide suggested The Mansion at Mystic Isle could be one of the last places you'll ever visit?
The thought had me worried. Harry, Fabrizio, Jack, Cat, all my other friends, and not to forget about little ol' Melanie Hamilton were happy working at Mystic Isle. Jobs like those we had and bosses like ours were few and far between.
That worrying thought still in my head, I bid them all good night and made my way to my room. Quincy had been crossing the river to New Orleans twice a day to stay with Cat at our apartment on Dumaine Street. For the five years since I came to work at The Mansion at Mystic Isle and the four years Cat and I had been apartment mates, I'd known her to be a woman of fierce independent nature—the never mind, I'll do it myself kind of woman. It had surprised me when she'd come to me asking whether I had a problem with Quincy staying at our place while they were planning their wedding.
"I want him to help me with it," she'd said. "I need him to help me with it."
I'd recalled what people have always said about the wedding day being the biggest day of a woman's life. And although I'd never been sure that was true for everyone, it looked like it might actually be how things were for Cat.
I hadn't minded, not much anyway. I loved Quincy Boudreaux because Cat loved him, although
I'd just about die before I let the cocky sonuva gun know it. But he could be hard to take in large doses, so I'd asked my Cap'n Jack if he minded if I played house with him in his cottage on the resort grounds while Cat and Quincy played house at our place.
He'd been so sweet. "Mind? I'd love it. Playing house with you is one of my life's ambitions."
And it had been great. Cuddling in front of the TV every evening, spooning at night, sharing a hot soapy shower in the morning. Great—until Florida when I'd gotten my feelings hurt and was having to work my way through that. Great—until Sydney Baxter had come on the scene and Jack wouldn't send her packing.
I stopped in front of the upstairs room, which I recognized as the same junior suite where I'd already been lucky enough to spend one night at the request of an important guest who'd been haunted.
Ha! A junior suite? Harry must really consider me his good luck charm.
I unlocked the door, stepped inside, and was carried back over a hundred and fifty years to a paradoxical time of crinolines and parasols, slavery and war. The king-size four-poster bed dominated the room, lush and inviting with its hand-sewn quilt and crocheted pillow covers. It was almost nine o'clock, and the fire housekeeping had built earlier in anticipation of my arrival was beginning to burn low. The velvet chaise at the foot of the bed had a fluffy robe and spa slippers laid across it. My suitcase sat on a luggage rack in one corner, leading me to wonder what Jack thought of my moving to the resort. Oh, Jack. Jack. Jack. But I was too tired to even think about that now.
I went straight to the en suite bathroom, stripped off the nasty old jumpsuit, and got into the steam shower. The stress flowed out of me and down the drain with the soapy water.
I found my sleep shirt, pulled back the covers on the enormous bed, and crawled in.
My mind turned to the day's events. To Harry, who believed a man had been murdered in his home, a man to whom he had a connection. Harry had vowed to see the killer brought to justice, but did that concern, in fact, outweigh his worry about the future of The Mansion if this matter wasn't quickly resolved?
Was he right? Had Elroy Villars been murdered? Quincy didn't seem to think so. Had someone else torn the page from the journal and gone looking for the historical letter? And if so, who? Was a murderer running loose at Mystic Isle? It wouldn't have been the first time.
And as I fell asleep, I acknowledged that I was already too involved not to jump right into the middle of all this.
Ah, Mellie gal, there you go again.
I sighed. "Goodnight, Granddaddy Joe. Wouldn't mind you keeping an eye on me if you can. Looks like I might be the designated homicide investigator around here."
I could have sworn I heard a chuckle.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Two wooden sailing ships pitch in a rough ocean under a dark sky, one flying a foreign flag I don't recognize. On the other, the Jolly Roger flaps in the fierce wind. I'm aboard the foreign ship, locked in a cabin, being thrown side to side as the ship rolls. My elegant gown—pale and silky, ruffled and low-cut, exposing the mounds of a full bosom, the clothing of an aristocratic lady of the mid-1700s—is torn and dirty from the rough handling of my captors, slave-traders from the Far East. I rail and rant and pound on the door before being tossed back like a doll when the ship bucks yet again.
Above me, the grinding, shouting, and canon fire of a furious battle. A massive explosion. There's smoke everywhere, and I still can't escape the cabin. I scream and cry. The door shatters as it bursts inward, leaving a tall man framed in the opening. The ongoing battle rages on behind him. The dark clouds thunder above him.
The man is dressed in a tattered, billowy white shirt that appears to be smeared with grime and what might even be blood—the laces at the neck hang loose, exposing a hard chest. Tight leather pants hug his muscular legs, and cuffed black boots rise to his knees. I stand and stare at him, at the flintlock pistol tucked into the wide sash tied low around his waist, at the scabbard at his side, the cutlass held in the hand he's using to prop himself against the doorframe. A gold earring nestles against long and dark hair curling under a red scarf tied around his head that I recognize as my own. The pirate—for I now know that's what he is—swaggers into the cabin. At first I back away, breathing hard, bosom heaving, my eyes locked onto his as he advances on me like a big cat. But at last I fling myself against his hard chest and hold fast to him. Amaretto eyes glitter down at me from within a rugged countenance as a cocky grin spreads across his handsome face.
"Oh," I breathe. "Cap'n Jack. I knew you'd come."
He lowers his head, and our mouths collide as he lifts me with one arm, carries me out onto the deck, and we swing across from the foreign ship to the pirate ship just like Tarzan and Jane.
His feet hit the deck, but he doesn't release me as he barks, "Avast ye. Make way for Barataria Bay."
He pulls me down to his cabin, his eyes burning into mine as he unstraps his scabbard, lays his pistol on the table, and walks toward me, his taut frame speaking his intention louder than words ever could.
I'd sat straight up in bed, surprised to see the Sunday morning sun coming through the shutters that I'd forgotten to close the night before. A glance at the bedside clock told me it was after nine a.m. My face was still hot as I remembered the dream, my breathing still rapid, body still wanting. Wanting him.
What a dream. What a man. Cap'n Jack Stockton. Wow. He'd fit my fantasy to perfection. No wonder it had taken me a few minutes to remember when or where I was right away.
But then I did remember—the tragic death of Elroy Villars, the horrible journey through the mire under la petite maison, the issue over Jack, his mom, and his ex. Saturday had been terrible.
I lay back and sank down into the comfortable cocoon of the four-poster, pulling the soft sheets and quilt up to my chin. A chill had set in during the night. The fire had long since gone out, and I'd forgotten to set the thermostat before hitting the sack, but the bed was warm. It would have been so nice on my day off to just hang out in the junior suite, order one of Chef Valentine Cantrell's awesome Southern brunches—but the cogs were already turning, and the mystery was already jabbing away at my brain like a boxer at a punching bag.
What had happened to Elroy Villars? Had he fallen on his own, hitting his head—accidental death as Quincy thought? And what about the all-important document? Why wasn't it where it had been hidden centuries ago? Had Elroy retrieved it? If so, where was it now? Percy was adamant his brother would have never defaced the journal by ripping out a page nor would he have broken into Harry's house. Yet the page had been ripped out, Elroy had died in Harry's home, and Jean Lafitte's letter had disappeared.
Huh. Looked like there was more than one mystery to solve—or was there? Did all the pieces fit together to solve one big puzzle?
I swung my feet over the side of the bed, dressed in clean clothes from my suitcase, called Percy Villars' room, and made arrangements to meet him on the terrace outside The Presto-Change-o Room where they served chicory coffee and warm beignets until eleven.
Percy knew more than anyone else about everything that happened both in the past and the present. Besides, if any of the shows I watched on TV were even a teensy-tiny bit accurate, if in fact Elroy had been killed by the hand of some evildoer, the family was the first place to look. Talking to Percy was definitely an excellent place to begin.
The air was cool, and the morning sun was bright but dappled through the live oaks shading the terrace crowded with guests. The feel of autumn was in the air. Even in the bayou there's a change of season—more subtle than in other parts of the country but there all the same.
I waited until one of the waiters cleared a table then sat and ordered the basic staples: two café au laits, two orders of beignets. I sipped my coffee but held off on the beignets—hard as it was, I didn't want to begin my investigation into the death of Elroy Villars with powdered sugar all over my face—and hoped Percy would come soon.
He walked up to the tabl
e. "Hello, Miss Hamilton."
"Call me Mel," I said. "Please, sit down."
The night hadn't treated him well. He looked pale with dark circles under his eyes, deep lines where his reddish brows nearly met and around his wide mouth. He grimaced at the au lait coffee I'd ordered for him and signaled the waiter, asking for a fresh cup. "Black, please."
"Black? You ever had plain ol' chicory coffee?" I asked. "You might not like it much."
Percy nodded as the waiter returned, pouring him a fresh cup from a small silver coffee urn. He blew on it then sipped. "I like it better this way." Obviously not a man of the true South. Everyone knew half chicory coffee and half steamed milk was the way to go.
"How are you holding up?" I asked.
He lowered his eyes and shook his head. "I never expected to be without my brother at this stage of my life. I mean, we were in the womb together for heaven's sake. And now"—he paused, seeming to be at a loss for words—"he's just…gone."
I nodded, feeling his pain, his loss. I didn't say anything else. Words would have been paltry.
He sniffed a couple of times before looking up and around then checking out the beignets, picking one up, and taking a bite. He closed his eyes when he chewed. "These are pretty darn good."
I jumped on it, glad for the chance to take his mind off Elroy's death. "Percy, do you mind talking to me about your brother's death and the missing letter?"
His gaze was direct. "No. I don't mind. I'm glad to talk about it. That sheriff's deputy? He's wrong. Someone killed Elroy and stole the letter. That letter was our legacy."
"Is there anything you can add to what I already know that might help me look into it? I know Harry wants to figure all this out, but I feel like he'll need quite a bit of help. Harry's not cut out to deal with this kind of thing." How could I explain the kind and gentle man my friend Fabrizio had come to love without making him sound like a wimp?
"I can see that," Percy said. "Harry's cut from a different kind of cloth, isn't he? Like a man from a simpler time. More genteel."
Mystic Mischief Page 6
