Mystic Mischief

by Sally J. Smith

  I was surprised at Percy's accurate perception. "Yes. Harry is just that."

  "Okay. What to tell you. Hmm, well, you know about Belle and the love affair. You know about the letter and why she took it. Hell, that letter would probably sell to a museum for several hundred thousand dollars, maybe more."

  I whistled. Like all my whistles, it was kind of lame and windy. But that was a lot of money for a piece of paper.

  Percy went on. "You also know why we've come down here to look for it—"

  I stopped him. "Yeah, about that. You said you and your brother had a book deal and couldn't collect your advance until you came up with the letter to prove the tale of Belle and her pirate is legit, that it really happened."

  He swallowed the bite of beignet then took a sip of his black coffee, making me grimace. I could only tolerate black chicory coffee if I'd indulged in too many hurricanes the night before.

  "That's right," he said. "It's a generous advance."

  "Generous?" I asked.

  "$250,000. The publisher was excited about our book, said a story this rich in history and scandal would sell millions of copies. But Elroy and I couldn't collect until we'd proved ourselves. Well, you know that part."

  "You and your brother? Your sister isn't part of the book deal?"

  He shook his head. "Oh, no. Our sister was adopted. She's not a true descendent of Lafitte." He grew sad again. "But now that our parents and Elroy are all dead, she's all the family I have. Blood relative or not."

  "She seems to know a lot about your family history."

  "She's taken quite an interest in it. I'll need her now to help out with the book—research, stuff like that. I'd pay her, of course, but the book will officially be authored by the Villars twins, Percy and Elroy." He stopped talking for a moment and looked away. "Well, now just Percy Villars."

  "You're going ahead with it?" I asked, a little surprised.

  "Well, yeah," he said. "Elroy would want it. And why wouldn't I? That is, if I can find the lost letter."

  "Then you'd get all the income from the book." A minimum of $250,000.00 is a lot of money. A lot of motive.

  He looked at me like I was an idiot. "Now that my brother's gone, yes."

  Commotion at the far end of the terrace interrupted us as first the rogue alligator then Lurch, Odeo, and the rest of the Gator Brigade scurried single file through Harry's hard-won rose garden, sending guests scattering for cover.

  "That's amazing," Percy said.

  I agreed. "It is." I had one more question. "Now that your brother's"—I searched for a diplomatic word—"passed on, will you be bringing your sister onboard to take a bigger role in getting this book to market?"

  Percy screwed up his round face as he seemed to be thinking about it. "Well, that's one option, I guess."

  "Do you think she'd be willing to help you?"

  "Nancy? Are you kidding? She'd love it. She already had her nose out of joint because Elroy and I were splitting that big paycheck from the book, and she was pretty much left out of things."

  "You'd ask her even though she isn't a blood descendent of Jean Lafitte?" I asked.

  "I'd be the only legitimate heir, but if my sister took over Elroy's role, helping with the writing, doing legwork, that stuff? Hell, yeah, I'd split the money with her. Nancy'd jump at the chance to take over Elroy's role."

  Jump? How high? High enough to kill her own brother?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Percy didn't seem to want to answer any more of my questions and began deflecting mine with several of his own. They mostly centered around Harry Villars, but I didn't feel comfortable sharing personal information about Harry, so I was evasive. When the conversation lagged, Percy checked the time and stood.

  "I better get going, check in on Nancy. She's taking Elroy's death as hard as I am."

  Really? I hadn't thought so.

  Our attention was drawn through the wide-open terrace doors as two men, one tall and lanky, the other shorter and stout rushed into the Presto-Change-o Room and stopped dead. I thought of Gandalf and Frodo. The taller one carried a newspaper, which he unfolded. Both men took a few seconds to look at something in the paper. Then they looked up and around, their heads moving back and forth in some kind of search mode. Gandalf looked down at Frodo, pointed to the far end of the room. Frodo nodded, hurried over to the stage, and began to shove the musicians' chairs aside. Gandalf headed in the opposite direction toward the restroom facilities.

  From behind the bar, Ken, the bartender and morning shift headwaiter, yelled at the hostess. His voice carried all the way out to where we sat on the terrace. "Gotta be more of those treasure hunters."

  Over by the entrance, the hostess pointed in Gandalf's direction as he ran into the ladies' room. "I'll get that one," she said loudly and took off.

  Ken tossed his towel down and scrambled from behind the bar. "Sir, please stop that." He was yelling at the short intruder who'd opened the top of the upright piano. "Sir, you can't be doing that. You hear?"

  I watched, astonished. "What the heck?"

  Percy seemed to know all about it. "There was a big article in the morning paper about what's happened here"—his voice softened—"to Elroy and about Jean Lafitte and the letter. Historical treasure worth a fortune, the article said. This whole place is swarming with fortune seekers this morning."

  I stared at him.

  "You didn't know?" he asked.

  I shook my head. I'd been too tired to watch the news last night and too preoccupied to read the paper this morning.

  A couple of other anxious-looking people bustled out onto the terrace, followed closely by one of the bellmen who stopped them and politely directed them back out to the lobby.

  "I don't know what to think," I said.

  Percy just shook his head. "They're all fools. Someone else already has the letter. The more I think about it, the more I believe Elroy died—no, I believe he was killed—before he could get it. I believe that as we sit here talking, as these people scurry around trying to be the lucky ones to discover the letter, someone else already has it."

  His theory made sense to me. Twins, especially identical twins, are said to be linked in ways no other human beings are.

  Quincy always said to look at close family first, but in this case it didn't make sense—at least to me. Why would Percy want me to help Harry find who killed his brother if it had been him? No, I didn't think Percy was involved, and besides, Quincy wasn't even investigating Elroy's death. I was.

  Percy excused himself and walked away, his steps heavy, his shoulders slumped. I felt terrible for him. He must be so lonely without his twin brother, like someone had cut out a piece of him. But as I watched him leave the terrace by way of the Presto-Change-o Room, I considered what had occurred to me when I'd first spoken with him. What if he had killed his brother and taken the letter from under the house so he wouldn't have to share the money and the fame from the guaranteed bestselling book? What if his desire to find the heartless killer was all a smokescreen and Percy was setting up someone else to be the fall guy—or fall girl?

  I ate all the beignets, including those he'd left untouched, got up, and paid the bill, grateful for my employee discount.

  I stopped and stretched before stepping through the double doors that led from the Presto-Change-o Room into the lobby but only took a couple of steps before stopping to stare, slack jawed, at what was going on.

  The lobby was as packed as Bourbon Street during Mardi Gras—well, okay, maybe not that packed, but busier than I'd ever seen it in the five years I'd worked there.

  At the front desk, poor Lucy looked like she might be losing her mind. People were lined up six or eight deep and all demanding her attention by trying to shout at her over the others. Lucy's normally tidy appearance and clockwork efficiency had both disappeared. Her hair, styled in an Uma Thurman Pulp Fiction perfect bob, usually smooth as glass, looked like it was full of static electricity, as if she'd just pulled a sweater over he
r head. Her magazine-ad eye makeup was smeared. Her lips didn't look as if they'd ever met a tube of lipstick. Not to mention her resort costume, an old-fashioned shirtwaist and long black skirt, looked as if she'd been sleeping in it. The high collar on the shirt was unbuttoned, the string tie hanging loose. She bustled from one side of the desk to the other, answering questions for one person then the next.

  As the crowd moved and shifted nearly in sync, Lurch, loaded down with bags, bobbed and weaved through clusters of people, his arms lifting and lowering, his torso turning and twisting, every bit as graceful as a Swan Lake soloist, only bigger—much bigger. His face its usual stony, unreadable mask.

  Where had all these people come from? Were they really all here to search for Jean Lafitte's letter? I'd obviously underestimated its lure to the general public.

  Over by the double doors that led to the salon, Theresa Powell stood watching the goings-on, her pretty face set in a scowl. She was dressed the same way as I'd seen her before.

  I walked over to her. "Quite a shindig, isn't it?"

  She just looked at me, deadpan.

  I stuck out my hand. "Melanie Hamilton. I work here. I saw you last night at the little house. I was the one who—"

  "Oh, yes." She accepted my offered hand, her grip cool and surprisingly firm. "You're the adventuress who volunteered to wriggle around in the mud beneath the house to look for the letter." She sighed. "The missing letter. The missing letter all these people are determined to find."

  "You don't think they'll find it?"

  She shook her head.

  "Why not?" I asked. "Do you think someone already has it? That someone took it from where the Villars' journal said it was hidden?"

  "Archie and I know the letter exists. It's in the history books. We know about Belle Villars and her genealogy. That's also been documented. What we don't know is whether that letter has been in the same place under the house all this time." She looked out over the chaotic lobby and shook her head again. "There ought to be a law, don't you think? These things should be left to professionals. Otherwise, this"—she displayed her contempt with a wave of her hand—"is what you get. Idiots with metal detectors and shovels. Metal detectors? I mean, come on. It's a letter, not a watch or a set of car keys. Simpletons think they'll find the letter and make a killing selling it off."

  "You wouldn't sell it if you found it?"

  "Absolutely not. Archie and I had planned to keep it to put on display at our flagship store in Boston. Once we're established as bankable archeologists and finders of antiquities, our plans are to use the prestige of such a find as a stepping stone to expanding our business countrywide, becoming a brand name. You know, like McDonald's?"

  I nodded as if I knew what she was talking about. At the very least, I could always say I had heard of McDonald's. Next to Café du Monde, it was my go-to breakfast spot—but I wouldn't want my mom or grandmamma to find out. They'd have a stroke. They're pretty sure if you don't have beignets for breakfast, it better be grillades and grits, or pain perdu, hot boudin and cracklins, or if there's time to make the hollandaise, eggs Sardou. I was pretty sure Egg McMuffins weren't on their hot list of haute cuisine.

  At that moment, the funeral dirge sounded, and the crowd by the front door parted in such a fashion I expected Moses and the Israelites to come striding through. It turned out to be the cameraman who'd filmed my butt while I was under Harry and Fabrizio's house. He was with Roger "Mr. Hollywood" Goodwin, and they were both walking in backwards.

  After Roger Goodwin and the cameraman came one of the film crew members holding a boom mic then finally Archie Powell. Mr. Powell was talking as he walked, making grand gestures with his hands, obviously a man who basked in the spotlight. He wore that same safari-style outfit I'd seen on the news. It made me wonder if those were the only outfits the Powells owned. Maybe the antiquities biz didn't pay as well as I'd thought.

  Archie Powell and the entourage halted a few steps inside. Archie stopped his soliloquy, and Roger Goodwin sang out, "Cut. That's a take."

  Archie's sweeping gaze found Theresa, and he came to us, bending to rub Theresa's bare arm and plant a kiss on her upturned cheek. When he stood back from her, he extended a hand and spoke to me. "Hello, Miss…" He had this musical voice that made the simple greeting sound like he was amused by it.

  "Oh, sorry," Theresa said. "Archie, this is Melanie Hamilton. You remember from last night? She was the one they sent under the—"

  "Oh, yes." His odd, colorless eyes crinkled at the corners as he caught my hand between the two of his. "Great show, Miss Hamilton. I have to admit I got caught up in the drama of it all."

  "It turned out to be a waste of time." I shrugged. "You've probably heard there was nothing under there."

  He nodded. "Mmm, it was a bit of a Geraldo Rivera moment, wasn't it?"

  Theresa turned to me. "We're continuing on as if last night never happened."

  "Oh? In what way?"

  Archie opened his mouth to speak, but it was Roger Goodwin who answered. "Archie and Theresa are continuing to work on the documentary with me and my crew, continuing to seek out the lost letter of Lafitte. By the way, that's what we're calling the film, you know, The Lost Letter of Jean Lafitte. Brilliant, don't you think?"

  "Sure," I said. "Catchy." But I was puzzled. "So you don't think someone's already found it—as in killed Mr. Villars, ripped the page from the journal, crawled under the house, and removed the hidden document?"

  Theresa started to speak, but Archie laid his hand on her arm, effectively shushing her.

  "How can any of us be certain the letter was ever there to begin with? We prefer to believe it's still out there somewhere." Archie's statement echoed his wife's earlier one, and he reached up to grip Roger Goodwin's shoulder. "We've already spent so much money documenting our quest by hiring the film crew. Theresa and I will continue to seek out the presidential pardon doc, and we believe we'll ultimately prevail and be able to show the world that real live heroes still live in this world." He lifted his chin, a faraway look in his eyes. "Archie and Theresa Powell will become household names written in the annals of history, and our star will rise like a beacon in the night—especially if the right person sees us on film, and we can sign on to a reality show."

  "Man," Roger Goodwin said. "What a shame the cameras weren't rolling to record that. It was magnificent, Archie. Just magnificent."

  Without saying it out loud, I totally agreed with Mr. Hollywood. What a shame the cameras weren't rolling. Acting like that, or more accurately overacting like that, shouldn't go unrecorded.

  "Do you remember what you said?" Roger asked. "I mean, exactly?" We could go out on the veranda. You too, Theresa." He made a camera frame with his hands. "We could get a shot of Archie making that little speech. Theresa, you could cling to his arm, the two of you looking off at the horizon. Whew, magic. But maybe drop the remark about the reality show," he finished.

  "Yeah, I remember," Archie said.

  Roger went for his cell phone and motioned for Archie and Theresa to follow him. "Get the guys back out on the veranda to set up another shot," he barked into the phone.

  Archie and Theresa turned to follow Mr. Hollywood. Archie stopped and said, "So nice to have met you, Miss Hamilton. A real pleasure."

  I returned his smile, wondering if the Powells' drive to be famous beyond the academic world was so intense it might have driven them to attack Elroy Villars and snatch the letter. It was something to think about. After all, they were proceeding with the documentary film as if the letter hadn't been taken from beneath the house, as if they still had a chance to find it themselves. Not such an unlikely occurrence if they already had it.

  Over at the front desk, the calm, authoritative presence of the hot-as-a-five-alarm-fire Jack Stockton seemed to be soothing the crowd surging around the front desk.

  I stood there watching him, missing him. In the time we'd been together, he'd never given me cause to doubt him. What was it about what had
happened in Florida and the arrival of Sydney Baxter that had turned me into a jealous child? His mother's rejection hadn't been his fault, and Sydney showing up and crawling all over him hadn't been either. Yet, Jack was the misguided target of my anger.

  Silly, Mel. Don't just stand there pining for his company. Do something about it.

  I intended to.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Accompanied by the low and mournful funeral dirge, I walked through the lobby doors onto the expansive front veranda and stood looking out over the lawn. I was astounded to finally witness just exactly how sought after President Madison's pardon truly was. The sun was bright, the sky clear, the October breeze cooler than it had been in a while. The feeling of fall was in the air, even in the bayou—and people rushed about here and there, hither and yon like a swarm of tweens at a Justin Bieber sighting, or were clustered together over a newspaper akin to an NFL team in huddle.

  The Mystic Isle shuttle pulled up under the portico, opened its doors, and disgorged a full load of people, most of whom carried at least a newspaper with them and literally hit the ground running.

  Bogged down with several suitcases, Lurch lumbered out onto the veranda. He'd been preceded by three couples who stood looking out over the same bizarre scene that I was.

  "Really?" one woman said in a disgusted tone.

  "Not what we came here for anyway," added a second woman.

  "Too much going on." It was one of the men.

  "Can't get away from here fast enough for me." The third woman turned and motioned for Lurch to follow them down the steps and out to the shuttle.

  Not good. Not good for business, not at all. Something had to be done to get The Mansion back on even keel. We had to find both the killer and the letter.

  I stopped, realizing what thought had just run through my head. Even keel? This pirate business might have been affecting me more than I thought.

  "What you think 'bout all this ruckus?"