"Cat, I wanted to ask you about Adele Stockton. From what she said, I have the impression you sort of predicted a future of geriatric bliss and well-being with her future daughter-in-law who ironically sounded a lot like me."
Cat examined her fingernails, which were as perfect as the rest of her, so I knew she was just pretending. "I might have said something to that affect. Would you hate it awfully if I had?"
I needed to think for a minute. Did I hate it? Maybe, but only because Jack's mother had to be tricked into liking me. I would have much preferred it if she'd come to that on her own.
When I didn't answer right away, Cat smiled at me. It was her kind, understanding smile, and I felt oddly more like her student than her equal when I was the recipient of that smile. "You're a very nice person, sweetie. More than nice. You have so many positive traits, I couldn't even begin to list them all. When not-so-nice things need to happen, well, that's where I come in. I don't mind blurring the lines a bit." She held up her index finger and thumb with a hardly discernible space between them. "Yes, I told Adele Stockton you were the best choice for her, which makes you the best choice for Jack. And that's not wrong. You are."
"Thanks. I guess." But I still wasn't sure.
"And is the blonde bimbo out of the way for good as well?"
I narrowed my eyes. "Yes. But that was all Jack. You didn't have anything to do with that." I stopped, remembering Sydney had mentioned the pirate wench costume had her name on it but turned up missing. Was it the same pirate wench costume Cat had snagged for me? "Did you have anything to do with it?"
"Well, in the end, no. And I thought she looked kind of, well, fetching in the rougarou getup. Didn't you?"
And there it was. I could just see the fearsome four—Cat, Lurch, Stella, and Fabrizio marching arm in arm like the foursome from the Wizard of Oz traveling down the Yellow Brick Road. "That's what you guys were doing at the Masquerade Emporium that night."
She lifted her hands, palms up, in a what-can-I-say sort of gesture. "I love you, Mel, and I have your back. Even if you don't always know it."
"Quincy's in more trouble than he can even begin to imagine." I walked around her table, and we hugged. "I have to go meet Harry for coffee and thank him for letting me stay in the hotel the last few nights."
"Oh," she squealed. "You're going back to Jack's?"
"I'm going back to Jack's." Where I belong.
* * *
I checked out of the junior suite and asked one of the shuttle drivers to come around and take my bag back to Jack's cottage. I couldn't wait to be back there with him.
It was a glorious October morning on Mystic Isle. Cotton candy clouds in the sky, a light breeze, mild temperature—not too cool and not too warm.
Harry was waiting for me on the garden patio where he'd had iced tea and some of Valentine's tiny little egg salad sandwiches brought down for us to share.
He stood and gave me a half-bow when I walked up. Old school, and I loved it. "Hello, Miss Hamilton," he said. "I hope today is a much better day for you than yesterday turned out to be."
I sat down and picked up one of the little sandwiches. Yes, sure, I'd just had breakfast with Jack barely more than an hour ago, but Valentine's egg salad wasn't anything to be sneezed at.
"I hope so too," I said, popping the mini-sandwich into my mouth. "I want to thank you for allowing me to stay in the gorgeous suite the last few nights and to let you know I've checked out."
"So you and Mr. Stockton have smoked the peace pipe, so to speak?"
My face grew warm, and I knew I was blushing. "So to speak."
"Well, I'm glad to hear it."
"What's going on with your relatives?" I asked.
"You mean my pseudo relatives?" He said it with a smile, but I thought there was a bit of a cynical undertone there.
"Are they going to stay around and keep looking for the letter of pardon?"
"The young lady, Nancy, is returning to her home in Chicago. The brother, Percy, he thinks he might just rent out a place in Gretna or somewhere close and keep looking. I've asked him to let things quiet down some before he renews his search. It got just a little bit crazy all around here, what with everyone goin' round trying to find this so-called historical document." He shook his head as if such goings on were just too much commotion for him to handle. "He's agreed."
"Well, that's good."
"Miss Hamilton, I'd like you to know how much I appreciate your efforts toward solving this matter so Fabrizio and I and even Percy and his sister can get on with our lives. And don't think I don't realize the jeopardy we might have been in had you not stepped to help and save The Mansion at Mystic Isle. We'll be moving back home tomorrow after the place has been gone over good and proper by a professional restoration and cleaning company." He paused, looking away at something over my shoulder. "I'm hoping things will just get back to normal after… What is goin' on?"
He stood and squinted against the sun, even lowering the brim of his skimmer to shade his eyes.
I turned around, and low and behold, my old nemesis the marauding gator was on its way in our direction, scrambling about as fast as it could go.
Praying it didn't have me in its scent like the one always chasing Captain Hook, it was all I could do to not climb on top of the table.
But it didn't seem interested in either me or Harry just then. It ran right by. The gator brigade straggled a ways behind, not nearly as enthusiastic as I'd seen them in the past.
"Why does that gator always hang around this spot?"
Since it didn't seem to want anything to do with me, I got up and trailed along behind it—a long way behind it, mind you—and watched as it disappeared beyond one of the fabric panels the construction crew had hung to hide the work going on.
About that time, two park rangers pulled up in a closed-in truck and got out carrying a couple of catch poles.
The gator brigade came up behind them, and now there were six of us standing around watching the park rangers move in on the under-construction water feature.
One used his catch pole to pull the shade aside.
"Anything?" the second ranger asked.
"No."
"What the heck's wrong with this gator, anyway?" The second ranger sounded irritated. "Doesn't she know it's about time to hibernate?"
"Guess not."
The two men looked at each other then and eased on behind the drape. We could see their shadows moving around back there.
"Holy crap!" one of them yelled. "Watch it. There she is."
"Careful." It was the other one.
And suddenly all hell broke loose back there. Cursing. Growling. Hissing. Thrashing. Stomping.
The six of us—the Gator Brigade, Harry, and I all fell back quite a ways from the site.
It only took a few minutes before the drape opened again, and the two men came out from behind the drape.
"Did you boys get it?" Harry asked.
The first ranger took off his cap and wiped his brow. "We did. Shot her up. She's, uh, taking a little nap. We'll get her and her eggs moved outta there in no time at all."
"Eggs?" Six voices rose nearly in unison.
"Mm-hmm. That's why she's been hanging around terrorizing your guests. She has a nest back there. Silly thing didn't seem to know she's out of season. They usually mate in the spring."
The second ranger added. "Once we get her and her coming brood moved, you're gonna want to go back there and clean that place out, see if any of that stuff she padded her nest with needs to be returned."
"Stuff?" We all sounded like a bunch of monosyllabic idiots.
"She's been taking things from here and there and nesting."
Harry and I looked at each other.
"The gator?" Harry said.
I shrugged. "Maybe. What do you think?"
He said, "For one, I'm gonna be pretty darn interested in what we find in that nest. You?"
I nodded.
"And right now, I'm wondering
if that gator had anything to do with the holes I had to have filled in around the stem wall of la petite maison. Like maybe she'd been crawling around in there, like maybe she'd been looking for things to carry off and make a nest for her babies, like maybe—"
"She's the sneaky little thief who carried off something half the population of the City of New Orleans and just about every other treasure hunter within five hundred miles has been looking for?"
* * *
Late that afternoon, after the gator and thirty-five eggs had been relocated to some safe place deep in Barataria Preserve, Harry held a ceremony in his garden out by the construction site.
That man just had good old-fashioned style. He arranged for a hosted bar of mint juleps and fancy hors d'oeuvres with a jazz trio playing in the background. The event was well attended, including all the principals—Archie and Theresa Powell, Nancy and Percy Villars, and even Roger Goodwin's film crew that the Powells had paid to stay on. Some of the employees, like Cat and Valentine, and even Deputy Quincy Boudreaux—sorry—Chief Deputy Quincy Boudreaux showed up more out of curiosity than anything else.
Adele Stockton, dressed up like Sunday-go-to-meeting as Mama would say, had decided to hang on my every word. Be careful what you wish for.
Precisely at five thirty p.m., after a drum roll, Harry pulled aside the drapery hiding the construction site, and he, Jack, Odeo, and a few other maintenance crew members went inside carrying a big empty basket between them.
We were all far enough away that we couldn't really see where they went to get to the gator's nest.
The jazz trio played, and the crowd milled around enjoying the festive mood.
After about fifteen minutes, the five men came back from the fenced-off work area. The two men still held the big basket between them, but it was no longer empty.
And what lay on top of it made me gasp, Archie and Theresa Powell shriek, Nancy Villars clap her hands over her mouth, and Percy Villars utter, "Oh, Elroy. If you could only see," before he began to cry.
It was a weathered leather folder that looked very much like what I perceived a document case from the 19th century would look like, and I knew that when it was unlaced, they would discover a cracked and faded letter from President James Monroe to the Governor of Louisiana on behalf of one privateer, mercenary, and scoundrel, Jean Lafitte.
And some chilly night, if a little comfort food is what you're craving, give Valentine's spicy recipe a try with a warm, crusty baguette.
Valentine's Cajun-style Chicken and Rice Soup
Prep: 25 min.
Cook: 2½ hours, plus cooling
You'll need:
1 broiler/fryer chicken (about 3 pounds)
10 cups water
2 teaspoons salt
½ cup uncooked wild rice (may substitute long grain rice).
½ cup chopped onion
½ cup chopped celery
½ cup thinly sliced carrots
1 large can (14.5 ounces) stewed tomatoes, diced
1 garlic clove, minced
1½ teaspoons chili powder (less if the spiciness gets to you)
1 teaspoon Lawry's seasoned salt
½ teaspoon Creole seasoning
Directions:
1. Put chicken, water, and salt in a kettle. Bring it up slowly to a boil. Skim off any foam on top. Reduce the heat then cover it, and simmer about an hour or until the chicken is tender.
2. Put the chicken aside. When it's cool enough, pull the meat off the bones and away from the skin. Trash the carcass and skin, and cut the meat into bite-sized pieces.
3. Skim the fat off the broth. Add the rice, vegetables, and seasonings. Cook it uncovered over a medium heat for about 30 minutes.
4. Add the chicken. Simmer for 30 more minutes or so until vegetables are tender.
10 servings (about 2½ quarts, depending on how much you cook it down).
* * * * *
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* * * * *
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
USA Today bestselling authors Sally J. Smith and Jean Steffens are partners in crime—crime writing, that is. They live in Scottsdale, Arizona, awesome for eight months out of the year, an inferno the other four. They write bloody murder, flirty romance, and wicked humor all in one package. When their heads aren't together over a manuscript, you'll probably find them at a movie or play, a hockey game or the mall, or at one of the hundreds of places to find a great meal in the Valley of the Sun.
To learn more about Sally J. Smith and Jean Steffens, visit them online at: www.smithandsteffens.com
* * * * *
BOOKS BY SALLY J. SMITH & JEAN STEFFENS
Mystic Isle Mysteries:
Mystic Mayhem
Mystic Mojo (short story in the Killer Beach Reads collection)
Mystic Mistletoe Murder
Mystic Mischief
Danger Cove Pet Sitter Mysteries:
Passion, Poison & Puppy Dogs
Divas, Diamonds & Death
Aloha Lagoon Mysteries:
Murder on the Aloha Express
* * * * *
SNEAK PEEK
If you enjoyed this Mystic Isle Mystery, check out this sneak peek of:
MURDER ON THE ALOHA EXPRESS
A Gabby LeClaire Aloha Lagoon Mystery
by
SALLY J. SMITH &
JEAN STEFFENS
CHAPTER ONE
As much as I hated to say it, not everyone could carry off that aloha look—the one with the oversized shirt, baggy cargo shorts, flip-flops. Not to forget the zinc-oxide smear on the nose.
The man before me was definitely one of those guys. He looked like the quintessential tourist, slumping into my office and plopping down in the chair in front of my desk. The shirt was red, yellow, and orange in a spewing-volcano print. The baggy shorts had red and white flowers all over them and big old pockets low on the sides of the legs. The flip-flops looked as if today was the first time he'd slipped them onto his lily-white feet—a complete ensemble. There was also something a little smarmy about him that put me off.
"Aloha," I said. The word never seemed to roll off my tongue the way it did for others who worked at the Aloha Lagoon Resort. I'd even been practicing, trying for that soft melodic island lilt. My Midwestern accent always seemed to bleed through, but I gave it my best shot anyway—the mainlanders who came my way for exotic vacation experiences loved it. "How can I help you?"
The client's eyes swept the room, beginning at the tourism posters on the wall and stopping at the nameplate on my desk. "So, Gab-ree-el…Le…Klair, Certified Travel Specialist…" He pronounced my name phonetically, like a third grader would, as he raised his gaze to my face. "You don't look like a home-grown pineapple to me. Not with that sassy dark streak in those blonde locks. And I bet that porcelain skin never bakes under a tropical sun either."
I wondered if that sort of line worked for him in bars, and then he went on, and I knew it probably hadn't.
"You didn't grow up here with the rest of the coconuts, did you, city girl? Where'd they transplant you from?" He tilted his head and studied me, one eye squinted like Popeye. "Let me guess. I'm thinking, what? Boston? No, wait. New York? Huh-uh, farther west. Right?"
I managed a smile I didn't mean. "Chicago."
He slapped his bare, knobby knee. "Knew it."
Of course you did.
"Well, Travel Agent LeClair from Chicago, I'd like you to book me a tour."
That made me smile for real. "Well, isn't that nice? I'd like to book you a tour."
"I'm David," he said. "David Sherwin, Esquire." He reached across the desk, and we shook hands. "I'm here representing the estate of Thomas Wesley Senior." He paused, obviously anticipating acknowledgment of some sort, maybe even applause. I didn't have clue one as to who Thomas Wesley Senior was,
but I nodded so David Sherwin, Esquire would get on with it.
He did. "Mr. Wesley, one of my wealthier clients—real estate mogul—passed away a few months ago. The probate's been settled, and assets are about to be released for disbursement. According to the stipulations of the will, I've brought the family together here for their payday, so to speak. Mr. Wesley and his wife spent their honeymoon on the island, here at Aloha Lagoon, and since he was widowed, he'd been waxing nostalgic about the place."
"It's a beautiful island. Everyone seems to love it," I offered.
"Yeah? Well, we'll be making disbursements to the family members in a few days, but in the meantime I have to keep these people…" He said people like it left a nasty taste in his mouth. "…entertained. Not all of them are that great to deal with, especially the heir apparent to the estate, Thomas Wesley Junior. He likes to be called TJ. Keeping him off my back is where you come in, Gabrielle."
I opened a desk drawer, took out a booking form, and reached for a pen. "My friends call me Gabby."
At least that was what my friends used to call me back in Chicago when I had friends. Those "friends" had turned out to be good-time Charlies and Charlenes. They'd eased on down the road with Steve, my ex-husband, and from what I'd heard, they were all living happily ever after in my old Chicago stomping grounds, frolicking with Steve and his latest blonde. If I sounded a little bitter, I was. That rat had taken half of everything from me when he'd blindsided me with divorce papers. He'd put it all on me, said my nine-to-five, well, just wasn't. According to Steve I had worked around the clock, he had never seen me, and when we had been together, I'd been so rigid and stodgy it was the equivalent of mental cruelty to him. Said he didn't wander, that I drove him away. Said a man knew when he wasn't the priority in his woman's life. But what he'd really said was "Hasta la vista, baby" and waltzed off with a good portion of my liquid assets to support his downsized-five-years-earlier lazy butt. I was sure there was a good argument for community property, but so far I hadn't been able to come up with one.
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