Mystic Mayhem (6 page)

I listened politely, and by the time he was done speaking, between him and Cat, I knew backward and forward every word that came out of Quincy Boudreaux's mouth, in addition to those I'd heard from Q. After a while Jack began to talk about his job.

"Terrible thing, this death. The deputy thinks it's homicide." He paused. "Not that it's about me at all, but I'm nervous how this will look to my employer. It can't bode well for my job security."

"This is the deep South, Jack," I said. "Folks down here aren't quick to jump to conclusions, and I can't believe anyone would think this was your fault anyway."

He shrugged then. "Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, I need to watch my p's and q's, and part of that has to do with you."

"Me?"

He nodded. "As much as I'd like to see you away from work, get to know you better…"

My heart started to pound so hard, I was pretty sure he could hear it.

"…I don't dare. I'm your boss. Our seeing each other could lead to all sorts of issues."

Oh. Was this his way of letting me down easy? Or was this his way of saying he was hot for me?

I was confused.

Jack got up and walked over to where I kept my portfolio of designs to inspire tattoo customers.

He absent-mindedly thumbed through it. "You know you're really good, Mel. You ever do any real painting?"

He didn't look up when he spoke, and I had the feeling my designs weren't really what he had on his mind.

"Yes," I said. "I do. I paint N'awlins street scenes and the like. People seem to appreciate my stuff. Sometimes I sell one or two."

He did look up then. "Really? Good for you. Maybe someday you'll leave this place and make a name for yourself as an artist."

"Well now, for the time being, I'm just glad for the chance to make a little extra for the cause."

He came back and sat down again. "I heard you're part of a movement restoring some of the hardest hit neighborhoods destroyed by Katrina."

"Yes," I said softly and took the opportunity to inspect the backs of my hands. I don't like talking much about that. Makes me look like I think I'm a saint or something. Saintly, I'm not.

"That's generous of you," he said. "You seem like a really, really good person to me."

"Nah, you go on. I'm just like anyone in N'awlins who sees a job needs doing and rolls up her sleeves."

"There're people like that in New York too. We saw a lot of them after 9/11," he said. "Good people. Men and women."

Women. I took a deep breath. "Good-looker like you, I bet you knew a lot of women up in the city."

"Maybe," he said. "Yes." He looked right at me, and my stomach clenched, but I couldn't look away. "But none like you, Mel. Not a single one like you."

*   *   *

My last appointment for the day left at two forty-five. Seeing as how I was stuck at The Mansion in spite of my personal preference, Jack okayed a swim in the gorgeous Olympic indoor pool at the resort, a remnant of the Gatsby glory days of the 1920s. Cerulean tiles with gold swirls were inlaid throughout. It was a masterpiece. The water reflected the blue and gold, and the effect was that of a magical lagoon.

I lifted my head on lap thirty and was startled by Fabrizio, standing on the edge.

"Hey." I stopped and looked up at him, treading water.

"Hello, my dear, excellent stroke."

He looked tired. His long face sagged with worry or fatigue or both. I didn't remember ever seeing him that way before.

I swam to the edge where he hunkered down, wobbling a little as he did so.

"What's up, Fabrizio?"

He shook his head. "There isn't much out there for an old thespian with bad knees."

Odd way to start a conversation. "Hmm," I said. "Guess it's a good thing you have this gig then."

He shook his head sadly and sighed as if the weight of the world rode on his bony shoulders. "Yes, I suppose. Lucky to have this," he paused and added a flourish to the word, "
gig
and lucky to have Harry. Especially to have Harry. I don't know what a genteel man like that sees in an old broken-down performer such as I. I never thought someone like Harry would want someone like me."

I reached out and touched his hand, being careful not to sling water all over him. "What is it, Fabrizio? I've never seen you like this."

He sighed. "I suppose I'm just a bit emotional, what with all that's happened. Feeling a little at loose ends, as they say. I so wanted to succeed with the Elway woman. It meant a great deal to me."

I didn't say it out loud, but it struck me that he'd taken this terrible thing that happened to Mrs. Elway and somehow made it about him.

"You know, my dear, that bonus money was earmarked for a good cause. A very good cause. I think I know you, in particular, have a weakness for good causes."

"Good cause?"

"Harry has a balloon payment coming up on the property remodel. I was going to give the money to him."

 Harry and Fabrizio were the sweetest couple I knew. So caring, so considerate, not to mention generous. "Maybe you should speak to the stepdaughter. She might honor Cecile's promise. She even seemed more keen to hear from Mr. Elway than his wife."

He seemed to perk up a little at that and reached down to pat my wet head. "Brilliant, my dear." He beamed, seeming to feel better about things. "Absolutely brilliant. I'll seek her out this very minute." He stood. "You should continue with your laps."

"Nah, I'm done," I said. "I lost count."

He walked away, tossing back over his shoulder, "Thirty. I counted thirty."

*   *   *

An evening mist settled over the lake. Somewhere on the far bank a gator splashed into the water, looking for dinner. The cricket song was swinging into full chorus. My own was waiting for me in the kitchen where all us employees would gather in the staff dining room. On Mondays, Valentine prepared either sausage-and-okra gumbo or red beans and rice. For dessert, melt-in-your-mouth bread pudding with bourbon sauce. I was excited about a hot meal. It was a rare occasion I wound up at the resort at suppertime. Cat and Mel's place tended to serve items that came out of the freezer in a box or out of the pantry in a can. I was honestly hoping Chef went with the beans and rice tonight. It was a chore picking the okra from the gumbo—nasty stuff. I didn't care how healthy it was, I just plain old didn't like it.

I stood there a few minutes longer trying to figure out a way I could cozy up to Cap'n Jack without either of us getting in trouble with Harry Villars, the owner. An appropriate solution didn't pop into my head right away, and my stomach was starting to growl.

I turned from where I stood at the end of the wooden dock and started back for the main building and Valentine's hot dinner. An SUV from the Jefferson Parish Sheriff's Office sat in the circular driveway under the portico.

Quincy. He wouldn't be there if he didn't have something new. I started to jog. God forbid I should miss even the smallest bit of news.

Just as I approached the front, two deputies, one Quincy, one I didn't recognize, came out the double-wide doors with Fabrizio walking between them. His hands were cuffed behind him. The face he made when he saw me was tragic at the very least, suffering and full of shame at the very most.

What in blue blazes was going on?

Quincy stopped beside me as the other deputy moved toward the SUV with Fabrizio in tow.

"What's going on, Quincy?" I looked from Quincy to Fabrizio. "Fabrizio? Why are you—"

Quincy took hold of my arm and turned me to face him. "So sorry,
chère
. I know he a friend of yours."

"But what? Why?" I was dumbstruck.

"Dat Terrence fella say he's the victim's main squeeze, say the lady brought some big money down here to the swamps, say I should check it out."

"So…?"

"I did. No big money in the lady's room."

I didn't understand what that had to do with taking my friend away in cuffs. "So it wasn't in her room. Maybe she had them put it in the hotel safe."

He shrugged and looked truly unhappy about all this. "No, girl, not there either. But den I check out Fabrizio's room, and I was damn sad to find big money hiding there."

"What?" I couldn't believe it. Hadn't my friend just told me he wasn't going to get that hundred thousand she promised him? What changed? "Fabrizio had the money?"

Quincy shrugged. "Some of it anyway. Ten thousand in nice, crisp, bee-u-tiful hundred-dollar bills. Now, I ask you, how you think he come by that money?"

The last vestiges of dusk left the sky, and the mood lighting came on. Fabrizio didn't have ten thousand dollars to his name, much less in cash kept in his room. It didn't make any sense.

"You're taking him away because…"

"Because we thinking he take dat big money."

"You think he stole from Mrs. Elway?" I shook my head. If I didn't believe it, how could Quincy?

I turned my head away and noticed Jack standing to one side of the open doors. How long had he been there? Did he believe Fabrizio stole the money?

"Dat I do," Quincy said with a big sigh. "It's a right shame, it is. We just hoping he didn't kill her, too, while he at it."

"Damn that Quincy!"

Cat got that hurt look on her face I knew so well. "Why would you say that? Poor thing, he just can't help it, Mel. He has to do those mean things. It's his job."

My hands seemed to have a mind of their own. They kept waving at her. "Cat! He took Fabrizio! To jail!
Our
Fabrizio!"

She put her arm around my shoulders and leaned her head against mine. I loved that about her. The resort might have hired her to read tarot cards, but in my opinion, she was more empath than anything else, always in tune to what others felt.

We had caught the ferry back across the river, and then because it was early enough that the streets were still busy with tourists, shoppers, and diners, we walked the few blocks to our place.

Cat and I split the outrageous rent in a two-bedroom apartment, an old two-story brick building facing Dumaine Street. You wouldn't ever think our apartment was cute just looking at the plain face, but it opened onto a beautiful little paved courtyard that said old New Orleans with a French accent—
ooh-la-la
.

The green shutters, wrought iron patio benches, and potted palms said, "
Bienvenue, mademoiselle
."

Before we even put our bags down by the double French doors, our beautiful Satchmo, one of a very special litter of kittens whelped at The Mansion, came running from my bedroom and curled around my leg. I reached down to scratch him behind the ears.

Cat carried her bag into her bedroom. "Hot shower first then I'll take care of the dishes we left in the sink Saturday morning."

"Good." They were her dishes anyway. Cat ate breakfast at home while I'd gotten my sugar fix at Café du Monde that morning.

I snagged an apple out of the bowl on the counter and wandered back into the living room, where my half-finished painting of our lovely little courtyard sat alone and neglected on its easel, awaiting my further TLC. I had the feeling it would be a while before I could get back to it.

I took care of the litter box and gave Satchmo fresh food and water. Like any good neighbor, Beauregard was always kind enough to help us out with Satchmo when we drew overtime or took a weekender to the Gulf Coast casinos. Cat and I, in turn, helped him handle his laundry, which always seemed to be just a bit beyond him. He would have pink socks and underwear if left to his own devices. I often suspected he did it on purpose just so we'd feel sorry for him and give him a hand. Typical Southern man.

Thoughts about the terrible thing that happened at The Mansion and about poor Fabrizio sitting in a cell in the Jefferson Parish jail had been racing through my mind at Mach three. I heard the shower running, saw that the door wasn't closed all the way, and went into the bathroom. The curtain was drawn, and Cat was already splashing away, singing some Zydeco song Quincy had taught her.

I closed the lid then sat on the toilet. "Cat?"

She didn't stop singing.

I said it again, louder. "Cat?"

She grabbed the edge of the curtain and poked her head out. "Hey," she said. "What?"

It took nearly fifteen minutes to convince her Fabrizio needed our help in beating this bad rap and that we needed to go back to Mystic Isle, dig around, and see if we could find anything. I truly believe the only reason she finally agreed was that she was turning into a prune.

We took Satchmo and his traveling gear over to Beauregard next door.

He pulled a late shift and was just getting ready to go to work. Beauregard was one of the most colorful bartenders on Bourbon Street. His finesse with a bottle and a shaker was legendary.

He agreed to watch Satchmo for as long as we needed, which left us girls free to undertake our recon mission.

*   *   *

It was pouring rain as George took us back across on the ferry, so Cat and I sat together in the middle under the canopy. The rain let up and stopped within minutes of docking on the opposite bank. Cat talked George into letting us use his car, parked in the employee lot at the ferry dock, to drive to the resort.

His car turned out to be a shabby army-green Volvo station wagon, circa 1975 or so. In the hazy glow of pole lights, the thing looked like a big old toad squatting in the middle of the parking lot.

He handed the key to Cat like it was a frickin' Bentley, for crying out loud. "Your carriage, Princess Catalina."

Sheese.

Inside, the car was every bit as wrecked as one would expect from a vehicle of that ancient age. The seats were worn so thin in spots the foam stuck up. A blanket was draped over the backseat. Cat and I looked at each other. It wasn't necessary to say neither of us was interested in what lay beneath that dusty old thing.

So as not to seem like we didn't appreciate the use of the vehicle, we both hugged George before getting in, starting it up—sort of—and driving away. The poor old thing coughed and choked like a three-pack-a-day smoker. But we were up and mobile and making our way along the unlit bayou back road that wound its way to Mystic Isle.