Dead in the Water (Olivia Grant Mysteries Book 1) (23 page)

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Phyllis's credits include nineteen published romance novels and several short stories and articles to national magazines. She was an RWA Golden Heart finalist, won the San Diego Book Award, and was a finalist in St. Martin's Press Malice Domestic Mystery Contest. She has also written a novella in Kindle Worlds series and three novellas about Sherlock Holmes under the name P.J. Humphrey.
Phyllis's non-fiction book was published by John Wiley & Sons, she has ghost-written three non-fiction books and had two 30-minute radio plays produced by American Radio Theater.
She's listed in
Who's Who
, a member of Mensa, married, and the mother of three children.

To learn more about Phyllis, visit her online at:
http://www.phyllishumphrey.com/

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Olivia Grant Mysteries
:

Dead in the Water

Dead Men's Tales (coming soon!)

Other works:

Free Fall

Finding Amy

Southern Star

Stranger in Paradise

Cold April

North by Northeast

The Green Bough

Tropical Nights

Charade

Flying High

Masquerade

Roman Holiday

Choices

False Pretenses

Romance of my Dreams

Once More with Feeling

* * * * *

If you enjoyed this series name, check out this sneak peek of another exciting novel from
Gemma Halliday Publishing
:

MYSTIC MAYHEM

by

SALLY J. SMITH & JEAN STEFFENS

CHAPTER ONE

I was on my third beignet and well into my coffee, the caffeine just kicking in, when my best friend and roomie, Catalina Gabor, finally showed up at the Café du Monde in New Orleans' French Quarter.

"Sorry I'm late, Mel."

I looked up at her and stifled a yawn. "No problem. You're still in time to catch the ferry." I handed her the last warm sugar-powdered beignet. The order was four. I ate three. She was late, and the way I looked at it, she was lucky there was even one left. She tapped the pastry against the side of the plate and knocked off half the powder. It kept her from wearing the sugar on her chest like I sometimes did.

She took a couple of bites and laid the rest of the beignet aside. I made a mental note to myself:
Chere, you should try that one too.

Myself replied
: But, chere, they're too good to leave on the plate.

"You look tired, Mel," Cat said. "I bet you worked all weekend at the church."

"I did. Putting in some long hours over there, hoping to have it ready for services by Thanksgiving."

The Lower Ninth Ward and Holy Cross neighborhoods east of the city were hit so hard by Katrina, even a decade later they looked like war zones. Churches, schools, and even fire stations were still boarded up and crumbling away. Federal funds went to the more prosperous, commercial neighborhoods of the Crescent City area, so it was left up to the citizenry, all the king's horses and all the king's men,
moi,
and people like me to mobilize and put St. Antoine's Parish back together again.

My heart lies there. It's my old stomping grounds where Mama and I lived until Grandmama Ida took us in. It's where many of my childhood friends still live. It's where I put any extra money I'm lucky enough to come across and as many extra hours that happen to turn up in my day.

The chapel of St. Antoine's Parish, deconsecrated after Katrina due to brutal damage, was being revived due to the generosity of a celebrity musician who grew up in the area. His money, together with the money and efforts of some of us less celebrated New Orleans folk, was bringing back the simple beauty and sense of community to St. Antoine's. That week I'd spent my days off—eight hours on Thursday and ten hours on Friday—helping put up new siding. Now it was Saturday morning, time to go back to my paying job, and my arms, legs, and back testified to all my hard labor. But I loved every minute of it. And that lovely old church? Why, she was coming back around.

Cat laid her hand on mine. "Melanie Hamilton, girl, you're racking up points in Heaven. And that's the blessed truth." She reached slim fingers with purple-lacquered nails across the table, snagged my coffee cup, and took a swig of the dark, heavy chicory that was both our addictions. We like it
regulah
, lots of cream, tons of sugar.

I looked at my watch—10:50 a.m.—and stood. "We better get a move on."

She fell in step beside me as we double-timed it along the riverfront walkway to where the dedicated ferryboat for The Mansion at Mystic Isle bobbed against the old-fashioned wooden dock. We jumped onto the brightly painted flat-bottom boat with a few minutes to spare.

George, the ferry conductor, swept off his Mystic Isle cap, offered a toothy smile, and gave us an exaggerated bow. "Miss Hamilton," he drawled. "Miss Gabor. Glorious mornin', ladies. Dat f'sure
.
"

Mid-July. It wasn't noon yet, and the temp had already climbed to the high eighties. There wasn't even the slightest breeze, and the humidity was no less than killer. You almost had to pull the air apart like a curtain just to walk through it. Yep, a glorious day, all right. My T-shirt clung to me like wet wallpaper. The light complexion that went along with my strawberry-blonde hair wasn't ideal for life in a place where the sun beat down like my own personal heat lamp. I was thankful for the ferry's canopy.

While I was sweating like a hooker in a front-row church pew, Catalina bestowed a smile on George that was cool as a spring mist over a clear lake. No wonder he was nuts about her.

The only other passengers were a few of the dinner kitchen staff and the hotel's voodoo priestess (her
official
title) who ran the Who-do Voodoo We-do Shop at The Mansion.

The Mansion at Mystic Isle was where Cat and I worked. Located in Jefferson Parish across the Mississippi from New Orleans at the edge of a bayou, the main building was an old plantation house set among cypress trees and expansive green lawns. It had been handed down through the Villars family for centuries. Not all that long ago, Harry Villars, the down-on-his-luck, but no less genteel and stylish owner, had the brilliant idea to turn his liability into an asset by repurposing the place into a resort where folks dedicated to the supernatural and all kinds of magic could come and get their creep on.

The Mansion was decorated like the haunted house we've all seen at that theme park—you know the one. Ours was similar—creepy organ music when you crossed the threshold, drafty hallways, creaky doors, secret passages, even fake cobwebs. The whole shebang,
chere
. Harry Villars sank every cent he had into it and crossed his fingers that the place would raise him to the ranks of the solvent—then he hired all of us, a complete cast of soothsayers and charlatans, to convince hotel guests the supernatural stuff that went on at The Mansion was the real deal. But just between you, me, and the gators, it's not.

Cat was the gypsy fortune-teller, and did she ever look the part. Flashing dark eyes, long, flowing locks the color of cappuccino. Her lips always looked as if they were stained persimmon without any lip-gloss, and her size Ds were nothing short of a masterpiece. When she left our apartment in the French Quarter to head to work, she dressed like any regular twenty-eight-year-old knockout, but once her shift began at the resort, she was decked out in layers of gauzy jewel tones and bling, lots and lots of bling.

Me? I was the designated artist at The Mansion's Dragons and Deities Tattoo Parlor. My work costume was a slinky black gown with a V-neck, empire waist, and a big stand-up collar that fanned all the way around the back of my neck from one collar bone to the other. I think the effect was intended to be darkly glamorous, but most days I felt more like the Count von Count Muppet than Elvira, Mistress of the Dark. I would have preferred that free and easy Stevie Nicks look Cat pulled off, but it wasn't in the cards—not when I was forced to wear a full bib apron on top of that gorgeous creation to avoid spraying ink all over it.

When I walked out of college with my degree in fine arts, I never would have suspected tattoos would be my groceries, and I still don't consider myself to be your typical tattoo girl. No leather bustier or nose ring, and the only tattoo on this girl's milky skin is a tiny Tinker Bell on my right shoulder.

The boat motor revved. The signal horn blew, and the ferry pulled out into the strong draft of the mighty Mississippi River, brown as liquid chocolate and churning like a whirlpool. Cat and I leaned against the railing, shoulder to shoulder, and I turned my face into the wind created by the movement of the boat. It cooled me off a little.

"You look nice today," Cat said.

Oh. My makeup must not have been running down my face like melting Häagen-Dazs yet. "Thanks, Cat. So do you."

"Well," she said without the slightest bit of arrogance, "I look nice every day."

I nodded.
When you're right, you're right.

"You hoping to run into Cap'n Jack, girl?" Her voice was sly.

I bumped her shoulder with mine. "You pokin' fun at me?" It was true. I had taken extra care with my makeup and hair that morning. Some VIPs were checking in at Mystic Isle today, and I knew the manager, Jack Stockton, would be up front and present to take care of them.

"Poking fun at you? No, girl, no way. Settin' your cap for a man like that is some serious stuff."

A man like that.

Jack Stockton—Cat and I had taken to calling him Cap'n Jack—was the recently hired general manager at The Mansion on Mystic Isle. The story was he had been the golden boy moving up the corporate ladder at an international chain's premier property in the Big Apple when disaster struck. The hotel chain's CEO had arrived in New York from Frankfurt for a look-see at his crown jewel. The grapevine rumored that Jack Stockton met a stunning blonde with a provocative Marlene Dietrich accent at the hotel lounge. The two hit off and wound up back at his place. The next morning Jack discovered the blonde was the boss's twenty-five-year-old bride of only six weeks. They didn't even let him clean out his desk, and once the story got around, poor Jack couldn't even walk into a hotel without turning every head in the place. At least in the Big Apple.

But New York was a far cry from the Big Easy.

The Mansion at Mystic Isle was just getting a foothold, and the idea of having a man as capable yet desperate for work as Jack Stockton sat just right with Harry Villars, who needed someone with monster talent to manage his supernatural resort project. The weird goings-on, unusual clientele, bizarre employees, and rumors of hauntings at our beloved place of employment had already driven off three general managers. I had high hopes for Jack.

He was smart, experienced, and would probably do whatever it took to make the place a success. And besides, Harry Villars was gay. It wasn't likely Jack would get caught in bed with Harry's significant other, my good friend the Great Fabrizio. Still, Jack would need every bit of skill and cunning he could muster to get this albatross on solid ground. I think I fell in love with him the first time he lifted that chiseled chin and showed me that smile.

Saying Cap'n Jack was easy on the eyes was an understatement of Biblical proportion. Dark eyes, slightly almond-shaped. Smooth, swarthy skin. Full lips that slid easily into a lopsided sexy smile and short, dark hair my fingers itched to lace themselves into. The Fifth Avenue suits he wore to work every day appeared tailor-made to fit his athletic body but still somehow looked out of place on him. My mind's eye insisted on imagining him in boots, jeans, and muscle shirts. And when he came to me in my dreams, he wore a lot less.

He was a really nice guy whose New York ways made him a duck in the desert among the laid-back, slow-talking New Orleanians, Cajuns, and swamp rats at Mystic Isle.

On his first day at The Mansion Jack stood in front of the entire staff and told his tale about the consequences of looking for love in all the wrong places. He made sure we laughed at what had to be a difficult and embarrassing incident in his life and made us all as comfortable with him as he was with himself. Honesty and good humor were just about the two sexiest traits a man could have. And Jack had both—in spades.

Don't get me wrong. I liked his sophisticated style, so much that whenever he even walked into the room, I came apart like a house of cards in a wind tunnel. At least that was how I felt. He made me warm and cold, excited and nervous, happy and scared all at the same time.

I think he might have been interested in me, too, but I couldn't be sure he didn't think I was the village idiot, not the way my tongue tangled itself up whenever I tried to speak to him.

Cat, God love her, was still trying her best to hook us up.

Despite her efforts, it wasn't likely to happen. He was kind and fair and had a great laugh, but he was also my boss. I didn't figure either of us was ready to risk the livelihood of the other, so I went home every night and carried on a steamy love affair with him in my dreams.

"I'm just sayin',
chere
," Cat closed her eyes and lifted her face to the breeze coming off the river, "dat man is delish, fo' true."

I glanced sideways at her, slid my hand along the railing, and laid it on top of hers. "And I'm just sayin',
chere,
you're spending too much time with that Cajun cop of yours. And dat f'shore too."

*   *   *

Once we docked, the ride to the resort on Mystic Isle took thirty minutes if there weren't any gators sunbathing in the road or big mud holes that had to be skirted. The shuttle ran back and forth all day every day from seven a.m. until midnight. It was a sight to behold, basically a smallish airport shuttle only N'awlins style. The front end was a purple Mardi Gras mask with headlights serving as eyes. On either side, The Mansion at Mystic Isle was scrolled in gold letters over dark but beautifully screened images glimpsing into the paranormal world of spirits and spells. Its route went via Jefferson Parish into the swamplands near the Barataria Preserve then over the bridge to the privately owned four square miles of swampland that was now the country's first, and possibly only, resort catering to those who believed in all things mystical and occult.

I stepped down from the shuttle just as Jack Stockton jogged up, out of breath, and spicier than Louisiana hot sauce.