Dead in the Water (Olivia Grant Mysteries Book 1) (24 page)

"You need to turn around," he told the driver. "The Elway woman and her people are on their way from the airport to the ferry. If you're not there to pick them up, it won't be good."

As the shuttle circled back out, Jack turned and seemed to see me for the first time.

"Good morning, Miss Hamilton," he said quickly. That was just one of the things that set him apart from the locals. You never heard "Where y'at, baaay-beee?" or "Aw right, dawlin'" from his gorgeous lips. No sir, always polite and cultured, my Jack. My Jack? My fervent wish.

He wasn't in such a big hurry that he didn't take the time to notice. "Miss Hamilton, I believe that shirt just exactly matches your green eyes." Interest flared in his gorgeous peepers.

I smiled but didn't answer. As flummoxed as I was, it would have sounded like a foreign language.

After the shuttle turned back around, so did Jack. He stopped at the front entrance, and while the organ music groaned the welcome dirge, he asked Lurch, our obsessed-by-selfies doorman, how his day was going, and then he said to the morose giant of a man, "There are some VIP guests arriving later today. I'm going to request, as a personal favor to me, you not ask them to join you for a selfie. Please."

The fact that Lurch asked anyone and everyone to pose for a selfie with him seemed to bother Jack—the uptight New Yorker in him, I supposed. None of the rest of us cared a whit about it. In fact, it was a lot of fun to sit down with Lurch on a coffee break and have a slide show of all the pictures on his phone.

It didn't hurt anybody, and if someone didn't want to stand beside a seven-foot-tall, pasty-skinned man with hands the size of cast-iron skillets, they could always say, "No thanks."

Lurch groaned but nodded. "Yes, sir."

*   *   *

The Dragons and Deities Tattoo Parlor was located on the first floor of the auxiliary wing next to the hotel spa. The hotel owner, Harry Villars, a genteel Southern man with grand gestures and the soft-spoken mannerisms of Ashley Wilkes, had pretty much given me carte blanche in decorating, and I went with the Medieval Times look. Since the name of the place had to do with dungeons, it was just about my only reference material. The flickering wall sconces, stone masonry wallpaper, and red and gold drapery swags were nothing if not dramatic.

I was not ashamed to admit I kind of got off on wearing that girly garb the mystical theme required, and the skin paintings I created are ethereal and otherworldly. They went hand-in-hand with the theme of the hotel and more often than not challenged my artistic nature.

My first love was oil on canvas. The streets and people of New Orleans, my favorite subjects. When I didn't spend my weekend working at St. Antoine's trying to bring the beautiful old church back, I hauled myself out to Jackson Square and displayed my wares with other struggling artists. A gallery over on Julia Street took the odd painting every now and then. When I sold one, what I got for it went straight to the neighborhood restoration fund.

It was about three o'clock. My last client of the day, a nerdy neurosurgeon from Wisconsin, was still in the chair, just getting up from my work on the wizard I'd inked on his left butt cheek. He'd been all worried someone would see it, so he asked me to put it there, folks. It wasn't my idea. Believe me. The finished product was pretty gorgeous, if I do say so myself. The wizard's light-blue flowing beard, royal-blue flowing robes, and pointy hat were offset with the red sparks that flew from his wand. I had to say it kind of made me grumpy no one would ever see it. But like they say, the customer is always right. If he wanted a tattoo on his butt, who was I to deny him?

He'd just walked out when Catalina and Cap'n Jack walked into my domain.

Jack cleared his throat. "Miss Hamilton…"

"This is the South, Mr. Stockton," I said. "Please call me Mel."

His eyes found mine. "And I'm Jack," he said.

Cap'n Jack—it was all I could do not to say it out loud.

He went on. "I've already asked Miss Gabor—Catalina—but I wanted to ask you personally. Mrs. Elway and her party have arrived a day early. We can accommodate her with rooms, thank God, but the dining room is booked tonight for the annual banquet of the Dead-and-Loving-It Zombie Fan Club. I've arranged for Mrs. Elway and her guests to be served in the small dining room, but it's too late to bring in extra waitstaff from the city to serve them. I know it's not your job, and ordinarily I wouldn't ask, but I'm sure you've heard Cecile Elway and her personal psychic, Penelope Devere, are the president and vice-president of the International Paranormal Society. Their endorsement will put The Mansion on the map." He paused as those eyes and lips pleaded his case for him. I tried to concentrate on what he was actually saying. He was so, as Cat would say,
delish.
"It's a small group," he went on, "just six of them including the Great Fabrizio."

"She's having dinner with the hotel medium?"

"Yep." He shook his head as if the idea amazed him. "That's why she's here. Her personal psychic told Cecile to come. Said Theodore Elway, Cecile's deceased husband, spoke to her in a dream and wanted Mrs. Elway to have a séance with the Great Fabrizio to learn the secret to her husband's restless soul finding peace." He shook his head. "You know, if you'd asked me six months ago if I'd be lining up ghostly encounters for hotel guests, I'd have laughed you out of the room." He raised his eyes to mine. "And just look at me now, begging you to help me do this ridiculous thing."

I tried to ignore the amber gleam in his eyes.
Keep it business, Mel. He is.
"I'll do anything I can to help out. Just tell me what you need."

*   *   *

I offered my last scheduled appointment of the day a really nice discount to reschedule her body art, the Gryffindor crest from Harry Potter targeted for her right calf, and closed the parlor early. After changing into the proper uniforms, typical black-and-white antebellum-style long dresses and aprons, Cat and I took a crash course in table service lessons from the main dining room maître d'.

The smaller dining room was furnished with lovely period furniture that could well have been used in The Mansion during its plantation days in the 1800s. The oval table seated up to ten people. Mrs. Elway and the other five guests were comfortable that evening.

The widow was Cecile Elway, a fifty-something aristocratic-looking dishwater blonde with blue eyes, a strong chin, and aquiline nose she kept so high in the air I was pretty sure she had a stiff neck from it. She was haughtily lovely for (who my mama would call) a woman of that certain age.

Her stepdaughter, Rosalyn Elway Whitlock, on the other hand, looked like a small-town librarian with poodle-cut curly hair, watery grey eyes, face scrubbed so clean it shone, and a brown suit jacket over a white blouse buttoned all the way to the collar. A pair of tortoiseshell reading glasses dangled on a beaded chain around her neck. Her head stayed down, and her eyes stayed glued to the place setting in front of her.

Elway's stepgrandson, Billy Whitlock, was college-aged from the look of him, probably still had to have his nose wiped by his mama. He was skinny with an Adam's apple that sat in the middle of his throat like a golf ball. He only smiled at me, but when Cat walked by he jumped to his feet, took hold of her hand, and made a big deal about kissing it. I was surprised she didn't run into the kitchen and grab a bar of soap.

Then there was Terrence Montague. He was introduced as the President of the Society for the Preservation of the Lepidoptera Alien Caterpillar (say that fast three times). There was something about his smarmy good looks I didn't like. The Buddy Holly glasses didn't fit his persona. The fuzzy caterpillar pin on his lapel looked like it might have been solid gold, but it was as out of place on him as a My Little Pony T-shirt would have looked on me. Beside him, Cecile had her hand on his thigh.

Mrs. Elway's personal psychic, Penelope Devere, was there too. She was a short woman built like a fireplug. She might have been cute at one time, but today's look, the Little Dutch Boy haircut and her plain unmade-up features, didn't do much to add to her mystique.

Last, but no way least, was Fabrizio, the hotel's resident medium and a person dear to my heart, also known as the Great Fabrizio. He was one of my favorite people on the planet. Born in Yorkshire across the pond, he grew up poor, as he said, "With little more than a pence or two in the pocket of the hand-me-down trousers from my older brother. Fancied myself a bit of an Oliver Twist." He was about as much a psychic medium as I was the Dalai Lama.

Talk around the hotel was, back in the salad days he'd been honored by the Queen for his performances as Macbeth and Hamlet. There was little trace of that left in him these days. Formally trained or not, his career was flagging in his fifties, and I had the impression if this job didn't pan out, he had nowhere else to go. That night he was dressed all in black, like a riverboat gambler. His greying hair was covered by a silver turban with an enormous fake ruby in the middle—all the better to cement his celebrity status with the clientele.

And that, ladies and gents, was the cast of characters for the evening.

The menu was simple but elegant—puree of squash, Cajun-blackened salmon, rice pilaf, and grilled asparagus with hollandaise.

Cat and I were confident and sure-handed, balancing the serving trays as smoothly as The Mansion's resident juggler—that was until Billy Whitlock, whose baby brown eyes had been glued to Cat's swaying backside all night, suddenly whipped sideways to stare at her as she bent over to retrieve a dropped napkin from the floor. The bowl of soup I was about to set in front of him tipped backward when he hit it and landed on my chest before falling to the floor. The lovely puree, of course, stayed on the front of my service uniform.

All eyes turned to me as I scrambled to pick up the bowl off the floor. "Sorry," I said.

"No, dude, it's all me," Billy said, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down in this throat. I swore he looked at me like he wanted to lick it all off, but I didn't say anything else. Seriously? Hadn't he ever seen a woman bend over before?

While I stood back and took a napkin to my soup-laden chest, Cecile Elway lifted her hand to Fabrizio. "Oh, Fabrizio," she cooed, "I forgot to mention we have a special requirement for the séance." She exchanged a meaningful look with her psychic, who nodded what I interpreted to be encouragement. Cecile went on, "And since it's just the tiniest bit unusual, I wanted you to have ample notice for its procurement."

Fabrizio, with lifted chin and half-closed eyes in full-on medium character, smiled and said, "Of course, madam—"

As I turned to go back to the kitchen and change into a clean uniform, Mrs. Elway gushed, "Oh, Cecile, please," and batted her lashes, flirting with Fabrizio like a schoolgirl. She crooked a finger at him and whispered in his ear as he leaned his head toward her.

When she finished, he pulled away and gave her a look I can only describe as dumbfounded. "Really?" he asked. "For the séance?"

She smiled and nodded.

"Did I hear you correctly?" He stammered a little. "Did you say…clams?"

CHAPTER TWO

By the time we finished with the dinner service, the ferry had quit running, so Cat and I couldn't make it home. Jack found an empty room for us. It was on the second floor in the auxiliary wing about as far away from the main building as you could get, and the remodel hadn't reached it yet, but the beds were soft, the linens dense and luxurious. We both slept like newborns in the T-shirts we wore to work. The next morning we dressed for work in a fresh change of costumes housekeeping had put in our lockers.

Cat had an early appointment. My first, the elaborate Gryffindor crest, wasn't until ten thirty. I was in the employee lounge lingering over a cup of chicory (so strong it threatened to straighten my hair) and a warm cream cheese pastry (so yummy I was pretty sure it had been concocted by a voodoo priestess).

"Melanie, my girl, just like your name, your song strums the strings of my heart."

"Good morning, Fabrizio."

Some of the performers at the hotel worked the day shift—Cat, me, the masseuse, Mambo the voodoo priestess, for example. The entertainers took the evening shift—the magicians and Aurelia the Aura Reader fell into that category, the musicians, of course, and so did Fabrizio.

Fabrizio lived on the island in
la petite maison
with his sweetie, Harry Villars. He was seldom seen at The Mansion itself unless he was working.

I turned. "What are you doing here so early?"

He was dressed like a regular Joe that morning in a golf shirt and a pair of faded jeans. No eyeliner or pancake makeup. I liked him better that way. He sat down across from me and drew circles on the table with his index finger until the buff twentysomething golden boy who gave massages refilled his cup and left the room, and I was alone with Fabrizio.

"I've a favor to ask, m'dear," he began.

I smiled at him over my cup. "You know I can't refuse you."

He patted my hand. My grandparents took care of me when I was a child. They were aging flower children and encouraged me to express myself in whatever way I wished. My grandfather owned a detail shop where he painted cars and motorcycles with flames, buxom women, and skulls. It was where I learned about design. He died when I was eighteen, and I still missed him every day.

Fabrizio looked just like him, right down to the longish, grey locks he sometimes slicked back and put in a ponytail.

Being a gay man and only recently liberated, Fabrizio was never blessed with offspring. He and I had sort of adopted each other.

"The séance Mrs. Elway booked to contact her deceased husband, Theodore Elway, is set for seven thirty this evening."

I nodded. We had all been told why Cecile Elway and her family had come.

He went on. "I was hoping you'd consent to staying over tonight to sit in on it."

Hmm. "Well…why?"

"Mr. Stockton…"

My heartbeat quickened. Really? Did I have it so bad that just the mention of Cap'n Jack's name got me going?

"…has declared there's a good deal riding on my performance tonight. He's indicated that Mrs. Elway and her psychic adviser, Ms. Devere, are in a position to bring a goodly amount of business to this fine establishment—that is, if all goes as they expect. And I worry for Harry's investment, as I'm sure you're well aware." His eyes went soft when he said Harry's name. The two had only been a couple a short while but seemed totally devoted to each other. "Not only that, but Mrs. Elway has promised me personally a bonus of a hundred thousand dollars if I'm successful in…" he paused, "…contacting the late Mr. Elway."

Everyone who worked at The Mansion knew all the supernaturalists hired by Harry Villars were just actors.

A hundred grand? Wow. "Well, that's a good thing. Isn't it? But," I asked, "what does that have to do with me?"

He pulled back his shoulders and raised his chin. So dramatic. "I've prepared for tonight as much as I possibly can. It will be one of the premier performances of my career. While stage fright has never been a malady with which I'm afflicted, I would be uttering an untruth if I denied that I'm bloody well scared to death."

He lifted his eyes to mine, eyes just like Gramps's—eyes I knew I couldn't deny.

"I need your moral support, my dear. It's that simple."

I reached across the table and covered our two hands with my other. "Of course," I said. "I'm yours for the evening, sir."

*   *   *

In the afternoon, I took the ferry back across to the Big Easy. If I had to spend yet another night at The Mansion, I wanted to have a change of clothes, my cell phone charger, and an assortment of all the other little things a girl needs to make it through the night. I packed a bag for Catalina as well. If I had to stay over, I wanted sympathetic company.

As the ferry carried me back across to Mystic Isle, George slipped up beside me. "Y'at,
Melanie?" he said. "You flying solo today? Where's your partner in crime—Miss Cat?"

The hope on his face was a beacon.

Cat was a good person, one of the best, and consciously never did anything to hurt anyone's feelings, so she'd never consider shunning George. She said it would "harvest bad karma."

But it made me sad that he wore his heart on his sleeve when he had absolutely no chance of winning her. "You know, George," I began, "Catalina has been seeing someone for quite a while now. They're very close. He's just gaga over her,"
Like everyone else.
"And she's just as crazy about him."
Even though that cocky Cajun can be more pain in the patoot than he's worth sometimes.

He smiled that big old Howdy Doody grin and bobbed his head. "Oh, yes, dawlin', I know. Deputy Quincy Boudreaux, he comes around all the time just to make sure I know Miss Catalina's well-being is real important to him, and I best be payin' all kinds of attention to my job while she's aboard."

"Oh," I said. "So you know about Quincy and Cat?"

"Aw, hell, Miss Melanie—pardon my language—ain't nobody in N'awlins don't know 'bout Deputy Quincy."

*   *   *

It was after six o'clock by the time I'd dressed in what I hoped was appropriate attire for a séance—long-sleeved, V-necked black dress. I put my hair up with an elaborate comb studded with fake emeralds I'd found at a secondhand store in the Quarter. The room phone rang, and I was summoned to the kitchen by Chef Valentine Cantrell.

Curious as hell, I went straight there.

The Mansion's kitchen had been added on around the turn of the century. Once there were no more slaves to haul the food from the original kitchen located in an outbuilding, the plantation owners added a regular kitchen on to the house. It had been updated through the decades, the most recent renovation only a couple of years earlier when The Mansion was converted to a hotel, and expanses of stainless steel surfaces and commercial appliances became the dominant elements.

The lovely Valentine Cantrell ruled over it like a Creole queen, a soup ladle her scepter, her crown the elasticized plastic cap over her Afro.

I walked in to find her chastising a kitchen worker for under seasoning the crawfish
etoufee
bubbling on the stove.

"Miss Melanie, my favorite skin-painting woman, yes?"

I curtsied. "At your service, Lady Cantrell."

She waved a hand at me. "You go on with yourself, now." Ladling stew into a clay bowl, she sprinkled cayenne on top and set it on a nearby stainless steel table beside a basket of fresh cornbread. "You eat now, girl. Can't be conversing with no spirits on an empty stomach."

I didn't hesitate but sat down and dug right in. Valentine's crawfish stew was legendary. "How'd you know about the séance?" I asked.

"Oh, Fabrizio, he come down here a while back and say he need you to take something with you when you go dere."

I looked up at her. "What?"

"Never you mind," she said. "All in good time."

I sopped up the stew with the crusty bread and watched her work. It had been a real coup for The Mansion when Valentine Cantrell signed on, and from what I knew, she could pretty much write her own ticket. At thirty-six, she was famous among culinary circles. Her golden eyes were always crinkled and plump cheeks always creased in a pleasant smile. Skin like butterscotch satin gave her the exotic appeal of a movie star. A kind and generous nature made her as beautiful inside as out.

And the food. Nothing else like it inside the sixty-four parishes. For some of the hotel employees, the food and a chance to sit down to leftovers was why they came here to work. A true
lagniappe
, as Valentine herself would say, a bonus.

Jack walked in just as I was finishing. I looked up at him. The bright kitchen lights bounced off his dark hair, bringing out auburn highlights I'd never noticed before.

"Miss Hamilton," he said softly. How the heck did my name turn into an aphrodisiac coming from his lips? "You look amazing."

I'm embarrassed to tell you I batted my lashes. "Why thank you, Mr. Stockton."

"Did Chef Valentine talk to you about the clams?"

"Did you say…?" I looked over at Valentine, who was slaving over a chopping block, her knife reverberating like a machine gun. She didn't look up. She didn't dare if she wanted to keep all ten fingers.

"Clams," he repeated.

"Oh," I said. "No, she didn't get around to it yet."

He turned his head and lifted his chin, a New York gesture if I'd ever seen one, toward a stainless-steel kitchen cart against the wall. A clear glass dome covered a good-sized platter. Clams on the half shell sat atop a generous bed of salt crystals on the platter. Parsley and lemons decorated it.

"Clams?" I said again. "For the séance? I don't—"

"I didn't either at first," he interrupted. "But Fabrizio insisted Mrs. Elway asked for them specifically. A dozen fresh clams on the half shell. It seems they were her husband's favorite dish, and she is convinced having them there will encourage his—I can't believe I'm saying this—his spirit to manifest."

"Oh." What else was there to say? I glanced at my watch. "Well, looks like it's getting to be about that time." I stood.

He didn't step back from the table, which put me right next to him. I could have leaned over and laid my head on his shoulder. I sighed.
Better not
.

But Cap'n Jack seemed to have something similar on his mind. He laid his hand on my shoulder and leaned over me. I closed my eyes and held my breath, anticipating…what?

A soft cloth caressed my upper lip. I opened my eyes.

He smiled down at me. "There you go," he said and laid the napkin down. "You just had a little sauce there."

Of course I did. "Thank you," I said. "I'll just…"

I crossed the room, took hold of the cart's handle, and pushed it from the kitchen.

*   *   *

Séances were held in a small but lovely room where Miss Marple might serve tea. Burgundy drapes swagged corner to corner. Blue flames flickered low in the fireplace courtesy of a special-effects chemical log Fabrizio swore would bring up the ambiance.

A medium-sized round table sat smack in the middle of the room, seven chairs around it and a purple cloth covering it. The lights were low. So many candles were lit that the place was warm enough for bread to rise.

Fabrizio was already there, looking nervous as a crawfish next to a pot on the boil. He knew, and I knew, and he knew I knew he wasn't exactly what you'd call a genuine medium, but I had to give him credit. He looked like one, every inch, from the top of his turbaned head to the bottoms of his white patent-leather boots. His long face glistened with perspiration.

"Fabrizio," I said. "Why don't we blow out a few of these candles? Your makeup and eyeliner are going to run."

He nodded, and I set about doing it. The poor guy had to be pretty warm. His long-sleeved white jumpsuit was layered under a full-length sequined white cape. A cross between the Great Houdini and Liberace.

Within a few minutes, Mrs. Cecile Elway and company arrived. Five in all, just like at dinner the night before. There were low murmurs of appreciation as they glanced around the room, taking in the whole experience.

Fabrizio opened his arms wide. His bellowing voice carried all the drama of his training at the Royal Academy. "Welcome—welcome, all."

The group circled the room, all heads swiveling this way, that way, taking in the authentic ambiance the hotel owner's checkbook—fortified by a winning streak Harry and his cousins enjoyed on
Family Feud
—had bought.

Fabrizio lifted fingertips to his temples and closed his eyes. "Come, my friends, let us be seated. I sense the spirits gathering."

Glancing around nervously, they all converged on the table where Fabrizio stood in front of a high-backed chair with a red velvet seat that looked more like a throne than anything else.

"Hey, I remember you." Billy Whitlock, Cecile's stepgrandson, peered at me in the semidarkness. "You're the girl from last night. Right?" His eyes dipped below my chin to my cleavage. "I see you're not wearing the soup tonight."