Mystic Mayhem (14 page)

Ohmigod. Here it came. He was going to break my heart into a million pieces.

He slid into a fair imitation of Harry, although it sounded more like a Tennessee drawl than New Orleans-style English. "'You know, Jack, I took a shine to you the minute we met. And part of the reason I hired you, besides your fabulous resume and manly good looks, is that you aren't Fabrizio's type. Harassment? Inappropriate? Why, Jack, you don't have an inappropriate bone in your body, son. And Miss Hamilton, why I can tell she's a real Southern lady. I'd be honored to have a part in bringing you two lovely people together.'"

I blinked, trying awfully hard to figure out what the man had just told me.

"So." He stood and pulled me to him, body to body. He leaned down, his breath warm against my ear. "What do you say, Miss Hamilton? Want to be my girl?"

I looked up into his eyes, like dark pools with just a glimmer of moonlight in them. "Why, Mr. Stockton, are you courting me?"

"You bet your grits I am."

He leaned down, his lips so close to mine a small movement would cause our mouths to collide in what I knew would be a crash of cymbals and thunder of tympani.

A small smile curved his lips, like he knew a secret. I caught my breath as he inched closer then jerked back at—

"Ah, so here y'all are."

Deputy Quincy Boudreaux strolled up. If I had a gun, I'd have shot him dead.

"Hope I didn't interrupt nothin'."

Jack cleared his throat. "What can we do for you, Deputy?"

Quincy looked at me and shook his head. "I figured you'd want to hear the bad news right away,
chère
."

"Why would you think that, Q? Nobody in his right mind wants to hear bad news, ever." I glared at him.

"We got a warrant to search Fabrizio's room at Mr. Villars's residence."

Oh, man, he was right. If he thought this was bad news, it was probably horrible.

"We found these in your friend's closet." He held up a big clear plastic bag that contained a pair of work boots. "Mr. Villars confirmed they belong to Fabrizio. He uses them for puttering around in the garden behind the little house. The treads of the soles are imbedded up with what we're pretty sure is that toxic insecticide we found in the old boathouse. You know what this means."

I didn't have to say anything. He could probably tell by the look on my face I knew what insecticide on the boots meant, but he said it anyway.

"We'll be charging Fabrizio Banini with the murder of Cecile Elway."

Talk about a mood killer.

Poor Fabrizio. I was beside myself, and when Jack and I arrived back at the table, it must have been obvious to everyone around me.

"What's wrong?"

"What happened?"

"Oh, my goodness, Mel, you look like you've seen a…"

I stood and excused myself and headed back to the main building, Jack right beside me, holding my hand. He hadn't said a word yet, but I didn't really expect or want him to.

My head spun with the horrible, terrible news of what was about to happen to dear, sweet, never ever hurt a fly Fabrizio.

Coming across the lawn, we met Terrence Montague moving at a brisk clip. He seemed excited, animated. "Have you heard?"

I didn't answer, too upset to worry about him or his worms.

"They've made an arrest. It was the medium. The Great Fabrizio."

"No." But it was a whisper so soft, I barely heard it myself.

"Insecticide. They said it was all over his boots. Huh. You know that particular brand is highly toxic. It would have been like drinking Drano."

I stared at him. "Drano? How do you know so much—"

He spoke right over me. "About bug killer? Really, Miss Hamilton? Have you forgotten who I am, what species I champion? That's like asking someone who's allergic to peanuts what he knows about peanut butter. Well, sort of."

Oh. Right. He was the bug man.

"And what I know is that specific commercial insecticide is reserved for some particularly nasty infestations." He glanced at Jack. "Frankly, I'm surprised they allow you to keep it around here, the bayou environment being so delicate and all."

Jack said, "It was fire ants. They were taking over. We had to get a special permit to use the insecticide just once to get rid of them. They're very particular about protecting the ecosystem down here."

"At least it wasn't caterpillars," Terrence said.

I could only stare at him openmouthed. Here was someone who knew all about the nasty stuff that had killed Mrs. Elway. I had no doubt if you asked Fabrizio about how to kill insects, he'd suggest a baseball bat. Yet the problem was the toxic substance was all over Fabrizio's boots, not Terrence's.

Upon entering the main lobby, a tragic sight met our eyes—the usually whimsical and dapper figure of Harry Villars crumpled on the floor, his back up against the granite-topped check-in counter, crying as if his heart had been torn from him and shredded.

Inappropriate or not, I dropped to my knees and wrapped my arms around him. He turned into me, soaking the shoulder of my dress with his tears.

"Shush now, Mr. Villars. It'll be okay. We're not going to let anything happen to him."

"He…he…he…" He hiccupped. "They…they…they…"

I looked up at Jack, who paced back and forth a few feet away. "Jack?"

He stopped pacing and helped Harry to his feet, offering him a clean handkerchief after Harry blew his nose loudly on his own monogrammed hanky.

Harry nodded his appreciation, one hand still clutching mine. He turned watery eyes to me. "Miss Hamilton, Mr. Stockton, I must apologize for losing control of myself in that manner. The weight of those awful charges they're about to bring against Fabrizio just broke my heart right in two."

I patted his hand. "Try not to worry, Mr. Villars. I have no intention of letting the real killer get away. I've begun my own investigation."

Harry blinked several times. "You have?"

I nodded.

"With what results? Are there any leads? Any hope to exonerate the Great Fabrizio?"

I took a breath and looked at Jack. Poor Mr. Villars was so upset, so fragile at that moment, I couldn't bear having to tell him that while I'd gathered quite a bit of information, none of it seemed to amount to anything. Not yet, anyway.

That was when Jack's voice, soft, caring, Yankee or not, managed the tone I couldn't. "Miss Hamilton has learned a great deal, Harry. Unless I miss my guess, she's getting closer to identifying the real killer all the time. It shouldn't take much more to tie things up and take her findings to the sheriff, and with your approval, I'll help her."

Harry drew himself up, tugged on his jacket lapels and cuffs, bent to retrieve his white straw skimmer off the floor, and nodded to Jack. "By all means, Mr. Stockton. Any assistance you lend to the release of our friend, employee, and most beloved Fabrizio will put me forever in your debt."

"No, Mr. Villars," Jack said, "it won't. Not at all. Now that the charges are being made, I'm compelled to get involved and see what can be done. It's the right thing to do."

Cap'n Jack. My hero. My eyes stung with tears of appreciation, mingling with tears of worry over dear Fabrizio.

"Thank you, Jack," Harry said. "I best be getting back to
la petite maison
and call my lawyer. He's getting on in years, and these days he's in bed asleep by eight o'clock. He won't be happy to get the call, but he's been the family counselor for decades. He'll do what needs to be done."

Harry Villars shook Jack's hand, laid his other hand on my shoulder, and bobbed his head in a gesture of gratitude and acknowledgement.

People were beginning to filter in every few minutes from the back entrances. The
fais-do-do
must have been winding down. Even the band seemed to have kicked into a dreamier playlist. Strains of Sam Cooke's "A Change Is Gonna Come" floated in and out as the doors opened and closed.

"Where do we go from here, Mel?" Jack asked, his voice still soft and considerate.

I looked up at him, earnest, compassionate, and so studly. The double entendre didn't get by me. He'd been about to make a move before Quincy showed up, and I'd been ready and waiting for him to do it.

Whenever a new "suitor," as Mama used to call them, would stroll into her life, she'd always be happy. "Timing is everything, Mellie," she'd say. And when they made their exit, she'd always be just as philosophical and utter those same words, "Timing is everything, Mellie."

Her timing to this day wasn't worth a darn. I hoped that
osculum interruptus
, as Caesar would say, out under the willow tree wasn't a sign crappy timing runs in the family.

But the good-timing theory definitely applied to more than romance. It probably had to do with turning over stones and finding a snake. If I was going to help Fabrizio, I needed to get busy flipping over those rocks and seeing just what lay beneath.

"I believe I'll try to get to sleep early," I said. "I have a feeling tomorrow is going to be a real doozy of a day."

He walked me to my room at the far end of the auxiliary wing. Neither of us said a word until we stopped at my door. It was an awkward moment, at least for me.

Jack didn't seem to be uncomfortable in the least. "If you aren't too tired, I could come in."

He caught me by surprise. "Oh," I said. "What for?"

From the look on his face, I caught him by surprise too. He arched one gorgeous brow, "Gee, I dunno," he said, sarcasm heavy in his tone, "a bedtime story?"

My face warmed, and I knew I was turning pink under his steady gaze. But now wasn't the time to be a shrinking violet. I took him by the hand and led him into my lair.

The standard double room in the auxiliary wing at The Mansion on Mystic Isle wasn't a suite at the Ritz, but for a hotel room there was more character than usual—even those that hadn't been updated yet to the haunted mansion mode, like mine. Two double beds with the resort's standard pewter-tone metal headboards in the French style. The nightstands, dresser, and sitting area were furnished in Louis XIV replicas—some of the rooms had off-white pieces, but the furniture in this one was a soft rose. Draperies and wallpaper brought to mind a gentler, antebellum era. The only jarring note was the flat-screen on the wall opposite the beds.

Jack tucked his hand in his jeans pockets and sauntered over to one of the beds. He sat, bounced a couple of times (which made me giggle), and then patted the empty spot beside him.

I sat down and turned to mush when he circled his arms around me.

It was what I'd been thinking about, dreaming about for two and a half months, ever since the first day Jack walked into the resort lobby to take over after the last in a long string of failed managers. Harry Villars and his investors, his four cousins who won
Family Feud
and invested their winnings in the resort by paying off the back taxes, had brought in men and women—one or two of which whose gender was questionable—to try and pull the resort (kicking and screaming) into a profitable state. Giselle Martine, the resort's general manager just before Jack, had only lasted six weeks before her high-handed ways sent her packing. She came from a South Carolina bed-and-breakfast and was more interested in redecorating the place and trying out new scone recipes than she was in bringing in new business, handling the day-to-day operations, and pleasing the guests.

Jack Stockton arrived on the scene in a three-piece suit with all that New York state-of-mind baggage. But he was a happy medium between the previously retired uninspired stiffs and Giselle's loosey-goosey style. In the ten weeks he'd been there, business had picked up, employees were content, and the hotel was humming along like a Delta Queen riverboat heading downstream.

Oh, and I believe I've already mentioned, he was the tastiest piece of eye candy ever.

He stretched out to the nightstand and flipped on the radio. Sarah Vaughn was "Misty," and so was I.

Something about being there with Jack filled me with emotion.

As he straightened up, cupped my chin in his hand, and leaned in to kiss me, I began to cry.

Dammit.

He didn't quite know what to do, and neither did I.

"Oh," he said. "Is it me? Is it something I did? I thought you wanted—"

"I do," I said. "It's not you. It's just…"

His eyes softened. "Fabrizio," he said. "I understand." He got off the bed and walked to the dresser, snagged a couple of Kleenex, and handed them to me.

I blew my nose. Romantic, right?

He sat back down. "Tell me what you've learned so far."

"You're really going to help me?" I said. "Us? You're really going to help us?"

"Of course. Why wouldn't I?"

I wanted to throw my arms around his neck and plant one on him. Our eyes met and held. It was one of those moments when time nearly stood still, and if it had been a scene from a movie, our lips would have met, an orchestra would have played, and sparks would have flown. But I just didn't feel like it was the right time and maybe not even the right place for our first kiss. I pulled back, and the moment passed. Regret flashed in his eyes, but only briefly.

"I'm just so glad you're going to help us, and it just confirms what I've always thought about you," I said.

His eyebrows shot up. "Which is…?"

"You're a really nice man, Cap'n Jack. And I think I just might be crazy about you."

He smiled and took hold of my hand, squeezing softly. "Aye, wench." It was a fair impression of Long John Silver. "If it's crazy yer wantin', I might be just what yer lookin' for."

We raided the minibar and talked a while about what came from the interviews with Terrence the Caterpillar Man, Billy the grandson, Rosalyn the stepdaughter, and Penny the Psychic.

I told him about Terrence's kept-man status and how he was about to lose his meal ticket because Cecile found out his caterpillar conservancy was a fake. I told him that after Billy's grandfather died, Cecile was named administrator of Billy Whitlock's trust-fund money until his thirtieth birthday, and the boy was impatient to get his hands on it, and that Rosalyn Elway Whitlock had absolutely no use for the money-grubbing woman who broke her father's heart, hastened his death, and was going through the family fortune like it was hot butter. Two of them, Penny and Terrence, knew Cecile had the hundred grand with her. The other two didn't know, at least they said they didn't. Penny the Psychic admitted to having suggested Cecile order the clams, but since she said she loved her like a sister, there didn't seem to be any obvious motivation.