Mystic Mayhem (12 page)

Before Lurch deposited him on top of his bed, he pulled out his cell phone and snapped off a selfie of himself and Billy Whitlock's butt.

Just as Lurch shut the door to Billy's room, Penelope Devere, Cecile Elway's psychic consultant, came up the hall.

Lurch grumbled and reached for his cell phone. I laid my hand on his arm, which brought another grumble as he lumbered off to the stairs.

"Is there something going on with William Whitlock?" she asked.

"Billy? Not really, Ms. Devere," I said. "He sort of over-imbibed on hurricanes."

"Oh, my lands, that young man," she exclaimed. "And, by the way, if you don't call me Penny, I won't know who you're talking to."

"Do you mind if I walk with you?"

She shrugged. "Suit yourself. I'm heading downstairs to the Hidden Passage Spa. I hear it isn't easy to find. Maybe you can show me?"

Penny Devere was about my height, five foot two or three, and slightly stout. If I had to guess her age, I would have said midfifties. It didn't appear she'd lived a privileged life—her face sagged at the jowls and her neck reminded me of a turkey. If I had to choose a color for Penny, it would be khaki. Her hair was a nondescript brown, and she wore it pulled back away from her face caught in the back with a wide barrette. The tone of her skin was a little on the sallow side, and her eyes were a light hazel. She wore brown plastic-framed eyeglasses. While she wasn't ugly, she wasn't attractive either—the sort of person you could pass by every day for a year, yet still not have noticed her enough to be able to describe her accurately.

"Such a shame about Mrs. Elway. I'm sorry for your loss." It was that lame statement everyone makes when they have no other words to express their regret your life has been turned upside down. But Penny didn't seem to notice the triteness of it.

"Thank you," she said. "A loss is exactly what it was. Cecile was like a sister to me."

Of course. So far, it seemed like Cecile Elway was all things to all people. Everyone loved her, or at least said they did. "You know, the police have determined she was murdered. Poisoned."

"Right," she said.

"Oh, you knew? Who told you?"

"Well, my dear," she said patiently, "I
am
psychic."

And I
am
the Queen of England. "So, do you also know who killed her?"

Again, the sigh and condescending attitude. "The cosmos doesn't work that way, but I'm fairly certain the hand of death struck her from beyond the grave."

Okay. "You think she was murdered by the ghost of Theodore Elway?"

She shrugged. "Well, he did order the clams."

"I thought Cecile asked for the clams."

"In essence, I suppose she did. In fact, if you want to get all technical about it, I suppose you could say I ordered the clams."

"You?"

She nodded. "The spirit of Theodore came to me in a dream. He said his soul was restless, and he needed Cecile to help him find peace, that I was to bring Cecile here for a séance with the Great Fabrizio. He told me he had to communicate directly with her, that to prove her good intentions and love for him, during the séance she should provide a dozen clams on the half shell." She was thoughtful. "But no wonder he killed her. The ignorant fool forgot the hot sauce."

I said, "Spirits are known to get riled up pretty easy."

She looked sideways at me. It was hard to tell if she suspected I was putting her on.

"Of course, if you ask Rosalyn…" 

Rosalyn—Theodore's daughter, Cecile's stepdaughter.

"…the ghost of Theodore Elway had better motive than forgotten hot sauce for offing his widow."

"And that would be…?"

"Revenge." So matter-of-fact. "Rosalyn has always believed Cecile Elway in essence murdered Theodore."

Whoa. Hold your horses. "Rosalyn Elway Whitlock believes her stepmother murdered him?"

"Her words, not mine. She never said murdered. She said 'caused.' 'She caused my father's death.'"

"Wow," I said. "I had no idea. It doesn't sound as if Cecile Elway was all that popular after all."

"Well, I wouldn't say that." The look on her face was smug. "She always had old Terrence, you know, of the Society of the…"

"Lopsey-dopsey-whatever Alien Caterpillars?"

She nodded, smiling.

"But I heard she was about to cut him loose."

She looked a bit surprised. "Really? Who told you that?"

"Billy."

"Oh, well, he never liked Terrence. Always felt threatened by him. Worried that Cecile's marrying Terrence would somehow threaten his inheritance. He was wrong of course. His trust is airtight. Theodore—Mr. Elway—saw to that. It figures Billy would try to put Terrence in a bad light. He didn't like him."

"What about you," I asked. "Did you like him?"

"Well, why not? I figure live and let live. Right? I say, 'Attaboy, Terrence. You go get her.'"

Her cell phone went off. It was Gordon Lightfoot "If You Could Read My Mind." She snatched it from her purse and silently read what was on the screen then she squealed like a twelve-year-old at a Justin Bieber concert. "Oh, joy, it's happened. It's happened." She twirled in a circle. "I'm officially the president of the International Paranormal Society." She was beaming. "I've waited a long time, you know."

Right, and such an honor it is, too.

We stopped in the hallway just down from Dragons and Deities. To the casual observer, it appeared to be nothing more than the hallway of an old-fashioned plantation house. No real purpose. Nothing sinister or hidden. But when you looked more closely, you could see that the wainscot panels were about seven feet high and about three and a half feet wide. Just the size of a doorway. And when someone just happened to reach up and pull on one of the light sconces, the middle panel would groan and moan and slowly swing open to reveal the Hidden Passage Salon and Spa.

"If you don't know who murdered Cecile, do you know who took the money she had hidden in her room?"

"The money she brought down as incentive for a successful séance?" She nodded. "I do. Don't you?"

I shook my head, waiting. My heartbeat kicked up a notch.

"It was that Fabrizio fellow, wasn't it? That's what the police told me."

I was crushed. "That's what the sheriff's office thinks. Yes. That Fabrizio stole it."

"But you don't?" She took off her glasses and began to chew on one of the tips. "Who do you think took it?"

I shrugged. "Only part of it was found in Fabrizio's room. Just enough to make him look suspicious. Whoever has the rest of it might just be the same person who killed your friend. But I don't know who that is. I was hoping you could tell me. You're the psychic."

Her smile was wry. "Like I said before, the cosmos doesn't work that way. If they did, I'd play the five-hundred-dollar tables in Atlantic City, have a heavy-duty stock portfolio, and have won the lottery five or six times already." She looked at her watch. "I need to get to the spa now, or I'll miss my appointment. I thought you were going to walk me there."

"I did," I said and pulled the sconce just above my head.

Penny squealed in delight as the panel slid open. "Oh, my. Isn't that just too much? You know, I forgot all about these. When we took a tour of The Mansion our first day, the guide showed us several of these creepy passages." She thanked me and went inside. 

The panel closed behind her, squeaking and creaking the way it was designed to by Harry Villars's whacked-out architect, who was like a kid in a candy store when Harry asked him to turn his plantation home into a "haunted mansion."

Deputy Quincy Boudreaux showed up at the hotel sometime after 7:30 p.m. Thursday night. It was an official visit complete with a squad car and wingman—make that wingwoman, Sergeant Mackelroy.

I was on my way to "my room" from the main kitchen where I'd had dinner, coffee, and conversation with the fabulous Valentine Cantrell, who'd whipped up some awesome shrimp creole, and per Jack's pre-approval, had made enough for the entire staff on duty to have a serving. My last appointment for the day hadn't left my parlor until after six thirty, so I was later than most of the rest of the staff to head down to the kitchen. Valentine hadn't eaten yet either, so she filled a bowl and joined me, and we sat together and commiserated over how to help Fabrizio out of this mess.

Who should I run into but Cap'n Jack, looking extremely fine in snug, straight-leg grey slacks and a French blue shirt with the collar unbuttoned and sleeves pushed up on his forearms. A silver-and-blue-striped tie hung loosely knotted around his neck, lending the impression he'd been interrupted in the middle of getting dressed. That thought alone made me warm in places a Southern lady doesn't mention.

"Nice to see you, Melanie." His voice was low, intimate, barely audible over "Skylark" from the piano bar in the main salon.

I swallowed the
Cap'n
and just said, "Jack."

One corner of his mouth turned up. His eyes moved over me top to bottom and back up, seeming to stop on my mouth. It made me catch my breath. Gosh, I wished he wasn't my boss, but if he weren't my boss, I never would have even met him.

"On your way to your room?" The way he said
room
sounded more like
bed
to me, but that was probably just the frame of mind I was in.

I nodded. "Thinking about making it an early night."

Something flickered in his eyes, and it occurred to me the idea of a bed in my hotel room hadn't gotten completely by him either. "Well, good night then."

That was when Quincy and said wingwoman walked up and handed Jack a folded document. "Mr. Stockton?"

Jack turned. "Just Jack's fine."

Quincy grinned. Jack hadn't yet learned not to give a Cajun a straight line like that. "Okay. Just Jack, this is a duly processed search warrant covering the public areas of The Mansion for the purpose of determining the source of poison used in the homicide of Cecile Elway on Sunday last."

Jack's face paled. "Why would you…?"

"The tox screen results indicate she was done in with a grade of poison used in several commercial products that might be used in the maintenance of a property such as this one." He smiled, showing even, pearly whites.

I was impressed. That was way more words than had ever come out of Quincy's mouth at one time. And he was still on a roll. 

"I'd like to start where your housekeeping staff stores their supplies, also the maintenance shed. Once I determine the source of the toxins, I'll be in the mood to interview a few people who have access." He turned that brilliant smile on Jack, whose business demeanor was back in place.

"I understand," Jack said. "Please, Deputy, if you need anything, let me know. I'll put out the word my staff should cooperate with you any way they can."

Quincy nodded. "If you'll just point Sergeant Mackelroy in the direction of the housekeeping supply stores, I'll head on over to the maintenance building."

I jumped at the chance to talk to him. "This way, Quincy. I'll take you."

*   *   *

As we neared the boat dock and old boathouse, Quincy's radio hissed and Sergeant Mackelroy's voice announced, "Didn't find nothing in housekeeping, Boudreaux."

So none of the chemicals they were looking for had been used in any of the cleaning supplies. Next up was the boathouse.

As we neared the pond, we met Odeo, the groundskeeper, coming our way.

He touched the bill of his cap, nodded, and smiled his big, toothy grin. "Evening, y'all."

Before I could reply, Quincy stopped him. "Just the man I been looking for. You wouldn't mind giving me a run-through of what you keep on the grounds for weed control, bugs, stuff like that."

Odeo frowned but said, "Sure, boss, you da law. Whatever you want, I want. Just follow me." He stepped back and motioned for me to go ahead of him. "Miss Melanie."

I led the two men to the boathouse, where Odeo used his key to unlock the door.

*   *   *

Once we were inside, Quincy asked Odeo to show him all kinds of weird things: paint thinner, weed spray, ant and roach killer, rat poison, all manner of lovely things.

He seemed to have the most interest in a five-gallon bucket of insecticide granules. Odeo set it up on a workbench, and Quincy pulled a sheet of paper from his shirt pocket.

When he looked at me, he said, "Tox results," and showed me the paper. "This is what we're after, Mel," he said. "This here." He pointed at it, and I instantly saw why he didn't try to pronounce it. The word was about a foot and a half long, with bunches of consonants strung together and an amazing number of
x
's,
y
's, and
z
's to be in one word.

"And this here looks like a winner." He shone his penlight on the label wrapped around the bucket, specifically on the ingredients. And although I wouldn't have thought it possible, that same long word was reproduced there. "Looks like maybe we found the source of the dressing our killer used on dem clams." He laughed.

I personally didn't see the humor in it.

Odeo pried off the lid and handed a pair of garden gloves to Quincy, who slipped them on and dipped his hand inside the bucket. He came up with a fistful of small white granules. The odor from the bucket was strong enough to make my eyes and nose sting. I stood back some. "Is that it?" I asked. "Is that what killed her?"

Quincy tipped his head and did a little shuffle, extending his hand to display the granules. "If it looks like a duck and walks like a duck…"

"…and smells like a duck," I added, wrinkling my nose.

"And don't forget quacks like a duck…" Odeo added.

Quincy and I looked at him. "Quacks?" we said together.

Odeo shrugged. "I just thought…never y'all mind."

Quincy got back to it. "So now I'm thinking what we need to do is figure out when our good man Fabrizio had a chance to make his way out to this here shed and dip into the bucket for a small sample to spice up dem clams special for Missus Elway."