Mystic Mayhem (15 page)

Jack listened intently.

I wrapped it up and shrugged. "I don't know what to do next."

"Money seems to loom pretty large in everyone's mind here," he said. "Don't you think?"

"Yes."

"And speaking of money, they found ten grand cash in Fabrizio's room at Harry's place. Where the heck is the rest of it?"

"You're right. We kind of got derailed from that tactic, didn't we? Maybe it's time to get back to it."

We stared at each other. I didn't know about Jack, but there were at least a million things running loose in my mind all at once. Who took the money? Did the same person who took the money poison the clams? How was I ever going to become a gumshoe and do tattoos at the same time? Would I ever see the inside of my apartment again? And if not, should I keep paying my half of the rent to Cat? But most and foremost in my mind were two things: get Fabrizio out of jail and back to
la
petite maison
where he belonged with Harry, and find some private time with Jack Stockton where there were no interruptions or preoccupations to distract us while we explored each other.

"Jack, I hope that once this is over, maybe we can—"

I started as something flashed just out of my line of sight, followed by a din of noise and clatter as a painting fell—no, it didn't just fall, more liked jumped—off the wall and crashed onto the hardwood floor, the frame splitting apart.

"Holy crap," Jack said, jumping up. "What caused—"

My heart had jumped into overdrive and was kicking like engine pistons. "It's Alphonse." I didn't want to admit it, but the time had come.

"It's who?" Jack picked up the impressionist watercolor of a rainy day on Bourbon Street and leaned it up against the wall. He stood, his back to me, squinting at the picture hanger, which I could see from where I sat looked perfectly fine.

"Alphonse Villars," I said. "He keeps knocking paintings off the wall."

"But there's no one here but us." He looked at me like a few of my cookies might have crumbled. "And who's Alphonse Villars?"

I went to the closet and pulled the painting of the old boy out, standing it in front of me. "This is Alphonse."

"But he's…"

"Dead. I know. About a hundred seventy-five years or so. But it's him knocking down that painting. It just makes sense that Alphonse is unhappy about something."

Jack looked at me. It seemed pretty obvious he thought the concept of a man deceased over a hundred and fifty years being unhappy didn't make any sense at all. "It isn't the first time, is it?"

I shook my head. "I don't think Alphonse likes being in the closet." Hmm, in the closet. Maybe it was a metaphor. He was related to Harry, after all. "Maintenance hung that watercolor over the empty spot on the wall. This is the fourth time it's fallen down in the six nights I've stayed here. I truly think it's Alphonse."

Jack stared at the bewhiskered old geezer in the oil. "Mel, come on. You don't really think—"

"I don't know what to think," I said. "There are a lot of stories about Mystic Isle, stories from as far back as the eighteenth century—about haints and voodoo conjurings, and witchcraft and goblins, and such. I never put much store in them, but when I was growing up, I hardly heard about anything else. My grandmama is a true believer, and she'll tell you straight out."

"Why is Alphonse in the closet in the first place?"

I ducked my head as I scooted the painting of Alphonse Villars across the floor and turned it to the wall. Maybe he'd like it better out here, even if he wasn't still hanging on the wall.

"Mel?" Jack prompted. "Did you take it down?"

I turned to him and nodded sheepishly. "I did."

"But why?"

I pulled my lips into a hard line and propped my hands on my hips. "What else was I supposed to do? The old lecher kept staring at me."

It was Saturday morning. I'd worked seven days without a break and needed one pretty bad. I woke up early. Fabrizio on my mind.

Cap'n Jack, my hero, intended to spend part of his day looking into the background of Cecile's family and friends. Since I didn't really have a game plan outlined, I decided to spend the day somewhere I could do some good, namely at St. Antoine's, where a work crew planned to assemble later that morning to spiff up thirty old pews donated by a group over in Baton Rouge. A truck was bringing them to St. Antoine's about eleven. The plan was to nail and glue the pews all nice and tight then sand and refinish them. We probably wouldn't get it all done in just one day, maybe not even in two. That would depend on how many people showed up to do the work.

I didn't have my work clothes with me, so my itinerary included a stop at my apartment to change. I'd see Cat and Satchmo and catch up on all the latest happenings in the Crescent City.

But first I had the shuttle bus driver drop me off in Gretna at the jail and went in to visit with Fabrizio. Quincy was there working on his damn report. I could barely stand to look at him, but he took pity on me and let me sit down with Fabrizio, while the guard from the other night had only allowed the video visitation.

The Great Fabrizio looked bad. His eyes were dull, with dark half-moons beneath them. His silvery hair, normally combed back to show off his widow's peak, lay flat and lifeless against his head. I knew he was in trouble when tears sprang up in his eyes, and he said, "Oh, my dear, don't even look at me. You know I don't wear orange well."

I hugged him, and he clung to me like a baby monkey. The guard cleared his throat, and I gently disengaged.

"An indictment appearance has been scheduled for Monday. Harry's barrister will be attempting to have me released on bail." He shook his head. "Harry has no money lying around for this expense. He doesn't even have the money to meet the balloon payment coming due on the remodel at The Mansion. I was working on gathering money to help him with that. And now the poor man is struggling to come up with extra money for the bond? Whatever will we do?"

"Of course, you were trying to help him with the balloon payment."

He didn't hesitate. "Yes."

"Fabrizio," I began slowly, not wanting to get to the end of my question and hear the answer. "The ten thousand they found in your room? That wouldn't happen to be how you were planning to help Harry Villars, would it?"

He looked at me in horror. "Oh, no, my dear, please tell me you don't actually believe I would steal money from that poor woman, no matter how desperate I was."

I felt terrible, like the world's worst friend. I couldn't believe I'd even asked him that. "I'm sorry." My voice sounded small and high pitched, like a child's.

He swallowed hard. "That was indeed the money I planned to get for Harry, but I planned to get it by giving that woman the best bloody séance ever held anytime, anywhere." He twisted his mouth as if the even the words were bitter." Not by stealing it."

Of course he didn't steal it. He no more stole the ten thousand than he had killed her. How could I even think such a thing? That was when it struck me. "Fabrizio, did either you or Harry happen to mention this looming balloon payment when you were interviewed by Deputy Boudreaux?" I held my breath.

He didn't answer right away, but I could see the wheels turning in his brain as he thought back. Slowly, he nodded. "Yes. I did mention it to the deputy."

Damnation. No wonder Quincy was all hot to trot to pin this deal on Fabrizio. That dear, sweet, clueless man had provided his own outstanding motive.

Well, Mel, might as well get it over with.
"Fabrizio, when was the last time you happened to be out in the old boathouse?"

"Boathouse? Why, never that I can think of. I can't swim, Melanie, my dear. Why would I ever want to go out in a boat?"

*   *   *

I caught a taxi down to the ferry dock, and George ferried me across the Big Muddy with four holdovers from the Dead-and-Loving-It Zombie Fan Club. It seemed like all the three guys and one girl could talk about was how awesome their annual banquet had turned out to be at The Mansion, and how they wouldn't have asked for a better theme than a murder, and better yet, the victim was possibly done in by a ghost, no less.

I kept my mouth shut and tried to ignore them. But if I was honest, I was beginning to wonder if Terrence didn't kill her—he needed her…and if Billy didn't kill her—she gave him whatever he wanted…and if Rosalyn didn't kill her—while there was no love lost between the two women, I just didn't believe Rosalyn had it in her. Then who did it? That left us with two suspects: Penny the Psychic and Theodore the Disembodied. And as far as I could tell, Penny didn't have a motive. Maybe the zombie lovers were onto something after all.

A Saturday morning in mid-July and the French Quarter was buzzing like a swarm of African bees on crack. I made my way through dense crowds of sunburned tourists, my hands both firmly gripping my LeSportsac against the light-fingered locals sure to be out and about on a day with as many possible marks as this one. Two blocks northeast along Decatur past the French Market on one side and the scads of po'boy shops, restaurants, T-shirt shops, and other tourist haunts on the other—over to Dumaine Street—three blocks up to mine and Cat's place.

I walked out of the direct sunlight through the wrought iron gate and into the shady retreat and restfulness of our courtyard. The four downstairs units in our building all opened out onto it. Our landlord, Mrs. Peabody, who lived in the four-bedroom unit next to ours, was perched on the built-up brick flowerbed, pruning her geraniums, a midsummer explosion of bright red among the faded brick, dark-green shutters, and white-trimmed French doors. A magnolia tree alive with blossoms hung over two French-style wrought iron benches.

The mix of aromas was heady. It smelled like home, my home
—
magnolias, baking bread, garlic, and that musty, old-world sort of scent unique to
le Vieux Carré.

I walked through the double doors of our apartment into the main room. Cat's and my place was awesome, the essence of luxury, in my book anyway, especially compared with Grandmama Ida's double-shotgun house, where Mama and me lived while I was growing up. Grandmama Ida and Granddaddy Joe lived in one side. After my daddy left for greener pastures when I was five, Granddaddy Joe eighty-sixed the tenants and moved me and Mama into the other side. Granddaddy Joe built a divider in Mama's bedroom. They put my cot, an old chest of drawers Grandmama took in trade for a perm and a cut, my box of toys, a few pegs on the wall to hang my clothes, a Princess Jasmine rug, and my small wooden easel behind the divider. It became my room.

Cat and I combined our incomes, and she chipped in part of the healthy allowance she received from her Romanian parents in Atlanta. They'd joined the ranks of the nouveau riche
when they sold their European textile import business to Williams-Sonoma. As part of their sales agreement, they received a sweet discount on household furniture and design items, and our entire apartment was decked out in an upscale arts and crafts style. Without the allowance and discount contingencies, we never would have been able to afford to live in a place like that.

Cat and Satchmo were curled up on the sofa, watching Emeril Lagasse make Peach Melba.

Satchmo jumped off the sofa and came to rub up against my leg when he saw me, and Cat paused the video.

"You talk to your traitor boyfriend this morning?" I wasn't playing fair, but then again, I wasn't in a mood to play fair.

"Oh," she said, sighing. "This is all my fault now, is it?"

That was one thing about Catalina Gabor. She was not only beautiful, loyal, and intelligent, she was also in possession of more common sense than everyone else I knew put together. "Point made," I said. "Sorry. You can't help it if your boyfriend's Benedict Arnold."

"Mel, he feels real bad about having to charge Fabrizio. He told me."

"Speaking of the devil, I'm surprised he's not all snuggled up next to you since I'm not here to inhibit him."

"Funny you should say that. He's coming over later, sez he wants to hang out in his underwear and make love all over since we have the place to ourselves."

I gave her a look, and she added, "Don't worry. I'm locking your bedroom door."

She got up from the sofa, padded through the archway into the kitchen, and set her coffee cup in the sink. I followed her in. She turned and started back but stopped and stood framed in one of the two archways that led from the parlor to our gorgeous eat-in kitchen with the granite countertops. It was really annoying how stunning she looked in her pj boy-shorts and cami top with no makeup and her hair all wild around her face. On my days off under the same circumstances, if you opened the dictionary to "frumpy," a picture of me with my hair in a ponytail, in my oversized sleep shirt and socks, is probably what you'd see there. Cat always told me that was when I was my most adorable, but she was my best friend and obligated to say that.

I slipped a pod into the coffeemaker, hit the brew button, and told her about my visit with Fabrizio and how worried I was.

"If he's actually indicted on Monday, that will free up the Elway party to leave and fly back to Philadelphia. They'll be out of reach, and Fabrizio will be screwed f'true."

She agreed things were getting scary.

"I'm gonna shower then catch a bus over to Holy Cross."

"I'm heading on over to Rouses on Royal to get groceries—Quincy's beer and a couple of muffulettas for later. You need anything?"

"No,
chère
," I said. "Both Harry and Jack seem all right with me staying at The Mansion for a while, at least until this big old mess gets cleaned up. So it looks like Valentine will be feeding me for a couple of days." I grinned at her.

"Oh, my word," she said, heavy on the drama, "what a terrible inconvenience. Eating that gourmet cooking. Staying where you're with that handsome Cap'n Jack all the time. Having housekeeping come and take care of every little ol' thing you need."

She stopped abruptly, seeming to think about what she'd said. "Don't mind me, girl. I always open my mouth and put my whole foot in it. You go. You do what you have to do. Whatever it takes to get Fabrizio out of that terrible place and back where he belongs with Mr. Villars and the rest of us." She headed for her bedroom on the far side of the apartment, tossing back over her shoulder, "And when you see your mama and grandmama today at St. Antoine's, you give 'em both a big old kiss for me."