Mystic Mayhem (16 page)

*   *   *

Wearing my grungiest work clothes, I caught a bus east to the Holy Cross neighborhood, where a work crew had already gathered hours earlier to work on St. Antoine's. Because I'd come all the way from the west bank, I was the last to arrive, just in time to help Mama and Grandmama Ida lay out the lunch spread they'd brought. Fried chicken, potato salad, hush puppies, and lemonade. You think that "Colonel" from Kentucky had an awesome secret recipe? Let me just say his chicken is a distant runner-up to Grandmama Ida's.

Desi Lopez walked up to me and slung one arm across my shoulders. "Hey, bella, what's shakin'?"

"Oh, you know, Desi, another day, another fifty cents."

Desi Lopez de Monterra was a local piano player. He worked the Bourbon Street bars and hotel lounges in the Quarter, everything from Scott Joplin to Ludwig Van Beethoven. Desi was half-Cuban, half-Creole. He was smallish, on the skinny side, but every inch a ladies' man. His mocha-latte skin was the envy of every woman who knew him.

Desi was good people. I'd known him to be out on a gig until the wee hours of the morning then turn right around and head to St. Antoine's to paint, or dig, or whatever work was planned for the day.

In his free hand he held a paper plate piled high with my grandmama's chicken. He leaned over the table and pinched her papery cheek. "Sweet Ida, mamacita, maybe you can see 'bout finding a man another glass of that nice cold lemonade?"

Grandmama giggled. A rare occurrence. She was known to snicker, harrumph, or laugh out loud. But only Desi ever made her giggle.

Father Brian came up behind me, his blue eyes full of humor, and handed me a bottle of stain, a bucket of shellac, a paintbrush, a tack cloth, and several sheets of sandpaper. I took them one by one until my arms overflowed with stuff.

"Just in time, girl." He smiled his wide smile and cocked his grey shaggy head to one side. "I knew you'd show up here sooner or later. I can always count on you, Melanie, and you know every time you show up here you're piling up frequent flyer miles in Heaven."

I laughed. Father Brian was good at making people laugh. When Katrina washed out our beautiful church, I had just graduated from high school and was looking for a high-dollar fine arts and graphic arts program on a nearly nonexistent budget.

Father Brian had only been at St. Antoine's a few months and had more trouble than he could shake a stick at, what with half his church floating down river. Yet he somehow managed to find the time, energy, and patience to help me send a résumé and letter to Loyola University in my own sweet hometown and to help me navigate my way through the myriad of grants and scholarships once I was accepted there. His generous, loving nature was a good part of the reason I showed up at St. Antoine's to help whenever I possibly could and why I gave as much extra pocket money as I could come up with to help the members buy building materials to restore the church. The other part was how much St. Antoine's Parish contributed to the community and its great need.

Because I had no hands left, he reached around me and fastened a paper mask over my nose and mouth, turned me around, and sort of shoved me in the general direction of where all the work was being done on the new pews.

Within a half hour my hair, face, and clothes were covered in sanding dust. I was sweaty, and all that grit was turning into paste on my face and arms. The wax-on, wax-off motion I'd been doing on my hands and knees would have me moving funny tomorrow.

It was hard work, but Grandmama and some of the other older ladies kept coming around with pitchers of lemonade, and Desi's boom box blasted out upbeat Harry Connick Jr. tunes to keep us moving along.

I was tired and couldn't wait to go home and have a shower. I figured I must have looked like hell, but who cared—nobody was going to see me looking like this. It wasn't like any prospective boyfriends were going to show up or—

"Melanie?"

I knew that voice.

"There you are."

Really? Just shoot me now.

I looked up and—yessiree—there stood Cap'n Jack looking spectacular in a pair of black jeans, black suede chukka boots, and a grey tie-dyed Henley that fit him like he was born in it, with the sleeves pushed up on his forearms. I, on the other hand, looked like a really dusty bag lady.

Just perfect.

"Hi," I said, sitting back on my heels.

He smiled and reached down for my hand, helping me to my feet. I couldn't meet his eyes. I probably looked like the sole survivor of some freakish wall of dust in the middle of the Sahara Desert.

"Jack," I mumbled. "I'm…surprised to see you here."

He grinned, that lopsided grin that always went straight to my heart. A light came into his eyes, and it occurred to me maybe I wasn't as horrific a sight as I originally thought.

He lifted his hands and gently pulled down the disposable paper mask that covered my face from the bridge of my nose to my chin. His grin broadened. "I knew you were under there somewhere."

Self-conscious, I pulled the bandana off my head and ran my fingers through my hair, promptly depositing all the grit from hands to my scalp. Forget the shower—I'd have to walk through a car wash at the very least.

"It's just incredible what you do here, Mel," he said. "I'm so proud of you."

I think I stood up a little straighter and pulled back my shoulders, just out of pleasure.

"Harry Villars mentioned how you do this on your time off. I have to tell you it's one of the reasons I've sought you out. I was really intrigued by a young woman whose main interest isn't shopping or hair salons or gossip."

He caught me by surprise again. I didn't know what to say, and he seemed to sense it.

"Can you take a short break?" he asked. "I've learned some things I think you'll find interesting, to say the least."

I went to find Father Brian, who lay prone on the concrete floor, drill whirring madly as he and two others installed the pulpit sent over from a parish in Baton Rouge he'd had refinished last week, the week before all this craziness started at The Mansion.

When I introduced Jack, Father Brian turned off the drill and reached up from the floor to shake Jack's hand.

"Do you mind if I take a quick break, Father?" I asked. "There's new information on the murder." I knew someone was bound to have told him about the goings-on over at Mystic Isle.

Father Brian's eyes lit up. "Excellent. I always say nothing gets your blood up like a good homicide investigation." He seemed to realize what that sounded like, so he added, "Not that I endorse homicides, mind you…"

Jack, smooth as silk, handled it just right. "I like a good mystery myself, Father. And, like me, I'm sure you prefer yours to be fiction."

Father Brian sort of saluted, which made me wonder if I'd ever called my boss Cap'n Jack in front of him, then he turned the drill back on and went back to work on the base of the pulpit.

Jack and I walked outside and stopped under the shade of the sole surviving magnolia tree on the church property. The lush scent of magnolia blossoms hung in the air like perfume. Jack sat down on the grass and pulled me down beside him.

I went easily, even if thoughts of chiggers and mosquitos weren't far from my mind. Being with him was the important thing, and I didn't want to spoil the moment by bringing up the issue of itchy welts that would drive even a nun to cursing, not to mention West Nile virus.

"I called an old…" He paused, seeming to search for the right word. "An old friend who moved from NYC to Philadelphia a couple of years back. She used to be on the job in Manhattan and now works for Philly PD."

She? My she-bitch radar went to DEFCON 1.

"Your policeman friend is a woman?" I prayed my voice didn't reveal the jealousy brewing in my heart.

Ah-ha! Not a friend, a
girl
friend.

He didn't seem to notice I was turning green. His voice was matter of fact. "We used to date some when she lived in the City. She moved down to Philly to get married."

Hallelujah.

"I asked her to see what she could find on Theodore Elway's death."

I held my breath as he absentmindedly took hold of my hand and began to rub his thumb over it. At first I nearly pulled back, wondering how he could possibly expect me to concentrate on what he had to say while he was touching me. But the sensation was so pleasurable I forced myself to concentrate on his words.

"The official cause of Theodore Elway's death was listed as acute myocardial infarction."

"Heart attack. Right?"

He nodded. "But there were questions. He was known to carry nitro tablets at all times. The report indicated his daughter was suspicious that there were three bottles in his room and two in his car—all empty. The coroner found traces of Viagra in his system."

I stared at him. "That's why Rosalyn believed Cecile killed him. I don't believe men with bad tickers are supposed to fool with those little blue pills. Do you?"

He just looked at me then smiled. "I don't know. I haven't ever had to take one."

I looked away from the twinkle in his eyes. "Did your…friend…say whether or not it ever went any further than just the suspicion Cecile might have had something to do with her husband's death?"

He shook his head. "They didn't have anything substantial, just the usual variety of police suspicion and the rantings of his daughter."

"So, if Rosalyn truly believed her father died from some crazy plan Cecile put into motion, she's the person with the most motivation."

He nodded then said, "There's more. Harry Villars stopped in my office this morning. He hired a private investigator a few days ago to check into Theodore Elway's finances."

The dampness from the grass was soaking into my jeans, and my butt was getting cold, but I didn't want to get up. It was so nice sitting there with him.

"This detective is checking into the trust Elway set up for his family. It seems the old man was a miser who hung on to every penny until Lincoln started reciting his Gettysburg Address. Elway wasn't just rich—he was megarich. The estate's holdings are valued at over half a billion dollars. Once he remarried, he named Cecile Elway as administrator of the family trust, which evidently pissed off the rest of the family and was part of the reason Rosalyn was so sure Cecile had something to do with the old boy's demise."

I mulled it over. This was getting complicated. So Rosalyn had good reason to get rid of her stepmother, namely, more than 500 million reasons.

"Wow, Jack, you're good at this," I said.

He smiled and lifted his free hand. "You've just got a little something…" He lightly brushed at my cheek, his touch so feather soft I shivered.

He stood, and still holding my hand, pulled me to my feet.

It was one of those moments. He looked down at me. I looked up at him. It could have gone further—it could have been divine.

But we were standing in front of St. Antoine's and had an audience of about twenty or twenty-five others who for some reason chose that exact time to take their own break, hang around out front, and watch us.

It was easy to tell who the ringleaders were. Grandmama Ida and Mama were coming straight at us, each holding a glass of lemonade.

No necking, at least not now.

"Mama," I said. "Grandmama Ida."

It was kind of embarrassing the way those two gushed and simpered over Jack, like they were fourteen or fifteen years old and still pimply-faced and hormonal.

When Jack and Mama shook hands, she didn't let go.

"All right, Mama. All right. That's enough. He can tell you like him." I tugged their hands apart.

While she watched him down the lemonade that was so cold the glass was sweating, Mama leaned in close and whispered, "Oh, my, Melanie, this one's a keeper—don't run this one off."

"Mama!"

Oh, swell
. From the expression on Jack's face, it was obvious he'd heard her, but what happened next was unbelievable. He tucked my hand in the crook of his arm, handed Mama back the empty glass, and gave her one of those swashbuckler smiles. "I'm not going anywhere, Mrs. Hamilton." He turned to me. "Let's go back inside and see if they need any help."

As we walked away, I looked back to see Mama and Grandmama holding hands and dancing in a circle.

Jack never looked at me, but he patted my hand and kept walking.

Mama was right. He was a keeper.

*   *   *

Once we were back inside, Jack gallantly went to Father Brian and asked if there was anything he could to do to help since he was there.

A squeegee and bucket of soapy water were handed over, and Jack was offered the title of Sparkle and Shine Specialist.

Even though he was ever so gracious about it, I figured it was more work than he had in mind. I could also tell by the dubious way he looked at the squeegee it might have been the first time he'd ever used one.

Father Brian brought around a ladder and leaned it up against the wall. He shook Jack's hand and walked away.

Jack stood there for a minute looking up before he hooked the bucket over one arm and began to climb. I forced myself to return to my own work, even though I was a little nervous about leaving Jack unsupervised with a ladder and a bucket of water. He was a grown man—how much trouble could he get into? Sure, New York City had those crazy guys who hung off the tops of tall buildings, washing windows like Spider-Man, but even a white-collar guy like Jack had to have washed a few windows in his day.

I might have been wrong about that. It wasn't more than fifteen minutes before a crash and clatter outside brought a lot of us running to see my beautiful boss sitting in a muddy puddle on the ground, soaking wet, clutching the handle of the empty bucket in one hand.

I tried to be serious as I rushed over, but, aw, he was so cute, I don't think I managed to keep from smiling.

"You hurt?" I relieved him of the bucket.

He shrugged and looked up at me sheepishly. "Just my pride."

The storm front that had been forecasted all week finally hit, and the heavens opened up. We all ran inside the church, and Father Brian called an end to our workday a little before three o'clock.