After changing into my street clothes, I rolled up my costume, made my way up the aisle, and took the seat next to Jack, stopping to stash my costume in the overhead bin above him.
It took a little over forty minutes to make our way from The Mansion at Mystic Isle to St. James Parish along the banks of the Mississippi River, where Louisiana tradition held that December bonfires lit the way for Papa Noël making his way to all the good little boys and girls.
It was obvious trouble was brewing when we crossed over the levee and took in the scene.
The Mansion had sponsored the winter solstice event for the Circle of Ravens. It was meant to be a private party. The bonfire had been erected in the shape of The Mansion herself, complete with log pillars along one side to simulate the veranda pillars at the resort.
But the body count let us know that way more than the number of Ravens who'd left the resort were milling around on the levee.
The bonfire blazed, sending sparks into the dark, clear night sky. The tempers were also blazing. The robed Ravens and whoever else was out there were pushing each other around.
When the driver levered open the door, sounds of shouting and swearing assaulted our ears. Jack grabbed onto the rail in front of the seat and hauled himself up. My best bet was to leap up out of the seat and get out of his way.
It was a mini stampede as all five men left the bus and ran out onto the levee. I didn't know what else to do with myself, so I grabbed the first aid kit and followed.
The cold night air hit my face. The familiar smells of the Mississippi washed over me. Some people think the river stinks, but to me it smells like home and always will.
The bus driver jogged past me and leapt into the fray behind Jack, Aaron, Fabrizio, Odeo, and Marvin, who had all surged into the crowd and begun to try to separate the rabble-rousers.
There was a lot of shouting.
"Go back to your Sherwood Forest, ya freaks."
"Get the heck off me, Gandalf."
"Go back to the bayou where you belong, Neanderthal."
I got the impression it wasn't all as bad as it looked and sounded. The Cajuns were sloppy drunk and barely upright, and the Ravens weren't all that athletic to start with. Their idea of a brawl was using their staffs to knock the feet out from under their opponents then sitting on them.
It only took about ten minutes for the men who'd traveled from the resort to begin bringing people back to the bus. All the people who came with them were Ravens.
The Cajuns had begun to disburse on their own when police sirens became audible in the distance.
Everything settled down. Out on the levee, two of the resort employees, who'd probably been sent out early to the bonfire, stood watch over it as the mini Mansion imploded on itself, and the flames began to die down.
The solstice celebration was apparently over.
I reboarded the bus and made my way to the back to take an inventory of injuries.
All in all, the damages were minor. A few bloodied noses, some scrapes, folks who'd have trouble hauling themselves from bed in the morning due to bumped knees and elbows. Nothing major. No one wanted to make a stop at the local urgent care, and the conversation was pretty animated as we pulled back over the levee and headed back to the resort.
The bus was fairly full, so I took the empty seat next to Odeo.
We rode in silence for a few minutes until he said, "I surely hope Chief Deputy Boudreaux will be finding somebody to take to jail on account of old Slim. I truly like Chef Valentine. She a fine lady. She didn't no more kill Slim than she be running for President."
Aaron had evidently been eavesdropping. "She is that. A fine lady. Have you decided to help her, Mel?"
I didn't hesitate. "Yes. I'm going to do everything I can to find out who really killed Slim. It couldn't have been Valentine. I just don't believe it. What motive could she possibly have had?"
Odeo made a little noise that sounded somewhat like a low growl. I turned to look at him in the darkness of the bus. The moonlight coming through the window cast a pale sheen over his dark skin. He raised one hand to rub over the top of his head. "Chef Valentine, she ain't got no motives. Heck, I got me more motives to kill that man than her."
I didn't like the way he said that. There'd been a quality in his voice that sounded almost like a confession. "But you didn't kill him. Did you, Odeo?" My voice sounded sharp even to me.
He didn't answer at first, and when he did it wasn't an answer, more like a dodge. "Well, I did hit him," he said. "I did do that. He wasn't a very nice man. They was lots of folks didn't like Slim. And I was one of them."
I sat back against the bus seat and tried to figure out if an enraged Odeo would have been capable of scheming to run over the man who was trouble to him. I didn't want to think it. His childlike manner had always made me fond of him. Please don't let him be the one. I couldn't bear it any more than I could if it turned out to actually be Valentine. And I had to wonder why it seemed my friends tended to get themselves in this kind of pickle.
Fabrizio was in the seat across the aisle beside Aaron, next to the window. He'd leaned his face against the cold glass. "Are you all right, Fabrizio?" I asked.
He turned away from the window. "I believe I am, my dear." He sounded pretty chipper for a man who wasn't used to having to stop such a fracas as the one at the levee. "I also believe I'll be sporting what you call a shiner in the morning."
"Oh, no," I said. "I'm so sorry."
"Not at all. It's my first, a battle scar I'll wear proudly until it fades away. Although I must say I am a bit miffed over the stains on my costume."
That made me smile.
Lurch was folded up on himself in the row behind Fabrizio and Aaron. He was doing quite a bit of his low, forlorn moaning. I understood. He wasn't the outdoor type to begin with, and the idea of the poor man being paraded around the bonfire in that leafy Jolly Green Giant outfit for everyone to see made me feel a little sorry for him.
He began to hum, low in his throat, and I soon recognized it as "99 Bottles of Beer." It wasn't long before others heard it and began to sing the words.
We'd gone through several rounds and were taking down and passing around even more bottles of beer by the time the driver pulled the chartered bus back under the portico at The Mansion.
* * *
When we'd arrived back at the resort and everyone had piled out of the bus and gone inside, under the lobby lights I saw that Jack had some bumps and scrapes on his face, as well as a little mouse swelling under one eye.
"Oh, no." I reached one hand to lightly tap it.
He flinched and pulled back. "Ow."
That settled it. My Cap'n Jack never complained. Never. I reached up, placed my hands on his shoulders, and turned him around. "We're going to your place and putting an ice bag on that," I said.
He didn't object.
Jack had lived in the honeymoon cottage on the resort property since he'd first been hired and moved to Louisiana from New York. I'd always thought it was meant to be a temporary arrangement between Jack and Harry Villars, but when he wasn't asked to relocate after several months, I got the idea that Harry liked having his general manager at The Mansion twenty-four/seven. It certainly helped when a crisis arose. Jack didn't seem to mind either. He was a hands-on manager who loved his job, and the honeymoon cottage, small and self-contained, was just right for a bachelor who worked long hours.
It was a three-room suite with a kitchenette—remodeled into a modern lodging from the original plantation kitchen. Jack had put his own stamp on things. There was a photographic poster of the Manhattan skyline Jack said he himself had taken from the top of the Empire State Building and had blown up. Posters of Phantom of the Opera and West Side Story hung over his bed. And don't ask me how I know that.
He sat quietly, eyes closed, on one of the stools at the kitchen counter while I ever so gently pressed a Ziploc baggie full of crushed ice up against his face. He laid his hand on top of mine and sighed.
After a few minutes, he opened his eyes, and I found myself staring into his dark gaze that spoke of his intelligence, good-humor, and kindness—and at the moment his desire for me.
"What a night," he said.
I laughed a little. "Have to say I've never been to a bonfire quite like that one before. Guess that's what you get if you deviate from the Christmas Eve tradition. If it's usual, you just sit around, eat gumbo and drink spirits, watch the fires and the fireworks, and get the little ones all excited 'bout Papa Noël coming."
Jack snorted. "Curse of the Circle of Ravens, I guess. Don't tell Harry I said this, but I kind of hope they don't come back next year."
"No luck. They come every year. It's one of the few places they're actually welcome, if they don't cross paths with the Cajuns that is. Yes, sir," I said. "God knows you don't fool with tradition when there's even one Cajun around. Those people are great believers in the past, tied to it even. And they're not shy about public displays of out-and-out disagreement."
"So I noticed," Jack said, rubbing his jaw wryly. "Who knew the Ravens could be so pugnacious when provoked."
"Pugnacious." I laughed. "Now there's a word you don't hear every day, city boy."
He laughed, put his hand around my neck, drew me closer, and kissed me. Jack was a good kisser—firm-lipped, just the right amount of pressure, no tongue unless he meant things to go further, which he apparently didn't tonight. And that was all right with me. It had been a long day, and I had a lot on my mind.
"This Zachary Jones guy," I began. "I've got my eye on him."
Jack took the ice pack from me and held it himself. "Should I be worried?"
"You know what I mean," I said. "I've got my eye on him for what happened to Slim."
With his free hand, he squeezed my shoulder. "Just teasing," he said. "If we can help clear Valentine, I'm with you on this. What do you have in mind?"
"That's just it," I said. "I don't know this guy. How am I going to get close enough to him to find anything out?"
"He's a bookie, right?"
I nodded.
"And from what you told me Stella said, his business is important to him, important enough that he spends a small fortune here having his astrology charts done to add his own good luck to the spreadsheets he uses."
Again, I nodded. "That's what she said."
Jack shrugged. "Seems pretty simple to me."
"I don't suppose you'd be willing to share your thoughts then."
He took hold of my hand, pulled me up, and began to hum Justin Timberlake's "Like I Love You." We danced a couple of minutes before I said, "Ok, so spill it."
He pulled me closer and put his lips next to my ear. "If you want to get close to a sports bookie, girl. You've got to place a bet with him."