Mystic mojo, p.1
Mystic Mojo, page 1
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MYSTIC MOJO
a Mystic Isle Mysteries Novella
by
SALLY J. SMITH
&
JEAN STEFFENS
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Copyright © 2015 by Sally J. Smith & Jean Steffens
Gemma Halliday Publishing
http://www.gemmahallidaypublishing.com
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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MYSTIC MOJO
(Mystic Isle Mysteries)
by
Sally J. Smith & Jean Steffens
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When the text came, I had finally put the finishing touches on a complicated multi-colored tattoo of a Chinese dragon for one of my repeat customers, Roderick Bukowski. A five-foot-four wannabe wizard from Sioux City, Iowa, Rod's convinced he was the reincarnation of Merlin the Magician. This wasn't the first work I'd done for ol' Rod, and this time we were on our second day with the humongous thing. I had allowed three days in case Rod wimped out from all the pain. Labor intensive, the tattoo crawled its way over half his entire back, and Rod was about to invest another twenty-two hundred dollars in his quest to awaken the wizard within. I do have to say the dragon was a thing of beauty. Green scales like flower petals, eyes like burning coals, flames spewed from its mouth and surrounded it.
While I got Rod's bill ready, my client checked out my work (his pain) in front of the full-length mirror behind the privacy screen in (what I liked to call) my shop, Dragons and Deities Tattoo Parlor. In reality it's one of the company stores at The Mansion at Mystic Isle, in the Louisiana bayou, Jefferson Parish, across the Mighty Mississippi from New Orleans.
He finally stepped out from behind the screen, buttoned his shirt, then handed me his room key and five hundred-dollar bills.
"Melanie," he said, "you've outdone yourself." He bowed, his voice resonating. "The fruit of thy labor wilt nurture the very legend of Merlin, my lady."
I smiled and nodded, thinking that when it came to fruit, Mr. Bukowski probably knew more about it than most. I swiped his key to pay for the tattoo, lifted my work apron, and tucked the cash in the pocket of my costume—a slinky little black floor-length number with a high, stand-up collar that half-circled around the back of my neck. The dress itself was sexy and mysterious. Me? Cute maybe, but sexy and mysterious? Not so much. It's pretty hard to pull off a Morticia Addams vibe when you're only five feet three with strawberry-blonde hair, for crying out loud. My costume was pretty much irrelevant anyway seeing as how most of the time it was hidden behind my work apron.
Rod's five hundred would go a long way at the construction salvage yard where the refurbishing materials were bought for St. Antoine's Parish. Restoration of the old church after its near total ruin during Katrina commandeered most of my tip money and spare time. The Holy Cross neighborhood of New Orleans was still struggling post-Katrina, and the well of FEMA support had pretty much run dry.
My client went on bragging about his tat. "I'll be the absolute envy at the Wizards of the West Convention next month."
I smiled and nodded. "Indubitably, Mistah Bukowski."
He left, and I had a look at my text message: Melanie, please come to my office as soon as you're able. It was signed, Jack Stockton, General Manager, The Mansion at Mystic Isle, Jefferson Parish, Louisiana.
As I slipped off my apron, I mentally amended his signature to Captain Jack, Cutie-Patootie, but he'd never know. I'd taken to calling him Cap'n Jack from the first day he arrived at The Mansion. After all, he was the boss, and he did look like a buccaneer, or at least the buccaneer of my fantasy.
Jack was a big-city boy, a New Yorker, and was still getting used to running The Mansion. He was just about the most gorgeous specimen of manhood I'd ever laid eyes on and about as nice as they come. I was pretty much stuck on him, which was too bad because, after being fired from his job at a highfalutin NYC hotel when he hooked up with some pretty young thing who turned out to be the CEO's wife, I figured he'd probably run screaming from even the hint of a workplace romance.
Jack had a lot on his plate—like trying to come to grips with running a repurposed plantation turned resort in the Louisiana Bayou just across the river from New Orleans that catered to the special interests of followers of magic, fantasy, and the paranormal. Dealing with the laid back, it's all good N'awlins mentality was also a novel experience for my beautiful, but strictly business, boss.
Mystic Isle had been in the Villars family for centuries. When the family fell on hard times, the considerable windfall from Family Feud won by the current owner Harry Villars and his motley crew of cousins took care of the back taxes he owed, but did little else. If he wanted to hang on to the place, Harry knew he'd have to make a plan. He did: The Mansion at Mystic Isle became a resort where folks could come and get their creep on.
The place was decorated like Decrepit Homes and Gardens with drafty hallways, secret passages, and the whole shebang. He hired a complete cast of soothsayers and charlatans to convince hotel guests the supernatural stuff that went on at The Mansion was the real deal.
And now, at the behest of the resort's eccentric owner, Jack was struggling to organize and put on the first ever Annual Summer Jazz Festival at The Mansion on Mystic Isle.
Captain Jack's office was in the add-on kitchen wing of the old plantation building on the main floor.
As I headed for the lower-level stairs, which would give me access to that area of the resort, I passed Harry Villars himself leaving the hotel. He touched the brim of his signature white straw Panama hat, "Miss Hamilton, lovely day, isn't it?"
A true man of the South, our fearless leader. He was not tall, but not short, at about five-foot nine, slim build, dark hair with a modest comb-over, and a mustache so perfectly trimmed it appeared to be painted on. His grey eyes were kind and crinkled at the edges, which made him look as if he was always smiling. I'd never seen him not wear a dapper three-piece suit and bow tie, not in summer, nor in winter. He was what my granny called a dandy.
I found Captain Jack in his office, at the helm, like any good captain—well, behind his desk anyway.
"Miss Hamilton." He looked up when I knocked on his open door, then stood. "Thank you so much for coming. There's something I need from you."
Something I need from you, too, Cap'n Jack. Kiss. Kiss.
He went on. "How's your schedule for the next three days?"
Jack Stockton was tall, maybe six-one, and handsome, with close-cropped dark hair, almond-shaped dark eyes, and a smile so bright if he was with you, you wouldn't even need a lantern at night in the swamp.
"Oh, I'm flattered you'd come to me," I said, preening. "What kind of tattoo did you have in mind?"
"Oh," he sat up straighter. "No. Sorry. It's the jazz festival. Everything's all set up, but we have music in three locations tonight, and I can't be in three places at once." He smiled, and I was done for. "I think I can take care of two venues, but do you think you might be able to help me out?"
"Me? Uh, sure." What I knew about jazz you could put in a thimble and still have lots of room left over, but I said, "Whatever you need, Mr. Stockton. But…why me?"
"Jack," he said. "Yes, you because I always like being with, er, working with you, Miss Hamilton."
My face went warm, and I ducked my head so he wouldn't see my blush.
I was still uncomfortable calling the general manager by his first name, but I decided right then and there I should get used to it so that when I was in the throes of passion, I wouldn't call out, "Oh, yes, Mr. Stockton. Yes! Yes!" What I wound up saying was, "Whatever you need, Jack. And please, call me Mel."
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It was lucky I had that extra day for the dragon tattoo built into my schedule. I'd need it, and maybe more, for the tasks Jack had assigned me. I was on the phone, clearing one more day of two sixty-something spinsters, identical twins, who'd asked for matching Gemini tattoos on their hips. The ten-percent discount I offered them was incentive for them to spend the extra day roaming the voodoo shops and cemeteries in NOLA.
I was just hanging up with them when the moving truck pulled in under the portico of The Mansion. Three burly men got out, opened up the back, and wheeled out the rattiest piano I think I'd ever seen. It was an old upright, the plaque above the keyboard said Story & Clark. Covered in cobwebs and dust, I was hard-pressed to recognize the wood but thought maybe it was a light oak.
When Jack told me Harry Villars had bought a piano specifically for the festival, I totally hadn't expected some old,
"That's it?" he said, his voice about half an octave higher than usual. He looked at me.
"You think that's the right one?" I asked.
He just shrugged. "Mr. Villars said he found it in the basement of an antique shop in the French Quarter. The owner of the shop said it was famous, something about some celebrity Dixieland keyboard man from back in the 1920s."
I squinted and looked at it as they wheeled it by. "You sure he said 1920s, not 1820s?"
I just shrugged. Maybe they'd drop the thing, and we could get a real piano in.
But they didn't.
They brought it into the Presto-Chang-o Room and up onto the stage. Amidst a cloud of dust, they rolled it off the dolly. It settled with a cacophony of banging, screeching, and discordant racket.
Jack signed a delivery receipt then we just stood there looking at the ugly thing until he said, "Well, guess we better get someone in here to clean that nasty thing up before the musicians get here to rehearse." He scratched his head. "And unless I miss my guess, we should probably call a piano tuner, too."
I couldn't find a single person from housekeeping available to work on the crud built up from the decades of abandonment, so I took a bucket of Murphy Oil Soap and water back to the Presto-Chang-o Room and went to work on the piano.
My knuckles were scraped and sore, and my back and arms were tired when the piano tuner arrived an hour and a half later, but I have to say the piano had cleaned up nicely. Underneath all that grime was a beautiful instrument.
The tuner got right down to it, striking the keys over and over until the sticky ones worked smoothly, the pedals released as they were supposed to, and it sounded much better. Even tuned up, the notes were still a bit hollow and tinny, but from what little bit I knew about Dixieland jazz, that sound was perfect for the music.
The band showed up around four that afternoon for rehearsal. There were six of them—a trumpet player, trombone, clarinet, stand-up bass man, drummer, and keyboard player—all were older guys wearing pristine, white, button-up shirts under red vests, and black bow ties. A couple of them even wore garters on their sleeves. These guys were the real deal.
The keyboard man went straight up to the piano and walked around it, a sour expression on his face. "What a hunk o' junk," he drawled and turned to the others who were busy setting up. "You all ever seen anything this old still in working order?"
The others all gathered around and admitted they hadn't, or at least didn't think they had.
"Well, now, that's a real shame, gentlemen." Harry Villars's mellow voice came from behind us.
We all turned around to see him lighting a smelly cigar over by the bar. "That wonderful old instrument was owned by none other than Booker Dixieland Jones."
"Oh, yes, sir," the piano man said, "I do believe I heard about that."
Villars took a deep pull on the stogie. The tip glowed. He took it from his mouth and examined it, while he picked a bit of tobacco off his lower lip. "Yessir, they say ol' Dixieland Jones was the man when it came to N'awlins jazz. Nobody could hold a candle to him. Story goes, one night in 1926, the feds raided the speakeasy where Dixieland and his boys were playing. Ol' Dixieland ran out the back door and got himself mowed down by a street car." Villars shook his head sadly. "Terrible loss to the music industry, just terrible."
The piano player's attitude did a one-eighty. He smiled, went over to the piano, lifted the keyboard cover, and ran his fingers over the ivories. "Booker Jones, you say?"
Villars nodded, "The man at the antique store told me the whole story. And now they say the piano is—"
"Haunted by Dixieland himself," the piano man finished, sat on the bench, rolled up his sleeves, and flexed his fingers over the keyboard. "Legend says you play Booker's piano, you channel the jazzman himself. Let's see if it's haunted, after all."
He nodded to the others who picked up their instruments. The drummer counted it off, and the band broke out in a rollicking version of "Down by the Riverside."
Within just a minute or two, the Presto-Chang-o Room was full of staff and guests standing around listening and tapping their feet to the rolling two-four beat.
Jack walked in, smiling, took hold of my hand, and twirled me into an energetic swing dance. I just about swooned.
When they were done, the piano man turned around. But he wasn't smiling as he should have been. "You want me to play this relic," he said, "y'all are gonna hafta get her tuned."
Huh? Didn't the piano tuner just walk out the door not even twenty minutes ago?
I reached for my cell phone to call him back.
* * *
The tuner worked on the poor old thing—the piano, not the piano player—for another forty-five minutes before he declared it to be "tuneful once again." He left scratching his head, trying to figure out why it hadn't stayed tuned the first time.
The band had a chance to rehearse for about another hour before they left the stage to get ready for their "gig" at seven.
I made arrangements to stay at the resort for the next two nights so I could watch over the Ragtime Players's sessions in the Presto-Chang-o Room while Jack took care of the other bands booked at The Mansion.
The place was already standing room only, thanks to all the promotion they'd done for the festival. The band hit the stage right at seven. The first two songs were flawless, and everyone came alive at the high energy level. The players were total pros, and there really was nothing quite as rousing as good old ragtime music. I knew Jack had high hopes the festival would be a rip-roaring success and would help put the fledgling resort on the map.
It was just after the break between the first and second sets that it happened.
The song was "Tiger Rag." The slide trombone and clarinet were hot. The piano player, sporting a dapper bowler, was so into it, he got up on his feet, kicked the stool back, and played on the hoof. I say on the hoof because all the foot stomping in the room shook the stage so much the piano began to shimmy, then to downright shake, rattle, and, oh my God, roll—toward the front of the stage. It backed the piano man up a foot at a time, and it just kept coming, as if it were chasing him—on its own. Alarm spread over his face as he and the old upright moved farther and farther away from the wall, and closer and closer toward the edge of the stage. The crowd quit clapping and gasped. The other musicians stopped playing. The stage ceased bouncing. But that didn't phase the piano—it kept coming. The keyboard man stopped playing and, arms windmilling, teetered on the lip of the stage until the piano screeched and lurched at him one final time, and he tumbled backwards two and a half feet down onto the floor.
He landed with a loud thump. The bowler flew off and rolled across the room.
The only sound was the fading ring of the vibrating piano strings, then that stopped too.
You could have heard a pin drop.
The keyboard man just stared up at the instrument, a look of disbelief on his face. "What the…?" he breathed. "Oh man."
He jumped up and ran from the room and straight out the front door.
He never looked back.
I turned around and saw the other five guys staring after him. After a minute, they looked at each other and moved back into position. The drummer counted off, and they rolled into "Alexander's Ragtime Band."
Now, I don't want y'all to think I've lost it, but, pretty as you please, that crazy piano rolled itself back up against the wall—right where it started.
I shivered and thought about running out the door myself.
