Free Mystic Mayhem by Sally J. Smith Page A

cargo pants and a golf shirt, was reading the riot act to the bartender, a new hire I hadn't met yet, probably hired on because he was the right fit for the wizard costume. "My wife says this wine sucks! It's gone to vinegar. What the hell you gonna do about it?"
    The bartender's smile never flagged. "I'm sorry for the inconvenience, sir. Let me get your wife a fresh pour."
    The man obviously seemed to feel a fresh pour wouldn't do the trick, because he flung the wine on the bartender's wizard robes. In my book, that was like a slap in the face. It would cost a heckuva lot to dry-clean that outfit.
    Jack ambled over to the irate guest. "I couldn't help overhearing, sir. Is there—"
    Mr. Generally Pissed Off sized up Jack then blurted, "Mind your own beeswax, pretty boy."
    Jack nodded, a look of contemplation on his face. "Beeswax, eh?" The man thrust out his chin, while Jack just ran a hand over his own. "I like that word a lot. You wouldn't mind if I use it myself every now and then, would you?"
    Good old Pissed Off stared at Jack for a beat, two—then he smiled—then he laughed. "No sir, I reckon you can use that word all you like, mister. No charge, either."
    The two shook hands then Jack said, "My name's Stockton. Jack Stockton. I'm the hotel's general manager. How about you let us buy you and your wife a new bottle, and we'll make sure there's no charge for the first one."
    Mr. Generally Pissed Off seemed to like that idea. He clapped Jack on the back and headed off to a table by one of the windows.
    Jack and the bartender shared one of those moments of relief—a problem had been averted, and without bloodshed too.
    That was Jack's way. He seemed to take everything in stride. And it wasn't the first time I'd seen him take lemons and make Arnold Palmers.
    When he returned, he mentioned he'd made arrangements for George's poor old Volvo to be towed back to the dock and had called George to let him know.
    While I waited for my sandwich, it seemed like a good idea to launch a plan.
    I couldn't help leaning on my elbow and staring at him—dreamy eyed, I'm sure. "What did you have in mind?" Those probably weren't the best words, but he didn't seem to notice. Looked as if I was the only one at the table who heard a double entendre.
    "Me? I'm the sidekick, remember? Watson to your Sherlock?"
    Oh, right. "Well…" I began then stopped. Maybe I was more like Inspector Clouseau than Sherlock Holmes. "Okay. The cops took Fabrizio because they said they found a lot of cash hidden in his room. Right?"
    He nodded.
    "And they couldn't find the hundred grand this Terrence guy told them Mrs. Elway brought with her."
    Another nod. He leaned forward and rested his chin on his fist. I sighed, lost my train of thought, and had to look down at my hands to get it back. "So I was thinking maybe we ought to follow the money."
    He looked up at the ceiling a while then smiled. "Brilliant."
    That was when it occurred to me that the money might also have something to do with Cecile Elway's death, and that maybe if we figured out who took the money, we might also figure out who killed the old girl.
    I said so, and that made Jack smile. "Hmm, elementary, my dear Sherlock."
    I smiled back. "Isn't that my line? But, where do we start?"
    "You were there. Why don't you tell me what you remember."
    I began at the beginning and ended with, "The door was locked. As far as I know, no one went out or came in once the séance began." Thinking about it gave me the shivers. "Golly, Jack, if I didn't know she was murdered, I'd say she died from natural causes…" It just popped into my head and out of my mouth before I thought about it. "Or maybe supernatural causes."
     
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    After I scarfed down the po'boy—and by the way, if you ever stop over at The Mansion at Mystic Isle, I highly recommend you give one a try. It's the kind of food that makes you want to stand up in church and testify—we headed out to the tennis courts where Jack said