A Very Krewe Kind of Valentine's Day

  A Very Kind of Krewe Valentine's Day

  Heather Graham

  Copyright © 2021 Heather Graham

  A Very Krewe Kind of Valentine’s Day

  Copyright © 2021 by Slush Pile Productions

  All rights reserved. This publication may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, including electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior express written permission of the author. Unauthorized reproduction of this material, electronic or otherwise, will result in legal action.

  Please report the unauthorized distribution of this publication by contacting the author at theoriginalheathergraham.com, via email at connie@perryco.biz, or at Heather Graham 103 Estainville Ave., Lafayette, LA 70508. Please help stop internet piracy by alerting the author with the name and web address of any questionable or unauthorized distributor.

  A Very Krewe Kind of Valentine’s Day is a work of fiction. The people and events in A Very Krewe Kind of Valentine’s Day are entirely fictional. The story is not a reflection of historical or current fact, nor is the story an accurate representation of past or current events. Any resemblance between the characters in this novel and any or all persons living, or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Prologue

  Valentine’s Day.

  Bah, humbug.

  Not the right sentiment, but Fiona Larkins was tired of trying to smile as she maneuvered her way through masked-but-giggling couples in the drug store as they looked at the row upon row of Valentine’s chocolates, stuffed toys, cards, candy and more.

  Really, what difference did it make if she smiled behind a mask? Ah, well—a lot. People smiled with their eyes, Reggie had once assured her. She felt a real and bitter-sweet smile tug at her lips.

  Reggie.

  Always a romantic!

  And gone almost eight months now. And it was almost Valentine’s Day and it was going to be the first she’d have without Reggie in decades.

  Time to be pragmatic, get in line, pay for her items, and get home, and off the streets.

  She imagined that even in a pandemic, the jewelry stores were going crazy. People would be telling themselves they’d be fine in the restaurants and casinos; they’d be laughing and hugging, and . . . it would be painful. She wasn’t resentful; she just missed Reggie.

  She had finished her purchases and neared her car when she felt a tug on her sweater. Looking down, she saw a girl of about nine or ten.

  The little girl gave Fiona a sweet and beautiful smile.

  “For you!” she said. “Because you’re a beautiful, sweet lady, and you need to know you’re loved from near and far!”

  She produced a red-heart box of candy and thrust it into Fiona’s arms.

  “Thank you!” Fiona said. She’d always loved kids and this one was adorable. She had bright green eyes and brown ringlets and that smile . . .

  Still, where had the kid come from? And the candy?

  “But, sweetheart, I—” she began.

  “Oh, it’s paid for, I promise!” the little girl said. She smiled and lowered her voice and was suddenly intense, “You need to go. Go, go, go, now!”

  Then she stepped back, smiled sweetly again and headed through the rows of parked cars.

  As she disappeared, Fiona cried out with worry. “Hey, stop!” Two cars were coming through the lot speeding in a ridiculous manner to get to an empty spot.

  She heard the screech or tires and a terrible smashing sound and then the rip of metal against metal.

  She thought the kid might have gotten caught between the cars, and she raced toward the site of the wreck. In her hurry, she slammed into a tall man who steadied her and held her back.

  “Hey, little lady, where are you going?” he asked.

  She was so anxious she barely looked at him. He was big, heavily muscled, and had a grisly, unshaven face—with facial hair twisting out of his mask. He wore a hat and had light eyes and . . .

  She had to get by him!

  “There’s a kid out there, let me go!”

  Fiona could be fierce. She slammed a foot down on his. He yelped in pain, his hold on her easing. She pushed past him.

  Others were also racing toward the cars. It was chaos.

  She thought to dial 911.

  Cops had been in the vicinity. Even as the masked crowd forgot all about social distancing and moved in—all trying to be helpful and tripping over one another instead. Still, the police quickly brought it all under control, getting the crowd back, checking on the drivers who argued about who hit who, and who was at fault.

  Fiona could have left; should have left.

  But she couldn’t find the kid, and she wanted to make sure the little girl was okay.

  She went from officer to officer seeking the child, but no one had seen her. Each officer vowed if they found an unescorted child, they would take the necessary steps to find her parents and see that she was safe.

  At last Fiona returned to her own car.

  That was when she found the body of the man, dead, she thought for some time, and yet . . .

  There he was. Bloodied and gray and broken and smelling of death.

  Jackson

  “The Romans were totally bonkers!” Corby said.

  Jackson Crow, driving home from the zoo with his wife and kids, glanced quickly over at his son through the rearview mirror.

  “Bonkers, huh?” he asked.

  “Want to clarify?” Angela asked, swinging around from the passenger’s seat to look at her son.

  “Kwazee!” the baby said, lifting her hands in her car seat and smiling.

  “Valentine’s Day!” Corby said.

  “Oh?” Jackson asked, glancing quickly over at Angela.

  “He’s top of his class in reading!” Angela said. “Tell us about the Romans being bonkers,” she encouraged.

  Corby looked up from his book they had just purchased at the gift shop. He’d bought one on the animals that were at the zoo as well; but with Valentine’s Day coming up and his parents about to depart, he’d been fascinated by the one on the approaching holiday.

  “Well,” he said, “you know how it’s all flowers and candy and cards and people all lovey-dovey now? According to my book, it came from a couple of Roman things. First, there was a pagan ceremony in the middle of February. And it was weird! Priests sacrificed goats and maybe a dog or two, skinned them and made lashes out of the skins, dipped it all in the blood—and then they beat women with the bloody-wet lashes!”

  Jackson grimaced.

  “That’s eleven-year-old reading material?” he asked Angela.

  “Hey! He’s advanced,” Angela said, giving him a weak smile in return.

  “Your mother never would have stood for it,” Jackson assured Corby.

  “Oh, no! They wanted to be hit. That meant they could have babies! They all got lovey-dovey for the next few days, and they soaked the ground with blood, too. Yuck!”

  “That is part of the history,” Angela murmured. Of course, she knew he was paraphrasing what he was reading.

  “The pagan ceremony Lupercalia,” Jackson said quietly. “But—he’s eleven!”

  “Then!” Corby said. “They believe there were at least three men named Valentine or Valentino who died cruelly, executed for their beliefs, and they were canonized by the pope or popes of the time. And then it was all combined—a way to get rid of the paganism—and gradually through history, the holiday became one that just meant flowers and candy and being lovey-dovey. Way back in the middle ages, they started making paper cards to give to one another. But guess when it all got really big?”

  “When Americans got in on it?” Jackson said dryly. “Good old capitalism helps any holiday along.”

  “You bet!” Corby said. “In the early twentieth century, American greeting card companies started in with beautiful and extravagant cards and . . . there’s nothing like some good commercialism to make for a good holiday, huh?”

  “So true,” Jackson agreed.

  “Kwazee!” Victoria Sophia repeated. She was a year and a half now. Certainly not speaking in real and comprehensible sentences yet, but she did love to embrace words.

  Angela turned around to look at Corby. “I’m sorry dad and I have to go out on assignment, Corby. We should be with you guys on holidays.”

  “Mother,” Corby said. He seldom called Angela mother—it was usually Mom. “I’m proud people need you even on holidays. And the baby and I both love Mary—not more than you, of course—but we do fine with her. And it’s not like Christmas or my birthday. It’s a weird kissy-face kind of holiday. You should go off together. Well, I mean it would be neat, I guess, if you were just going off together. But I know it’s work . . . and Valentine’s Day came from a bunch of weird old animal sacrifices . . . ugh! Wow! Lovey-dovey day from killing goats—and maybe a dog or two. Anyway, dad—”

  “Have no fear. I’m not killing goats. And your mother is a trained agent. She’d get me good if I came after her with a bloody animal pelt,” Jackson said.

  He and Angela grinned at each other quickly. Then he winced. They’d just gotten the call from Adam that morning asking them to go out as a favor. It wasn’t really a Krewe case, but since Adam Harrison had founded the Krewe—and they both respected him for all he did and loved him as a human being—they were always more than happy to help him.

  Corby laughed.

&nb
sp; “Hey, really, it’s cool, not to worry. I’m going to be doing video time with friends on Valentine’s. We have a whole at-home-hot-chocolate-party thing going on. And the baby and Mary and I will Face Time with you!”

  Jackson marveled at their adopted son. Corby had managed to travel his way through numerous foster homes and a tough first decade of life—and still came out of it all as a sweet, bright, kid able to hold his own against bullies and be kind to those who needed kindness.

  He was also the perfect child for Krewe agents.

  He, too, had the ability to see the dead.

  Something he brought up now.

  “So, whose ghost is causing all the crazy?” he asked.

  “At this time, we don’t know about a ghost,” Jackson said.

  “Another friend of Adam’s is in trouble. Well, the wife of an old friend,” Angela explained.

  “And you’re going where?” Corby asked.

  “Deadwood,” Angela said.

  “Dead wood—they have haunted trees?” Corby asked.

  “Deadwood is a—”

  “City, yeah, I know. Just teasing!” Corby said.

  Angela glanced quickly over at Jackson. He grinned in return. Then he explained, “Adam had a friend named Reginald Larkins. Reginald was, according to Adam, an extremely fine man. He worked with Adam raising funds for children’s hospitals. They both especially admired St. Jude’s and Shriner’s hospitals. Reginald had been a tech wizard. He and his wife had no children of their own, but they loved kids.”

  “I like Reginald already,” Corby said.

  “Well, we don’t know that . . . he stayed,” Angela said. “We just know his wife is in trouble.”

  “I’ll bet you see him. I’ll bet he’ll help her. So?”

  “A man who had disappeared a year ago was found dead in her car,” Angela explained. Corby was too young for this kind of thing, but he knew what they did on the job—and knew they were called out for justice for the living and the dead.

  “Oh. But she didn’t kill him?” Corby said. “Not Reginald’s wife. Well, not unless he was hurting a child—she might go after someone if they were hurting a child! But no, she didn’t do it. Why do they think she did it?”

  “Well, she’s under investigation because it was her car,” Jackson said. He glanced at Angela. He knew while they were often honest with him, there was only so much they wanted to say.

  Jackson glanced quickly back at Corby. His son was nodding thoughtfully. “You better get us home fast. I’ll bet you Mary is already there, waiting. And we’ll be fine.”

  Mary was the aunt of Axel Tiger, one of their Krewe agents. Her home was South Florida, but she spent at least half the year in Northern Virginia, happy to be near her nephew, and equally happy to find herself needed at the Crow household.

  “She’ll make you all kinds of chocolate delicacies, I’ll bet,” Angela said. “Probably better than my attempts.”

  Corby laughed. “I was not about to say that!”

  “Hey, it’s okay,” Angela assured him.

  They had reached home. And as Corby had said, Mary was waiting. So were the dogs.

  Jackson reflected on their life—and their family. One of the dogs was flesh and blood. One of them was not. But he was a happy ghost dog, a good companion to the living dog, and he had once proved himself to be invaluable when they were working on a case. When it was over, he just decided he was moving in with them.

  Hard to say no to a ghost dog.

  But they had taken longer at the zoo than they had intended; and while the plane they would take belonged to their unit of the agency, they kept to schedules. They snuggled and hugged the baby who thankfully loved Mary, and then they snuggled and hugged Corby. They thanked Mary for her timely arrival and then headed out of the house.

  It wasn’t until they were on the plane that Angela opened her computer to go over the details of the case.

  “Okay, so. William Darcy disappeared from Deadwood just as the pandemic was starting. He was fifty-six, not married, no children. He worked in a packaging plant and no one noticed he was missing until he failed to return to work when his two weeks of vacation were over. He lived and worked in Rapid City but was apparently a frequent visitor to Deadwood. He’d stay at whatever hotel was offering him the best deal in gambling money.”

  She grimaced over at Jackson.

  “There’s not much we have on the victim. He was apparently a loner.”

  “Is there any record of him having scored a big win?” Jackson asked.

  She shrugged. “I’d be a happy gambler with it. He won a jackpot for five thousand and change. He was staying at the Don Diego on Main Street. Adam has us booked there,” Angela said.

  He was looking at his own notes. “I’m looking at Fiona Larkins. She and Reggie married when they were in college. They were apparently devoted to one another. Reggie was just a few years older, but he died of a heart attack just last year. According to Adam, Fiona and Reggie had to say goodbye to one another through an IPad. All those years together . . . and goodbye through an IPad. It’s heartbreaking.”

  “He didn’t have the virus.”

  “No, but the hospital couldn’t allow visitors at the time.”

  Angela nodded and looked out the window. “So hard for so many!” she said softly.

  Jackson nodded. “Reggie made big money, but Fiona taught until two years ago when she chose to leave before retirement. That didn’t matter—they were financially fine. They have a home about a mile away from Main Street and the center of Deadwood.” He grimaced at her. “Too bad we’re on a case. I’m fond of Deadwood.”

  “So, you’ve been before?”

  He nodded. “I have. From there, you can travel out to see Mt. Rushmore. You can visit the graves of Calamity Jane and Wild Bill Hickok at Mt. Moriah Cemetery, and there are fantastic museums, Native Art and western expansion history. The town was founded when gold was found in the southern Black Hills.”

  “Wild Wicked West!” Angela murmured.

  “They do have some fine restaurants. Maybe we’ll have a wickedly wild Valentine’s dinner!”

  She grinned. “Maybe. Back to Fiona. Why would the widow of a man we know to have been a generous philanthropist kill a visiting gambler? And how was he killed?”

  “Medical Examiner’s report is interesting. The body is heavily decayed. He believes the cause of death was a heart attack.”

  “Then maybe . . . he just died.”

  “And pulled himself up to sit in Fiona Larkins’ car?” Jackson asked.

  “But still—”

  “Adam said the detective on the case is investigating it as a probable homicide—and that puts Fiona on the line. According to Adam she’s still mourning her husband; and with no children, friends, or close relatives, I guess she’s feeling frantic.”

  Angela smiled, lifting the cup of coffee she was drinking to him. “So. We will do all we can to help solve a murder that might not have been a murder.”

  “Why her car?” Jackson said softly.

  “And how did whoever do it get a rotting corpse into a car in a drug store parking lot?” Angela asked.

  “I spoke with Detective Briggs briefly.”

  “And?”

  “Those are the questions he’s asking. There was chaos there before the body was discovered. Two cars sped for one parking space and ripped into each other. Of course, anyone near was first trying to make sure the drivers and passengers were all right; and then I guess many turned into rubberneckers, watching the drivers fight with each other.”

  “Was that all a decoy, do you think?”

  “Hard to say. Detective Briggs said he couldn’t find a connection between either of the drivers and the victim.”

  “Well? Any connection between Fiona Larkins and the victim?” Angela asked.

  “No. But—”

  “But?”

  “There was a connection between the victim and Reggie Larkins,” Jackson.

  “Who is dead!”

  “Yes, but that’s why they’re taking double looks at Fiona.”

  “What was the connection?”

  “The two men liked to gamble together when William Darcy was in town.”

  “Oh.”

  “And there’s one other thing,” Jackson told her thoughtfully, studying the notes on his tablet.

  “What’s that?”

  “A missing girl. Well, missing to Fiona. She said she would have been gone before the crash, except she was stopped by a little girl who wanted to give her a box of candy.”