Ms. Mia and Murder at the Maison Vieux Carré

Chapter1: The French Quarter

Mia watched the gray city pass by the car windows on this bleak, chilly day. As they left the highway, the streets narrowed. The black town car bumped over the cobblestones, straining its springs. Buildings flaunted bright colors and wrought iron railings. Finally, the car pulled up next to a uniformed doorman, and the driver announced, “Here you are, madame.”

Mia slid her legs out of the car, pausing a moment before standing. She looked up at the glossy green door with its gleaming brass fleur-de-lis knocker and smiled. It felt good to be back in New Orleans.

“Ms. Mia, good to see you,” the doorman told her, his broad face grinning as he helped her out of the car. He towered over her in his tailored green uniform, trimmed with gold braid.

“It’s good to see you, too, Tom,” she told him. “How are Susie and the kids?”

“They’re doing fine. Tom Jr. just started college,” Tom began, but was interrupted by an urgent call of “Ms. Mia!"

A young, dark-haired woman in a chic dress ran out of the hotel door, throwing her arms around Mia with enthusiasm. “It’s so good to see you! You haven’t come in ages!"

“Claire, it’s wonderful to see you,” she said, hugging her back. Mia had guided Claire’s transformation from a gawky teenager, refilling coffees at the hotel’s legendary brunches, to a svelte concierge, confidently directing guests to the best New Orleans had to offer.

Tom began unloading Mia’s luggage. “You two go on, I’ll be a while with this lot,” he said with a chuckle. “You never do pack light.”

"Never have, never will.” Mia studied the terracotta pink building with tall windows bordered by green shutters and black ironwork, like icing on a cake. The Maison Vieux Carré looked lovely, the embodiment of classic New Orleans, glowing with welcome. Vieux Carré—Old Square—was the original name for the French Quarter itself.

Tom opened the heavy door, and Claire ushered her into the lobby, talking nonstop about all the new activities she’d organized for the hotel. The warmth inside wrapped around her, chasing away the chill of the day. Pausing, she inhaled the scent of caramel and wood smoke, intertwined with the rich perfume of roses from the floral arrangements. It was good to be back.

Felix Laumond, the manager, popped his head out of his office, then allowed his whole body to emerge. “Ms. Mia, welcome back to the Vieux Carré. It’s been a while since you visited us,” he welcomed her in his measured Creole accent. He shook her hand heartily, beaming at her.

Felix was tall, carrying a little extra weight, with a long face and sparse brown hair. His face drooped, like a basset hound, but his big brown eyes were surrounded by dark lashes any woman would envy. He was nearing retirement age, but there was no chance Mia would ever get him to retire without someone he trusted to run his beloved hotel. His charcoal gray suit and crisp white shirt, sans tie, cleverly disguised any traces of superfluous fat and fitted him as if they were made for him, which they certainly were. Felix was a New Orleans native, tracing his ancestry here back a century, and he showed it. His air of endless ease suffused the hotel.

Mia replied, “It’s good to be back.” She watched Tom trundle past, his luggage cart overflowing with her mountain of luggage.

“I’ll be back for the rest of it when I’ve dropped this off,” Tom assured her, with a broad wink.

“Thanks, Tom,” Mia said.

Hospitably, Felix asked, “Would you like to see your room now? Or perhaps a little something to eat first?”

With a smile, Mia surveyed the charming lobby. “I’ll just relax here for a few minutes, soaking in the atmosphere.”

Felix nodded. “I’ll be out to join you after a few phone calls.” He returned to his office with visible reluctance.

The Maison Vieux Carré lobby was expansive, with lovely high ceilings highlighted by the original intricate moldings and cream colored walls. A curving staircase dramatically swept guests to the next floor, framed sinuously by a black wrought iron railing in a fleur-de-lis pattern, the brass handrail worn to a bright sheen. Gold velvet drapes flanked tall windows, giving warmth to the cold winter light. The formal black and white marble floor added a touch of polished elegance. An impressive lead crystal chandelier hung over the room, from a floral plaster extravagance. The shining glass sparkled, sending dancing rays of light around the room.

A merry fire warmed a massive white marble fireplace. Next to it, a comfortable grouping of deep purple velvet chairs was anchored by an antique Aubusson rug, whose faded golds echoed the room’s color scheme. Mia headed straight for the chair with the best vantage point of the room.

Claire’s mouth curved in satisfaction—she’d guessed right. “I thought you’d want to see what was happening in the lobby. I’ve already ordered afternoon tea to be served in here for you.”

“Perfect. Thank you, Claire.” Mia relaxed into the familiar room. There was no better place to feel the current mood of the hotel. From here, she could see guests moving past the concierge’s antique desk on the far side of the room or entering the hotel restaurants. Every guest had to pass through this room on their way to explore the city. Lobbies revealed the heartbeat of a hotel.

And this lobby was lovely, with a cozy, intimate feel, despite its opulent grandeur. The wood fire crackled, and the faint sound of piano music drifted in. Even in the winter, big Boston ferns in huge chinoiserie pots and purple and white orchids brightened the room. Extravagant bouquets of pale pink roses in crystal vases adorned nearby tables. Discreet spot lighting on the greenery helped offset the gray day.

Claire perched on one of the adjoining chair arms, smiling across at her mentor. “How have you been?” she asked. “How’s your family?”

“Everyone’s good, thanks,” Mia said, studying the young woman benevolently. Claire was thriving, her sleek dark hair brushed silky smooth, and her skillful makeup enhanced her soft brown eyes, set wide in a heart-shaped face with a delicately pointed chin. Her bold red lipstick gave the finishing touch to her style. “How are you?”

Mia’s stepsons, Mark and Alec, were the CEO and COO of Spinel Resorts, the hotel chain Mia’s late husband, Leo Spinel, had built. Mia had recently been home in Atlanta, Spinel Resorts’ headquarters, for the last few weeks, coming up with all sorts of ideas for the business, and incidentally, setting both her boys up with some lovely young women. After a few weeks of her help, they had thoughtfully urged her to go relax in New Orleans, one of their best run properties, where she could sit back and enjoy the experience.

“Nicole was here about a month ago. We went out on the town and had a great time. There’s always a new restaurant to try in New Orleans,” Claire said enthusiastically.

Mia’s daughter, Nicole, was in their accounting department, currently assigned to visit all the hotels in turn. “I loved seeing your photos,” Mia told her. “You both know how to dress up for a night out!"

“Part of living in New Orleans—le bon temps,” Claire said with pride, a dimple appearing in her cheek. “Having the appropriate outfit for any occasion, and a stunning wardrobe, is part of the culture. Almost every night is a night out.” Her glossy red fingernails stroked the purple silk of her dress. A thin gold belt emphasized her small waist, and an airy violet gauze overlaid the entire garment. With her tanned arms bare beneath, the gauze looked like petals on a flower.

“That’s a gorgeous dress, Claire,” Mia told her appreciatively, then overtly pried, “So, are you dating anyone special right now?”

Claire ducked her head and shrugged, awkward for once. “It’s hard to find the right one.”

“That it is. You know, I started in hotels as a concierge,” said Mia. “I was a manager when I met Leo.”

“I know,” Claire smiled warmly back. “Mr. Spinel was a great man.”

“He was,” Mia blinked hard. She added, “A hotel’s a good place to meet people,” and said no more. Claire was doing well, blooming with health and happiness. Mia would keep an eye out for that someone special for her while she was in town.

The front door banged open forcefully, hitting the wall with a gust of cold air, and a tall, dark-haired man entered the hotel with a dramatic flourish that screamed for attention. A jet black cockatoo perched on his shoulder, giving a squawk of appreciation at the cozy interior. The man wore tight black trousers, emphasizing his scrawny, angular frame, and a limp, white shirt, with a long, pointed collar that his hair straggled over. A sweeping charcoal overcoat with blood red lining that flashed with every step and a black fedora finished off his outfit. The black cockatoo lifted its wings at the hotel’s warmth, revealing a fan of cardinal-red feathers under his tail, matching his owner’s coat.

Mia commented with a slight frown, “It’s a bit cold for parrots outside right now.” She added, “Who is that? Quite a dramatic entrance.”

“That’s Marcus Miller,” Claire told her. “From New Mexico. He’s a ghost hunter. He’s stayed here a few times lately, chasing the ghosts down.” She added with a dry note, “he says.”

“A ghost hunter?” Mia said.

The man swept through the lobby, his long, dark coat theatrically billowing around him, revealing the red lining, as he headed to the elevators. The cockatoo bowed and nodded, greeting passing guests with a harsh, “Hello,” or “Pretty bird.”

“Does he find any ghosts?” Mia asked with curiosity.

“He says he does,” Claire replied, lifting her shoulder. “I haven’t seen any. He takes a select few guests on what he calls ‘real ghost tours,’ and charges the moon for the privilege. People enjoy them. There’s lots of enthusiasm for the experience. He’s written some popular books—it’s always fun to do something with a published expert. I think he’s researching New Orleans for his next bestseller.”

“It is New Orleans,” Mia said, her blue eyes sparkling. “If there’s any place you can find ghosts, this is it.” She hoped Mr. Miller didn’t find ghosts in her hotel, but if he did, it certainly wouldn’t hurt business. People loved spooky stories, as long as they still felt safe.

A man in runner’s shorts and shirt bounded inside, panting hard, his legs bright red from his exertions in the chilly air. He flashed an engaging grin at Claire, and she smiled back, cheeks turning pink.

Mia asked with pointed interest, “And who is that?” A very handsome man, she thought to herself. She normally hated guests going through the lobby in exercise clothes, but in the Quarter, there was no guest back entrance to slip into when in disarray. All guests came in through the lobby, under the staff’s watchful eyes.

“Oh, that’s Simon Rochuvart,” Claire said, keeping her tone casual. “He’s an architect, on vacation—says the hotel reminds him of his father’s old stories about New Orleans. I’ve sent him on some architecture tours.” She added, “He’s stayed here a few times lately.”

“He seems friendly,” Mia commented, noticing Claire’s gaze following the young man.

“He is, always a cheerful word for everyone,” Claire agreed. “Nice guests make everything easier, don’t they?”

“They certainly do,” said Mia, with feeling.

An older couple came from the elevator, hand in hand. Claire said, “They’re Reg and Julie Williams. They came here after their wedding years ago and are back for their anniversary. He just retired, so they’ve started traveling more. They’re recreating their honeymoon.”

“That’s such a sweet idea.”

Reg Williams carried a spare tire around his midsection, but he moved with a light, springy step that proclaimed his vigor, despite his added weight. He wore a windbreaker over a button-down shirt and sensible New Balance sneakers for navigating the city streets. His thinning hair was carefully combed in the forlorn hope of disguising his growing bald spot. His wire-rimmed glasses framed dark, considering eyes that scanned the room, noticing everything.

His wife, Julie, had a generous smile and sparkling blue eyes. Her plump figure barely contained the energy of a bouncing rubber ball. Reading glasses hung on a sparkly blue chain around her neck. She carried an outsize turquoise blue handbag, straining at the straps from a considerable weight.

The couple headed directly to the concierge’s desk. “Gotta go,” said Claire, and hurried to help them.

Mia overheard the couple asking Claire about a tour to an alligator farm. She wondered why anyone would farm alligators or want to visit them, but to each their own. Herself, she made it a habit to avoid alligators, if at all possible.

An elderly woman, of generous proportions and a blissful smile, entered the lobby. She wore a colorfully flowered dress out of another era, topped with a purple cardigan and a shiny silver full-length puffer coat. Her short figure was almost as wide as tall with the added bulk of layers, but her silvery gray crown of tiny braids added a few inches to her height. What could be seen of her legs had bright striped stockings clad in orthopedic shoes. She scanned the lobby, then spotted Mia. She moved straight for her, beaming.

Mia stood in greeting. “Tante Rosalie, it’s wonderful to see you!"

“Mia, they told me you were coming, but I didn’t know what day you’d arrive,” Tante Rosalie said as the two matriarchs air-kissed cheeks, Mia’s dainty figure leaning in over Tante Rosalie’s even shorter bulk. “My, but it’s cold out there.”

Tom appeared to help the elderly woman out of her outer puffy jacket and whisked it away. Tante Rosalie settled her ample rear comfortably into a chair opposite, leaning toward the warmth of the fire and fanning her face.

"How long are you staying?” she asked Mia.

“Oh, only a few weeks. I’ll leave before Mardi Gras, of course,” Mia said. She never stayed in a hotel during the high season, if she could help it. Rooms were needed for guests then. She preferred to come just before the busiest season, to make sure the hotel was ready for guests.

Tante chuckled, a rich, rolling sound. “That’s good, I’ll make sure that boy feeds you well.”

Mia laughed. “I can’t imagine eating badly in New Orleans. There’s no such thing.”

Tante Rosalie Landry was a Maison Vieux Carré fixture, having worked at the hotel most of her life. She was a superb chef who had run one of the best restaurants for decades in a city known to gourmets. She’d “retired” several years ago, when the chef she’d chosen as her replacement had returned from his training and working apprenticeships at several Spinel hotels and taken over from her. Although her retirement wasn’t precisely what had happened.

Tante still came in every day to the hotel kitchen to make her famous pralines and keep everything running exactly how she wanted it. The new head chef, Delphin Broussard, had only directed the kitchen for five years, after all. To Tante, he was still the Cajun boy she’d trained up from busboy.

With this in mind, Mia asked warily, “Is Delphin doing well?”

“He’ll never cook Creole right,” Tante sniffed hard and puffed her cheeks out in displeasure. “I caught him putting corn syrup in the pralines when I took a day off. Corn syrup!” Her lips curved craftily. “I sneaked back and caught him,” she announced triumphantly. “He ain’t doing that in my kitchen again!”

Mia clucked a little in pretended disappointment, stifling her laugh. “But he’s cooking well overall?”

“He’ll do,” the Creole grand dame admitted, trying not to let her pride in her protege show. “I just have to keep my eye on him, that’s all.”

The subject of their discussion entered, bearing a large platter heaped with delicacies. A smartly uniformed waitress trailed him, pushing an old-fashioned tea cart holding a gleaming sterling silver tea set and exquisite china teacups entwined with gold acanthus leaves.

“Tea time, cher,” he boomed.

“Delphin, that looks absolutely delicious. What a gorgeous presentation,” Mia enthused.

“Thanks, Ms. Mia,” the head chef responded. He was a huge man, imposing in his expanse of neat chef’s whites. He had a seemingly permanent broad grin and round cheeks. “I’d serve it in the courtyard like usual, but it’s frette to your bones out there today.”

“In front of a toasty fire is perfect,” Mia agreed wholeheartedly.

Felix came out of his office and sat down heavily opposite Mia, taking a cup from the waitress. He crossed his well-shod legs elegantly. “Well, that’s another failed attempt at a new head of security.” His face drooped, jowls sagging and deep lines bracketing his mouth. “I’m not having much luck finding someone up to our standards for the job, Ms. Mia. And Mardi Gras is coming closer, every day.”

“I’ll tell Mark you’re coming up short here,” Mia told him, studying his face. Felix didn’t have his usual air of ease—it was unusual for him to appear worried. “Maybe he has someone interested in moving to New Orleans.”

“Maybe,” Felix didn’t sound hopeful. “I’d take almost anyone, but not security with bad background checks. That’s just asking for trouble.” As he’d tired, his Creole accent became more pronounced. “We had our head of security and three guards quit last week.”

“You look like you’ve been burning the candle at both ends,” Mia observed.

“He has that,” Tante agreed, sipping her tea. “He’s doing security shifts on top of everything else.”

“You can’t keep doing that. Could you hire another guard?” suggested Mia. “Maybe a temp from a security firm?”

“Normally I would,” Felix explained. “But with Mardi Gras around the corner, everyone is booked solid.” His fingers tapped on the chair arm. “And we can’t have security lax during our busiest season.”

“No, indeed,” Mia agreed. “Mark will send someone to help out temporarily, if we can’t find a permanent solution before then,” she reassured him. “Someone will want to come for Mardi Gras.”

“Thanks,” Felix told her, his wrinkles smoothing slightly. “That’s a relief.”

“Last year, we needed a security team to keep the partygoers out of the building,” Delphin remembered. “Every time we let in a guest, they’d flow in like water.”

“At least we only have the two entrances, this one and staff,” Felix said, rubbing his jaw. “It doesn’t take much to keep our guests secure.”

Tante had been eying the platters of food Delphin had brought, her thin, painted eyebrow lifted. “Boudin balls at high tea, Delphin? Afternoon tea should have finger sandwiches and biscuits—nothing to stick to your ribs. Did I teach you nothing?” She puffed out her cheeks and tapped the silver platter with a blunt nail. The offending round balls looked delicious.

Delphin shrugged, letting the criticism roll off his broad shoulders with the ease of long practice. “Ms. Mia likes boudin balls,” he told Tante simply.

“Indeed, I do,” Mia agreed, taking two on a delicate plate. “Thank you for remembering, Delphin.” She took a bite of the spicy sausage and rice ball, covered in crunchy fried breadcrumbs. “Delicious.”

“Humph,” Tante grunted disapprovingly. She took one of the boudin balls with an air of reluctant politeness, concealing her pleasure at the satisfying crunch.

Delphin beamed at Mia. “I’ve got some treats lined up for you this trip, Ms. Mia,” he told her, rubbing his hands together. “You wait and see. We do food right, here.”

Mia’s mouth curved, and she took another spicy bite. “I’m looking forward to it.”

The waitress handed her a teacup and saucer, “Formosa Oolong, Ms. Mia. I remember that was your favorite last time.”

“It is,” said Mia, and took a sip. “Perfect, Jeanne. Exactly how I like it.” The honey floral fragrance lingered on her tongue.

Tante poked around the platters with her stubby finger. “At least you included crab cakes,” she grudgingly admitted. “But I’m sure you put those Cajun spices of yours in them.”

Delphin grinned down at the short elderly lady, his huge figure looming over her. “I did them just how Ms. Mia likes.” He told Mia, “I’d better get back. Anything special you want for dinner?”

“Surprise me,” Mia suggested, tilting her head in anticipation.

He nodded, going back to his kitchen.

“This is delicious, Tante Rosalie,” Mia told her. “You’ve done a good job training Delphin.”

“He’ll do,” Tante admitted. She helped herself to another of the offending balls. “Too much spice,” she said with pursed lips.

“But delicious all the same,” Mia said, finishing hers. “I think I’ll try one of these little crab cakes next.” It was creamy, with buttery chunks of crab meat and a crisp bread crumb coating.

They ate the delicious food and sipped their tea with pleasure, watching guests move through the lobby. Felix excused himself after a few bites, but Tante stayed with Mia, people watching.

Others had decided the cozy lobby and afternoon tea were the perfect combination. Music trickled in from the piano in the bar. The indulgence of afternoon tea on a gray day created a cozy haven from the weather in elegant surroundings.

Fluffy biscuits were served instead of scones, in true Southern tradition. Mia happily spread peach butter on hers, biting into it with satisfaction. She and Tante gossiped about their mutual friends, interspersed with Tante’s acerbic comments on Delphin’s cooking.

Tante Rosalie finished her last bite, licked her fingers, and then told Mia, “I’d better go make sure that boy isn’t ruining my kitchen, and make my pralines.”

Mia laughed. “I’m sure he’s doing fine.”

“Hmph,” Tante Rosalie uttered as she went to take back her kitchen.

The couple on their second honeymoon sat down near Mia. Reg Williams gave a sigh of relief as he got off his feet, stretching out his legs toward the fire. “Honey, we don’t have to do everything this week. I’ll bring you back for the stuff you miss. Let’s take our time and enjoy things.”

“I’m not saying no to a single thing,” she told him firmly. “I don’t want to miss anything.”

“But an alligator farm in the swamp? In the winter?” he protested. “We can come back when it’s warmer. We’re retired now.”

“It was Claire’s idea,” his wife told him. “And I’m not saying no to anything.”

“Couldn’t we just say later to some things?”

“Hmph,” she told him. “We’re going to see those alligators.”

Reg asked plaintively, “What about a garden tour, honey? You like gardens.”

“But it’s winter,” she told him.

“Maybe some of these old houses, then? I know that girl will set us up with a tour,” he suggested. “That’d be inside, in the warm.”

“Oh, Reg.” She patted his arm. “You know we need to try new things.”

“I know,” he reluctantly agreed, clearly wishing they could return to some of the old things.

Mia inspected her room with pleasure. Felix had chosen a beautiful room for her, with a balcony view of the street. Pale yellow walls were complemented by warm gold taffeta drapes. An antique canopy bed was draped with the same golden cloth, and the honey tone of the wide-plank cypress floor enhanced the jewel-box ambiance. A creamy marble fireplace, flanked by comfortable chairs upholstered in silk damask, held a stack of wood ready to light a crackling fire in the evening. An amethyst velvet chaise longue was set next to the French window, where she could relax and look down on the street below.

And a bottle of champagne waited in a polished silver ice bucket. Mia smiled at Delphin’s thoughtfulness. Opening the chilled bottle of Laherte Frères Blanc de Blancs Extra Brut, she poured it into a crystal champagne flute. She slipped out through the French window, sipping the tart bubbly. Below her, New Orleans moved through the night—calling out, laughing, hurrying home, and savoring all the coming night had to offer.

She stood watching the street for long minutes, enjoying all the little dramas. With a sigh of pleasure, she came inside to dress for dinner.

She slipped into a deep purple dress, silk with Roaring Twenties silver beading, and gave a graceful twirl that set the seed beads shimmering around her body. In a little shop in Paris, she had found elegant beaded shoes, with perfect French heels that echoed the 1920s feel of the dress. Mia always dressed for dinner to coordinate with the hotel dining room for the sheer aesthetic pleasure of it.

At the elegant Louis XV dressing table, she applied fresh lipstick in a warm pink, added a light layer of mascara to highlight her blue eyes, and brushed her ash blond hair until it shone like silk. As she put on purple spinel earrings encircled with tiny diamonds, she remembered restoring this mansion with her husband, Leo.

The Maison Vieux Carré had been a rundown hotel, almost a boarding house, when they had bought it several decades ago. The mansion had beautiful bones from the 1800s, but the grande dame’s facade was, to say the least, haggard with the ravages of age and disrepair. It had been a mansion, then a magnificent hotel, falling through the ages to a mobsters’ hangout, a cheap hotel, and finally, the near wreck the Spinels had bought.

They had managed to save most of the hotel’s unique features in their extensive renovation, moving through each project with painstaking care. After all, those features like the beautiful central stairway (buried under 1970s shag carpet and layers of psychedelic paint) and the wrought iron railings outside (heaven help anyone who leaned hard on them back then) were what made the Maison Vieux Carré special.

They’d done a good job on it, Mia thought, smiling to herself as she admired the view in the mirror of sumptuous fabrics and intricate plasterwork. This hotel had become one of the jewels of Spinel Resorts.

She clasped a delicate bracelet around her wrist and straightened her ring, a purple spinel set in platinum, an anniversary present from her husband on this hotel’s grand reopening, years ago. Leo had been so proud of this luxurious hotel’s transformation.

Her peaceful contemplation was suddenly shattered by a scream ringing down the hall. Mia, with a clattering of tiny beads, rushed to find out what had happened.