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himself down on one of the chairs in front of the desk, propped his notebook on his crossed leg and waved his pen at the doors. “I don’t mean to criticize, but those locks are on the flimsy side.”
    “Until now we’ve had no need for better ones.”
    “Do you have any idea who could have done this, Miss Marchand?”
    Charlotte kept her face impassive as she glanced around the room. For someone who had obviously been up all night and had been fielding one problem after another for too long, she was holding herself together well. She had gone into what Jackson was starting to think of as her tea-in-the-parlor mode, doing her best to act composed, but he knew she wasn’t as calm as she appeared. He’d felt the truth when she had trembled in his arms.
    He was surprised how much he’d wanted to keep her there. Logically he knew he shouldn’t get involved. She’d been right to deflect his questions earlier; the hotel was none of his business. She was a strong, competent woman. She didn’t need him—she never had. She’d made that clear when she’d married Adrian Grant.
    Yet somehow he couldn’t bring himself to leave.
    “I think you should talk to the Corbins, Detective,” Jackson said.
    Fergusson twisted to glance over his shoulder. “Corbins? Who are they?”
    “Richard and Dan. They were in the hotel minutes before we found the knife.”
    Charlotte seemed about to protest, but then she dipped her chin in agreement. “I hate to cast suspicion on fellow hoteliers, but I must be realistic. The Corbin brothers are the only ones who stand to gain from an act of intimidation like this.”
    The detective’s chair creaked loudly as he faced Charlotte once more. “Why would you think that, Miss Marchand?”
    “They’re hoping to buy this hotel. Perhaps they wanted to shake me up.”
    “Why would they leave a mask? Do you think that’s some kind of message?”
    “It could be. Every hotel in the city is counting on making a profit during this Mardi Gras period. Destroying the mask…” She paused. “It could be interpreted as significant. But whoever did this didn’t bring the mask with them. It was already here.”
    “Oh?”
    “It was part of my costume for our annual ball next week. The last time I saw it was yesterday evening just before the fire.”
    Fergusson tapped his pen against his notebook. “This has possibilities. I’ll look into it.”
    “Thank you,” she said. “For the sake of the hotel’s reputation, I do hope you will be able to keep your investigation discreet. Our guests have come here to have a good time, and I want to make sure their stay is as pleasant as possible.”
    The detective’s teeth gleamed beneath his mustache in a benign smile. “I’ll do what I can to accommodate you, Miss Marchand. You people sure are having more than your share of problems lately.”
    “It seems that way, Detective. Have you made any progress regarding yesterday’s fire?”
    “We’re still working on it,” Fergusson said. “These things take time.”
    Charlotte leaned forward. “You mentioned the possibility of arson. Do you still feel that way?”
    “At this point, it appears as if the cause could have been faulty wiring. But we’re not ruling anything out.” He pushed to his feet and turned to Jackson. “As a matter of fact, I was hoping to speak with you today, Dr. Bailey. I understand you were one of the first on the scene.”
    “That’s right, but I can’t tell you much about the fire. I was concentrating on treating the injured.”
    “You’re only visiting New Orleans, is that right?”
    “Yes. I divide my time between my NGO work overseas and my position with a hospital in Philadelphia.”
    He flipped back a few pages in his notebook. “What can you tell me about Luc Carter, the concierge?”
    “I bandaged a wound on his arm.”
    “Yes, that’s what I’ve heard. How did he seem to you?”
    “I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”
    “How was he acting? Did you