Body on the Bayou (11 page)

Maggie stood there, stunned. “You’re absolutely right, Little Earlie,” she said. “I just blurted without thinking. I do that sometimes. Not a good habit. Thanks for the wake-up call.”

The reporter shrugged. “No problem. It’s one thing to write about a person that you only met once being murdered. But I’d hate to be writing about a friend.”

This touched Maggie. Little Earlie might be as annoying as a tick on a dog, but he was still part of her community, which she and others usually forgot. “I appreciate you looking out for me. And I’ll give you quotes when I can. But try not to push so hard.”

“Message sent and received,” he said. “And I sincerely hope it’s not Chret. Nobody can add years to the life of my PT Cruiser like he can.”

He headed off while Maggie debated her next move. She was shaken by the revelation that her arrogance could have had fatal consequences. And why was she so adamant that Chret, a young man she barely knew, was innocent? Simply relying on her intuition was hardly a fail-safe position in a murder investigation. The news was littered with stories of wounded warriors suffering from PTSD who had snapped.
I need a drink,
she thought. She looked over to where the neon sign of Junie’s beckoned and then made a beeline for the hangout, heading straight for the bar. Old Shari eyeballed her, then poured a shot of whiskey and placed it on the bar with a thump. A small bit splashed out of the glass and onto the bar. “You might want to lick that up,” Shari said. “Looks like you need every last drop.”

Maggie downed the shot and held out the glass. “I think I’ll take a refill instead.”

Old Shari obliged, and Maggie swallowed the second round. She noticed JJ listening patiently as Tookie Fleer yammered at him, alternating between pointing to a list on a notepad and then pointing at him. Maggie looked away, hoping to avoid eye contact with the woman, but it was too late. Tookie had locked on to her. “Maggie, get over here,” she ordered, skipping the niceties of a greeting as usual. Maggie grimaced, then slunk over to Vanessa’s mother. “We didn’t want any break in the party planning for Van’s bachelorette party, so I’ve been going over some details with JJ myself. I’ll let him fill you in on the décor—” Tookie hit that last word hard, obviously proud that she could fit it into a conversation—“but I did want to let you know that we’ve
decided to save Van’s baby shower until after she gives birth. So you don’t have to worry about that this week.”

Baby shower?! What the . . .
Maggie took a deep breath to prevent herself from screaming. “Actually, I don’t have to worry about it at all. Maid of honor duties end when the wedding’s over. They don’t throw baby showers, too.”

“Maybe not, but best friends do,” Tookie retorted.

“Well, when you find Vanessa’s, wish her good luck for me,” Maggie, who’d had it with the pushy woman, shot back.

Tookie chuckled. “Magnolia, I love your cheeky sense of humor.” She ripped the top page off her pad and handed it to JJ. “Here. My airboat’s getting inspected first thing, so I gotta get up early. You and Maggie can go over the list and make sure we’re good to go.”

With that, she bounced off her barstool and strode out the door. Maggie sighed. She motioned to the piece of paper Tookie had deposited with JJ. “Hit me with what I have to do, JJ.”

“Let’s start here,” JJ said. He crumpled up the list, dropped it in a bucket, and put a match to it. He and Maggie watched with great satisfaction as the paper burned. “They get purple-and-gold balloons because I happen to have a bunch left from the LSU-Ole Miss game. And that’s it. I must say, I find Miss Vanessa’s LSU obsession hilarious. I’m not sure she even finished high school.”

“Yeah, that’s not something I’d put money on.” Maggie’s head was starting to pound. “I need a big glass of water to chase the whiskey.”

“Smart choice. You got it.”

JJ filled a tanker mug with water and passed it to Maggie. She drank slowly. There was something soothing about the cool, flavorless liquid. “JJ, I’m getting nowhere with finding out who killed Ginger. Maybe it’s time to pass the search on to someone else. Like Helene Brevelle.”

JJ shook his head. “No voodoo needed. I have total faith in you. But you need to clear your mind, just wipe it clean like it’s a blackboard. Then fill that board with everything you remember about Ginger—everything she said, every move she made. You’ll get to where you need to go.”

“You’re right.” Maggie pointed to her head. “I’ve got too much clutter up here. It’s time for a little mental housecleaning.” She drained her glass and set it on the table, along with cash to cover her tab. Then she reached over the bar and hugged JJ. “Thanks. You’re a great friend.”

JJ returned the hug. “With you, it’s a pleasure. With others”—he motioned to the door that Tookie had marched out of—“it’s my job. And a
hard
one at that.”

As soon as Maggie got home, she parked in her family’s gravel lot and practically ran into the shotgun house. She threw herself on her bed and closed her eyes. She pictured the mix of thoughts and feelings in her mind—concern about Bo and Whitney’s relationship, confusion about murder suspects, frustration with the always-frustrating Fleers—as words on an old-fashioned blackboard. Then she visualized erasing every word until the blackboard was black and empty. She focused on her rhythmic breathing, and a feeling of calm soon enveloped her. Maggie let her mind drift, but every time it wandered over to something that might
trouble her, she erased the thought. Instead, she focused on Ginger. She relived her every interaction with the woman and followed every step she’d seen her take. And finally her mind landed on a potential clue. She grabbed her phone and tapped out a text to her friends.

*

Daybreak found an energized Maggie gathered with her Yes We PeliCAN! fundraiser walking team in the Crozat parking lot. They’d all responded yes, albeit reluctantly, to her text asking for an early morning rendezvous. Gaynell and Ninette didn’t bother to cover their yawns, while Ione drank coffee from a Big Gulp–sized travel mug. “I’m gonna have to power up for this power walk,” Ione grumbled as she took a hearty swig. She chomped on a croissant from a box of French pastries that Lia had brought.

“Maggie, sweetie, I appreciate your enthusiasm for the walkathon, but we really don’t have to train at dawn,” her mother said.

“Today’s less about training and more about following a trail,” Maggie said. The others forgot their weariness and looked at her with interest. “I wanted to do it as early as possible, before anyone could see where we’re going.”

“Then what are we standing around for?” Ione put her travel mug on the hood of her car. “Let’s make tracks.”

Maggie led the women down the country road that ran alongside the B and B. But instead of going straight, she made a left and followed Ginger’s jogging route down the old, overgrown dirt road. The foliage had grown thick
from lack of attention, and the women batted away cobwebs and dodged low-hanging branches. “Where exactly are we going?” Gaynell asked, nursing a scratch on her arm from a branch that she’d missed.

“This leads to the Callette family’s old lodge,” Ninette said. “But that was abandoned years ago. Why would Ginger want to go there?”

No one had an answer, so the women continued on in silence. The road disintegrated into a path as foliage closed in on it. Some trees had lost their leaves, but the shrubs and pines hadn’t, so very little sun made its way through the forest’s canopy. The air was warm and musty, but every so often the group would find themselves walking through an inexplicably cold spot. “Am I the only one who finds this creepy?” Lia asked, gazing around nervously, shivering as she walked.

“No,” Gaynell and Ione chorused. Maggie didn’t disagree. It
was
creepy, and she prayed that she hadn’t assembled the group at dawn’s early light for nothing. They trekked on a few more yards and then Maggie stopped.

“Whoa,” she exclaimed.

“What, what?!” Gaynell cried as she clutched Ione’s arm. Ione clutched her back.

“This,” Maggie said, gesturing at the sight in front of them. A handful of decaying wooden cabins formed a horseshoe around a weedy green. At the head of the horseshoe stood what was left of a two-story building that had once been a lodge. Its wood siding was a faded, peeling red. Half of a second-story balcony still remained; the other half, and
the building with it, had collapsed into rubble. Still, it managed to convey a bit of grandeur that the rudimentary cabins lacked. The ground around all the buildings was littered with the shattered glass of their windows.

“What
is
this?” Ione asked.

“There was a family called the Callettes; sometime in the twenties, they built this as a kind of rustic resort,” Ninette said. “They thought it would be a good summer escape for people from New Orleans, but then the Depression happened and the place foundered. It’s been closed for seventy or more years. I had no idea any of it was still standing.”

“I remember some big kids bringing me here when I was really little,” Maggie said. “It scared me so much that I ran home and never came back. I put it out of my mind until I saw Ginger make her turn onto the old road.”

Ninette nodded. “Kids used to play here, but after a few broke legs or arms by jumping from a roof or tripping on something, the ‘No Trespassing’ signs got posted and everyone pretty much forgot about the place.”

“It’s a good piece of property,” Ione said as she sized the place up. “There’s already plumbing and electricity. I’m surprised it hasn’t been developed.”

Maggie walked along the rutted path that ran in front of the cottages, careful to avoid the shards of glass. She noticed a scrap of paper staple-gunned to a wall of a cabin and looked down at the ground below it. A flyer lay there, wet and wrinkled by the dew. She picked it up and showed the others. “The parish took over the property. The auction was just last week—when Ginger came to town. She was
interested in getting into real estate. I think the real reason she came to Pelican wasn’t to attend Vanessa’s wedding festivities. It was to check out this property.”

It was Ninette’s turn to shiver. “I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m chilly and a bit spooked right now.”

“I’m sorry,” Maggie said. “Let’s go back.”

Relieved, Ninette and the others reversed course back to the plantation. But Maggie lingered a moment, staring at the encampment enshrouded by decades of nature reclaiming its turf. Her instincts had awakened, and the message they sent was that the secret to Ginger’s death lay somewhere in the weeds and history of the Callettes’ abandoned lodge.

The women made small talk as they strode back to Crozat—all except Maggie, who kept silent as she mulled over the link between Ginger and the land auction. When they reached the manor, the women said their good-byes and went their separate ways. Maggie took a quick shower and threw on a pair of jeans. She was way behind on her laundry, so the only shirt she could dig up was a bedazzled tee that read “Good Girls Go to Church, Bad Girls Go to Mardi Gras,” which Gran’ had given to her as a joke birthday present. She was eager to research the Callette property at the Pelican Hall of Records, a grandiose name for a couple of rooms behind the town’s senior center. She called to find out when it opened, and a recording told her that it wouldn’t be for a few hours. She scrambled some eggs, made a cup of tea, and sat down at the kitchen table with a notepad.

Gran’ came out of her bedroom, clipping on a pair of gold knot earrings as she strolled into the kitchen. She was dressed in a navy linen pantsuit and a pale-blue silk blouse with a bow at the neck. “You look nice,” Maggie told her. “Are you wearing your sorority colors?”

Gran’ modeled her outfit. “The blue-and-blue, the golden key, the fleur-de-lis, all that’s for me,” she sang. “Rah rah for KKG!” She finished with a flourish. “Yes, I’m meeting a few of my remaining Kappa girlfriends for brunch at Commander’s Palace. Stevens is being very noble and driving me down to New Orleans. He’ll wait for me at the bar and then we’re going to walk the Quarter.”

“Really?”

“Don’t grin at me like that. We’re just a couple of old folks keeping company. Oh my goodness, you’re going out in public in that T-shirt?”

Maggie accepted her grandmother’s obvious change of subject. “I need to do laundry. Gran’, do you know anything about that those abandoned cabins in the woods?”

“You mean the old Callette property? That’s been returning to dust for years.”

“What do you know about the family?”

“About as much as anyone around here, which isn’t much. I remember the last two Callettes, a brother and sister. They only spoke French and walked around in their slippers. That is, when they left their home, which was rare. They were recluses. Neither ever married, and they died within a day of each other, both in their nineties. There wasn’t a will, so their house, which was on the outskirts of town, sat empty
until the parish eventually laid claim to it. The place was a wreck, so they tore it down and now use the land to store service equipment.”

Maggie thought for a moment. “Is there any chance Ginger Fleer was related to them?”

Gran’ shook her head no with vigor. “Absolutely not. She was American, not Cajun, on both sides. The Fleers came to this part of the country from Kentucky, and only about fifty years ago. She’s an Abbott on her mother’s side; they came over from North Carolina sometime after the Civil War.”

“You know everything about everyone, don’t you?” Maggie gave her grandmother an affectionate grin.

Gran’ shrugged. “It’s a small town, so there’s not a whole lot else to do besides poke around other people’s business. That’s why I love the Internet so much. Lets me poke around the whole world’s business.”

There was a “shave and a haircut, two bits” knock at the door. “That’s my ride,” Gran’ said. She picked up her purse and kissed her granddaughter on the top of her head. “Stay safe, dearest. Poking too far into people’s business can be dangerous.”

“I’ll be careful. And I won’t tell anyone that you bought this shirt for me.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

Gran’ left, and Maggie returned to her notepad. She jotted down a list of things to look for in the town records. Were there any surviving Callette heirs? Who owned the property now? What was its value? She checked the clock on the microwave and saw that the Hall of Records would
open in fifteen minutes, so she grabbed her wallet and car keys. She was about to head out when there was a persistent rapping on the door.

“Maggie! Hey! It’s Van. Me and Ru are here for our session.”

Maggie groaned. She’d completely forgotten that she’d scheduled the couple for what she prayed would be their last sitting. “Right. I’ll meet you at the studio.”

“Bring coffee so’s I can stay awake this time,” Rufus ordered through the door. Maggie heard them tromp off, then gritted her teeth and went back into the kitchen where the remnants of a pot of coffee sat moldering. She heated it up in the microwave, took a couple of mugs, and slowly made her way from the shotgun to her studio.

*

Maggie endured a very long hour of Vanessa and Rufus alternating between flirting and fighting. “Time’s up,” she told the couple at the hour’s blessed end and then put down her brush. She stepped back to examine the portrait. It was a miracle—somehow she’d created a balance of flattering and realistic. Vanessa or Ru would find something to complain about, but Maggie didn’t care. She was proud of her work.

“I guess that’s as good as it’s gonna get,” Rufus said as he peered at the painting over her shoulder.

Vanessa was even less enthusiastic. “It doesn’t have enough SA. You know—sex appeal.”

“It’s a portrait, not a boudoir photo,” Maggie responded.

“We already got plenty of those, don’t we, babe?” Ru said, nudging his wife-to-be in the ribs. He leered, Vanessa simpered, and Maggie suppressed the urge to take a hand to each of their throats.

“Alrighty, time to book,” Ru said. “I need to get some decent coffee. No offense, but yours stinks.”

“You’re welcome,” Maggie said dryly. Her sarcasm sailed by Rufus. “By the way, have you heard anything new about Ginger’s case?”

“I could be asking you the same question,” Vanessa said, wagging a finger at Maggie. “I expected more from you, Maggie.”

“Are you serious?” Maggie yelped. “Vanessa, I couldn’t give you more if I opened a vein.”

Vanessa dismissed her with a wave of a hand. “It’s probably Fox anyway. It’s always the husband.”

“He had a big-ass insurance policy on her, that’s for sure,” Ru said. “Cal told me.”

This was a new development. “Was it unusually high?” Maggie asked.

“Maybe, maybe not. About a million. But what is unusual is that he upped it from five hundred grand just a few months ago, about when Ginger decided to expand her business to Baton Rouge. Could be that he had a lot of faith in his wife’s talent. Or could be that he had his own business plan, which included offing her.”

Ru walked out the door and Vanessa followed. “Byeee!” she called back to Maggie. “I’m putting together a spreadsheet for my baby shower. I’ll e-mail it to you later.”

“No!” Maggie exclaimed as the door slammed shut behind Van. Her cell phone rang and she answered it without ID’ing the caller. “What?” she snapped.

“Well, hello to you, too,” Gran’ responded. “I called to ask if you would make sure our fur-babies have fresh water before you go out, but it sounds like you’re ready to chew nails and spit spikes.”

“Oh, I am.” Maggie railed about Vanessa’s latest unreasonable expectation. “I’ve had it with that woman. I’m telling her she can find another maid of honor, because I am done, finished, finito.”

“Well now, you made a promise, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but—”

“And do we Crozats ever renege on our promises simply because they no longer suit us?”

“No, but—”

“Would you like to be the first Crozat to break with that storied tradition?”

Maggie paused. “No,” she said.

“Then you’ll just have to accept you made a commitment and see it through, chère. Don’t forget about the fresh water.”

Gran’ ended the call. Maggie groaned and sank into an old club chair that she’d pulled from the attic and placed in the studio. Then she pulled herself to her feet, picked up Ru’s coffee cup, and took it to the sink for a wash. She got some satisfaction from serving him vile coffee but needed a way to channel the vitriol she still felt toward Vanessa.

She dried the mug, pulled out a large pad and black charcoal pencil, and started drawing. Five minutes later, she
sat back and admired what she had produced—a spot-on caricature of a hugely pregnant Vanessa in a horned headdress on an opera stage singing, “Me, me, me, me, me, me, me.” It was ridiculous and nonsensical and made Maggie feel much better.

She put the pad away and locked up the studio. She’d freshen Brooke and Jolie’s water and then pay the Hall of Records a visit. And after that, she’d delve into the questionable insurance policy Fox had taken out on his wife.

*

“Magnolia Marie Crozat, what a treat to see you!”

Village Clerk Eula Banks beamed at Maggie. Given the isolated location of the H of R, as some in Pelican called the place, Maggie had a feeling that it would be a treat for Eula to see anyone. “It’s very nice to see you too, Mrs. Banks,” she responded politely. The niceties were followed by ten minutes of grandbaby stories and photos. Maggie nodded and voiced a few “awws” when appropriate; she suppressed an acerbic response when Eula tsk-tsked over Maggie’s still-single status, reminding herself that Mrs. Banks was in her late sixties and thus from a different generation.

“So what brings you to the H of R?” Eula finally said.

“I heard the old Callette property went up for auction last week,” Maggie said. “I’m interested in learning what happened to it.”

“Really.” Eula eyes brightened. She’d picked up the scent of new gossip. “Is the Crozat family thinking of expanding
its operation? I’ve always said y’all should think about adding a spa. New Orleans folks’d lap that up.”

“Shhh,” Maggie cautioned, putting a finger to her lips. The last thing she needed was Eula bringing attention to her interest in the Callettes’ land. “We don’t want anyone to know we’re even thinking about that.”

“Of course,” Eula said. She pretended to zip her lips. “But I’m afraid you’re out of luck on that particular parcel. It sold.”

“Oh.” Maggie feigned disappointment. “Any chance I can look up the sale? I’d like to know who our new neighbors might be.”

“That information is public record, so that’s not a problem. We’re doing everything on the computer now, so I can open a file and set you up at the computer.” Eula gestured for Maggie to follow her to an old computer that sat on what looked like a discarded school desk. “The independent auditor that Mayor Beaufils hired to go through old town records found unclaimed properties like the Callettes all over the place. Fortunately, the mayor isn’t one of those development-crazy types who’d sell his mama’s house from under her if he thought it’d fill our coffers. But he did see how that particular piece had potential since it already has lines for utilities.” Eula reached down for the reading glasses that dangled around her neck on an old-fashioned chain and then parked them on the bridge of her nose. “Let me call up that file.” She chuckled. “Listen to me, I sound like one of those Silicone Valley smarty-pants.”

“You sure do,” Maggie said, not wanting to hurt the woman’s feelings by pointing out that it was actually Sili
con
Valley.

Eula tapped a few keys. “Got it. There you go. If you need anything else, just let me know.”

The clerk returned to her station, and Maggie perused the dense document on the screen in front of her. It was a real estate sales contract between the representatives of Pelican and a limited liability corporation with the innocuous name of Sunset LLC. She paged through the hefty document until she found how much the property had sold for: $125,000, which seemed perfectly reasonable. Hoping to learn more about the LLC, she entered a search for it, but nothing came up. It seemed to be a company created solely for the purpose of acquiring this particular piece of property.

“Mrs. Banks, would it be okay if I made a copy of this? I’ll pay for it.”

“Of course, honey. But don’t worry about paying for it. It’s not like anyone’s counting the paper we use.” Mrs. Banks winked at her.

Maggie thanked her and sent the document to a wheezy old printer that seemed close to expiring with each piece of paper it slowly spit out. As she waited for the print job to end, she endured ten minutes of Mrs. Banks running through a list of potential mates for her, including the woman’s own son, Wiley, who Maggie knew had just moved into a French Quarter apartment with his boyfriend. When the print job finally completed, she grabbed it, said her good-byes, and fled the H of R.

As Maggie walked back to her car, she put in a call to Bo and shared what she’d learned about the sale of the property to Sunset LLC. “I didn’t find anything particularly suspicious, but I just don’t have a good feeling about it,” she said.

“That’s the basis of a lot of detective work,” Bo said. “Feelings and hunches. I’ll see if I can find out anything else. Perske has me on desk duty, which is a bore but a good cover for some computer snooping. By the way, Johnny checked out Fox Starke’s phone and credit card statements but didn’t find anything to indicate where he was the night before Ginger was murdered. No motel charges, no gas charges . . . nothing to incriminate or exonerate him.”

“Where was he that night?” Maggie wondered. She reached her car and got inside. “Maybe he got tired on the drive back to Houston and pulled off the road to sleep somewhere.”

“Could be. I wish we could find something that could cement him as a suspect. Perske tried to find a way to hold Chret Bernard and couldn’t come up with anything, so we let him go. But the chief’s on a mission to find any evidence he can to bring a murder charge against the kid.”

“Oh, that’s not good. I still have trouble seeing Chret doing something this cold-blooded.”

“Unfortunately for Chret, the chief doesn’t have the same problem. I better go. I have to try and find a limo for Ru’s bachelor party tonight. He’s assuming we’ll all be too drunk to drive home. He’s probably right. I know I’ll have to knock back a few just to get through it.”

Maggie smiled. “You won’t get any sympathy from me. All you had to do was book a car and a table at a strip club. You wouldn’t believe what Van’s put me through. And at the last minute, she decided to make the party co-ed, which pretty much doubles the guest list. Whoever heard of a co-ed bachelorette party? Isn’t that an oxymoron?”