“You’re Undine Bourgeois’s granddaughter, aren’t you?” Gran’ said as she scrutinized Gaynell. “You’re even prettier than your grandmama. I want you to know that she and
her
mama always carried themselves with an innate grace. You can be proud of your ancestors.” Since Gaynell’s ancestors were fisherman and farmers, not plantation owners, this put them on a low rung of Pelican’s dated but still very much alive social ladder.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Gaynell said, more politely than she needed to, thought Maggie, who, much as she loved Gran’, found the compliment condescending. She hated to admit it, but Gaynell was right. Even in the twenty-first century, it was hard to escape from the class system that had ruled Louisiana for so long.
“Look who’s home.”
Tug walked into the kitchen, followed by Ninette, who was instantly enveloped in a hug by her daughter. “Mom, we were so worried about you.”
“I’m fine.” Ninette kissed Maggie on her cheek. “I have to say, though, being in the hospital was a bit of a vacation. Lots of sleep, meals delivered, press a button and someone’s there to look after you. It’s like a resort.”
“Mama, if being in a hospital felt like a resort, we need to get you on a real vacation.”
“Someday, honey. For now, I’m gonna wash up and make lunch.”
Maggie and Tug protested, but Ninette waved her hand in the air to dismiss them. “None of this treating me like an invalid. Putting together a meal is all the medicine I need.”
Ninette went off to the restroom and Maggie addressed her father. “Did the doctors run the tests?”
Tug nodded. “Yes, but we won’t have the results for a couple of days.” He sat down and Maggie registered how drawn he looked. “One thing that did concern them . . . her white cell count is up.”
Maggie laid a hand on her dad’s shoulder. She couldn’t find the words to respond.
Ninette returned, and everyone put on a good face. Maggie introduced her parents to Gaynell, and Gran’ talked Tug into fixing a pitcher of Milk Punch. “It’s got dairy, and the brandy kills germs,” she said. “So it’s really a health drink.”
“Sold,” Maggie joked. “Dad, pour me a tall one.”
“Lunch is ready,” Ninette announced. Before they could sit down to eat, Carrie Ryker appeared.
“Sorry to bother you, but might we get a bag of ice? Lachlan turned his ankle at the preserve and I’d like to treat it.”
“I’m on it.” Tug filled a bag with ice and handed it to her.
“Perils of treasure hunting, huh?” It came out before Maggie could stop herself.
Carrie gave her a funny look. “We weren’t treasure hunting. Lachlan fell getting out of the swamp tour boat.”
“Of course,” Maggie said quickly, silently cursing her big mouth. “I don’t know where that came from.”
As soon as Carrie left, the others began eating. They all enjoyed the quiche that Ninette whipped up and served with a side salad of pears, pecans, homegrown lettuce, and a tangy balsamic dressing. The group finished their meal, and Gaynell left with a small bag of Chulanes pressed upon her by Tug.
“Those are rum and pecan,” he said. “Watch out, they got a bit of a kick.”
“I owe you for today,” Maggie told her friend as the two walked to Gaynell’s car.
“No you don’t,” Gaynell. “It was fun. Well, as fun as trying to prevent a man from being wrongfully accused of murder can be.”
“I’ll let you know the minute I hear anything from Lia.”
“That would be great,” Gaynell said. She got into her Mini Cooper and began backing out of the gravel lot. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Suddenly there was a loud scream, a woman’s scream. Gaynell braked hard and threw her car into park. “What was
that
?”
“I don’t know,” Maggie said. The scream came again and didn’t stop. Maggie took off running toward the sound of it, which came from the parterre. Gaynell jumped out of the car and ran behind her. Maggie reached the parterre at the same time as Tug and Ninette. They all found Emily Butler standing over what appeared to be a bundle of clothes, screaming her head off. Maggie grabbed the girl by the shoulders. “Emily, what is it, what’s wrong?”
Emily didn’t form words. She just continued to scream as she pointed to the bundle in front of her.
It was then that Maggie realized the bundle was a very dead Debbie Stern.
What followed the discovery of Debbie’s body felt unpleasantly familiar to Maggie: the 911 call, the scream of sirens, Pelican PD descending on Crozat. Once again, the coroner’s van carted away a body. Once again, an evidence van decorated the front lawn. And once again, Rufus Durand couldn’t keep himself from pointing out the tragedy’s potential negative impact on Crozat’s fortunes.
Only this time, there was Bo Durand.
Maggie knew that Bo’s loyalty to his profession came first, but she finally trusted that he’d be about as fair as she could expect from any PPD law enforcement official. She even let herself hope that he’d be more than fair, that he’d show her family some clandestine partiality.
Bo screeched up to the plantation, the light flashing on top of his unmarked sedan. He walked over to where officers had
sealed off the crime scene and was about to say something to Maggie but saw Ru and decided against it. She made eye contact with Bo, and his brow furrowed as if to ask, “Are you okay?” Maggie gave a tiny shrug that he acknowledged with an equally easy-to-miss sympathetic head nod. Then he conferred with the officers, instructed the crime scene investigators, and huddled with Ru, sending the message that whatever had transpired in the past, he was now the consummate team player.
“Everyone who’s here is waiting for you in the parlor ’cept for the kids,” Rufus told Bo.
“Cause of death?”
“Strangulation.”
“Weapon?”
“From the size of the marks, the best guess of our guys is some piece of fabric with a little width to it.”
Bo took this in and then started toward the house. Maggie and Gaynell followed. “I can’t believe we’re going through this again,” Maggie said. “Ugh, that sounded really callous. Poor Debbie.”
“Fill me in on how the body was discovered.”
Maggie gave Bo details of how she and Gaynell heard Emily screaming and, in rushing to her aid, discovered Debbie. Then something dawned on her. “Kyle wasn’t here. He couldn’t have murdered her. So that proves he’s innocent.”
“That proves he’s innocent regarding
Debbie’s
death.”
“Are you telling us that you don’t think Beverly and Debbie’s deaths are connected?” Gaynell asked, her tone skeptical.
“At this point, there’s no evidence to support that. Much as I hate to say it, because I do like the guy, there is evidence to
support a claim that Kyle held a grudge that could have led to him taking revenge on Beverly. And Maggie herself handed over the evidence that could implicate Jan Robbins, if she knew about Debbie’s plot to oust her.”
Maggie groaned. In trying to help nail a murder suspect, she had inadvertently put another nail in Kyle’s potential coffin, and the first one in Jan’s. She was starting to feel like living proof of the old adage “No good deed goes unpunished.”
“You haven’t talked to Lia, have you?” Bo asked her after a moment of silence as they walked.
“No. Why?” Maggie felt a knot of dread in her stomach.
“The judge denied bail.”
“What? Oh, no. I swear, I can’t stand it anymore. When will this end?”
Bo instinctively reached out to comfort Maggie and then just as quickly pulled away. When they reached the Crozat front parlor, they found Artie keeping an eye on Tug, Ninette, Gran’, and the B and B’s guests. As soon as Bo, Maggie, and Gaynell entered, the guests converged on Bo.
“What the hell’s going on here?”
“You’re not gonna hold us again, are you? We’ve got classes in a couple of days, man.”
“Is there a serial killer on the loose?”
“For God’s sake, a woman is dead,” Jan yelled at the others. Maggie could see that she, as well as the other Cuties, had been crying. “Get over yourselves and show her some respect. She was a good person.”
“A very good person,” Angela parroted while Suzy nodded vigorously in agreement. Maggie knew otherwise. She felt sorry
for Jan, who was in for a shock as great as the one of her supposed friend’s death—that is, if Jan herself wasn’t the murderer and faking her grief.
Or was it “murderess” if the killer was a woman?
Maggie wondered but then forced herself to focus.
“You’ll be free to go as soon as we verify contact information and conduct a thorough search of the area,” Bo told the guests. “Right now, I need to interview you individually, like I did when Mrs. Clabber expired. And to answer another question, no, I don’t believe that there’s a serial killer targeting Crozat.”
“We can’t apologize enough to all of you for what’s happened here,” Tug told the group in somber tones. “We’ll make calls and see if any of the nearby B and Bs or inns or motels have rooms available. It may be tough since people who came for Fet Let tend to stick around for a couple of the other local end-of-summer festivals in the area this week. But if we can’t find accommodations and you choose to continue your stay with us, we will comp you again.”
“Comp” is officially my least-favorite word,
Maggie thought. She clutched Ninette’s hand and sneaked a look to see how this new disaster was affecting her mother. Ninette seemed stoic. The hospital visit appeared to have done her so much good that Maggie pondered a stay there herself.
She turned her attention back to the conversation. “We’re going to post a twenty-four-hour guard to ensure your safety,” Bo was saying.
“I’d like to volunteer for the first shift, sir,” Artie said, mindful that a Crozat dinner would soon be placed on the table.
“Great, we get Officer Hollow Leg,” Maggie muttered to her father, who put his fingers to his lips to shush her.
“I’m going to ask you to wait on the veranda while I conduct my interviews,” Bo told everyone. “Please don’t talk about Ms. Stern. I don’t want you coloring each other’s recollections. Artie, stay with them.”
“Yessir.”
Artie led everyone out except Maggie. “Do you need me to do anything?” she asked Bo.
“Yes. I’m going to interview the Cuties simultaneously. I don’t want to give them a chance to communicate among themselves. I could use another pair of eyes to check out their instant reactions to the news about Debbie’s planned coup. For all we know, one of them might have been in on it with her. Or found out and killed her to protect Jan.”
“Rufus won’t be happy if he sees me in here with you.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll take that chance. It beats whatever lackey of his he’d send in to ‘help’ me. Plus, you know these women better than any of us, so you’re more likely to pick up on anything unusual.”
Bo stepped outside to confer with Artie, who showed Jan, Suzy, and Angela back into the room. The women sat as a unit on the parlor’s high-backed couch. Their faces were streaked with tears. Maggie studied them for any signs that they might be faking their grief but saw none. As they all sat in silence waiting for Bo to return, she used the quiet to connect with her sixth sense and see if it told a different story. It didn’t. Maggie felt in her bones that the women were truly distraught.
Bo came back in the room and positioned himself in a chair opposite the Cuties. “Tell me everything you know about Debbie Stern,” Bo began.
Angela and Suzy let Jan do the talking. Jan filled him in on Debbie’s business triumph, loss, and subsequent breakdown.
“Thank you. Did you know she had created a business plan to oust Jan from the Cajun Cutie presidency, take over the organization, and turn it into a profit-making venture?”
All three mouths dropped open at the same time as if choreographed. Maggie scanned each face carefully and saw no signs of artifice. She would put money on the fact that Jan, Angela, and Suzy were genuinely stunned.
“Impossible,” Angela declared. “Debbie never would have done that.”
“I’m afraid that we have proof,” Bo said.
“I was Debbie’s best friend,” Jan said. “She wouldn’t have done that to me. Whatever you have is fake.”
“I’m afraid it’s not.”
Maggie noticed that Jan had started shivering. “But-but-but-but—” she stammered as she searched for a way to rebut Bo’s statement.
“We have proof,” Bo repeated, his tone kind but adamant.
“I swear to God, if Debbie wasn’t already dead, I’d kill her,” Suzy spat out.
Bo was about to caution her when Cal Vichet opened the door and stuck his head in.
“Sir, we need you,” he told Bo.
“I’m requesting that you not to speak to each other while I’m gone.” With that, Bo followed Cal out the door.
*
The next few minutes felt interminable as Maggie waited with the Cuties. Brought together by a common love and now devastated by a betrayal, each woman seemed to be in her own world. Maggie could tell they were trying to process Debbie’s duplicity and felt for them, but she was relieved when Bo returned. Cal was right behind him, holding something in a plastic bag. Bo motioned toward Cal, who showed the bag to the women. Maggie saw that it contained a purple ombré scarf.
“Do any of you recognize this?” he asked them.
“It’s mine,” Jan said. “I’ve been looking for it. It went missing a couple of days ago. Where did you find it?”
“Stuffed under a bush near the victim,” Bo said. “Ms. Slansky and DiPietro, you’re free to go right now, but know that I may call you in again for questioning.” He faced Jan. “Ms. Robbins, I’m going to need you to come to the station with me.”
The three women exchanged terrified glances.
“Am—am I being arrested?” Jan asked. Maggie noticed that her shivering had intensified and felt terrible for the woman.
“No, ma’am,” Bo said. “At least not until we get back DNA results on this scarf and see if they’re a match for Debbie Stern.”
As Bo and Cal Vichet led Jan out to Bo’s car for further questioning at the police station, they were followed by Angela and Suzy, who was issuing a stream of profanity that brought a flush to Cal’s weather-beaten face. “I haven’t heard language like that since my unit was bombed in Iraq,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief.
Gaynell left after making Maggie swear to let her know if she needed any help. Maggie, who’d promised to contact Quentin MacIlhoney on Jan’s behalf, called the lawyer, but his assistant said he was unavailable due to the fact he was shooting an episode of
For Crime’s Sake,
a local show that pitted an ex-DA against a defense attorney as they argued about a Louisiana murder cold case. Maggie stressed the urgency of the situation and extracted a promise of a return call as soon as taping
finished. Then she made the rounds of Crozat’s guests—at least the ones that weren’t in police custody or murdered.
Shane Butler whispered to her that he’d given Emily a sleeping pill to help her get through the trauma of discovering Debbie. The Georgia boys were celebrating the capture of the “Crozat Killer,” as they dubbed Jan, by heading back to LSU for a party that they found via social media. The Rykers told Maggie not to worry about them for dinner but didn’t share their plans. She blamed herself for their sudden reticence and deeply regretted her crack about treasure hunting.
Maggie went to the front parlor, where she found her father ending a phone call. He looked grim. “That was the
New York Times
.”
“Seriously?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Any chance they wanted Mom’s recipe for Crawfish Crozat?”
Tug shook his head. “Nope. Apparently you can get away with one old geezer being offed at a B and B, but when a successful Manhattan businesswoman is ‘murdered by her best friend,’ that’s news. In print and online. I’ve hung up on a couple of Internet bottom feeders this morning.”
“How did they find out so fast?”
“I think we can thank the Georgia boys’ social media accounts for that.”
Maggie groaned and then massaged her temples as she contemplated how to do damage control. “There is a bright side. Print media is dying. And you know how voracious the Internet
is. Stories have a short shelf life. Since the police think they caught Debbie’s killer, this should blow over pretty quickly.” Of course, as she well knew, it would pop up whenever anyone did an Internet search for “Crozat Plantation.” But she chose not to burden her father with this ugly reality.
“The question is, will Crozat still be standing when it does blow over?” Tug asked. “We’ve already had four cancellations for Labor Day weekend. We’re always full then. This is bad, Maggie.” Maggie gave Tug a comforting hug. Her father held on to her for a minute and then pulled away. “Please, honey, let’s keep this a secret between you and me. Your mom certainly doesn’t need to know.”
“Of course, Dad.”
Tug went back to work, and Maggie walked out onto the veranda to think. She stared out at the grassy levee that separated Crozat from the mercurial Mississippi. The river, like a hungry python, had swallowed plantations whole over the centuries. Yet it always spared Crozat, and she couldn’t stand the thought that her family home, having survived many a natural disaster, might be brought down by a human one.
She glanced back at the parlor, where her father was hunched over his computer keyboard. Was it her imagination, or had his copper hair dulled? Were there more lines on his face and darker shadows under his eyes? She scrunched her eyes to fight off tears. There wasn’t a day in her life when Tug and Ninette hadn’t offered love and support in a crisis, no matter how trivial. When mean girls in Maggie’s fifth-grade class anointed themselves “the Fashion Police” and made fun of her quirky outfit choices, Tug made sure that the school principal
ended the group’s sartorial reign of terror. When Maggie threw a childish tantrum at seventeen because she got a bad haircut, Ninette made her feel better by showing how the cut could be fixed by simply flipping her part to the left.
As she watched her dad deal with the fallout brought on by the Crozat Killer—whoever he or she was—Maggie realized she’d reached that moment in a child’s relationship with their parents where the balance shifts. Instead of getting support, it was time to give it. She was going to make things better for her mom and dad.
She just had to figure out how.
Maggie walked toward the shotgun and passed the area where PPD CSI was still dissecting the crime scene, although with much less attention to detail now that the potentially incriminating scarf had been discovered. As soon as she got home, she sat on the couch with her tablet and typed in a search for “Crozat Plantation B and B.” Page one was nothing but links to e-bites about the murders, as were pages two through five. It wasn’t until page six that customer reviews from a travel website appeared—glowing reviews now usurped by the notoriety of recent events. Maggie mulled over something an old roommate, Kristie, once told her. Kristie had been an entry-level executive at a large public relations firm and, as low girl on the corporate totem pole, often found herself assigned the most heinous clients. “But,” she said to Maggie one day as she was in the middle of turning a starlet’s drug habit into a story of rehab redemption, “I always stick to the basic rule of PR: if you don’t like what people are saying about your client, change the conversation.” Maggie wished she could call on Kristie to help
her out with Crozat, but Kristie’s success at changing conversations had led her to an executive vice president position at her firm’s LA office, and the last time Maggie had seen her was on television as she led an Oscar-nominated client down the red carpet prior to the Academy Awards.
Maggie lay back on the couch and closed her eyes, trying to think how she could change the current salacious conversation about Crozat into one that would staunch its financial bleeding. She was jolted out of her thoughts by her cell phone’s ring. Maggie checked and saw Gaynell was the caller.
“How fast can you get here?” Gaynell asked.
“Huh?”
“You’re on for the night tour, remember? The group off the riverboat cruise? They’re docking in fifteen minutes. I tried to find a sub for you, but no one else was free.”
Maggie jumped up. “Gay, I am so sorry. I totally forgot.”
“I know you had a day that was a gift from the devil, but if I have to spend two hours working this group with only Vanessa, I will volunteer to be Crozat’s next victim.”
“I’m on my way.” Maggie texted her parents to let them know that she was due at Doucet and then grabbed her purse and car keys. She ran to the Falcon, jumped in, and headed for Doucet.
*
As she drove, she found herself replaying her conversation with Tug. Something about it sparked memories of the Clabbers’ funeral. She had a sudden flash that there was a clue to the murders in an interaction she had that day, but hard
as she tried, she couldn’t pinpoint the moment. It remained elusive.
Maggie slowed down as she drove through the town speed trap. She saw that Pelican PD had pulled a van over—a news van from the Baton Rouge television station. Cal Vichet was castigating the unhappy driver while handing him ticket. As she drove by, Cal caught her eye and winked at her. She smiled back. Pelicaners had a history of protecting their own, and no news crew or reporter would find themselves welcome in town. Maggie just hoped that Cal’s boss Rufus Durand didn’t find out about the solid that the officer had done the Crozats.
Five minutes after she pulled into Doucet’s pebbled parking lot, Maggie was at the front door of the mansion in full dress, wig, and makeup, calling up her best Louisiana accent to welcome a group of thirty retired teachers from Ohio. She, Gaynell, and Vanessa each toured ten of them through the plantation, and since these visitors were educated and engaged, the evening wound up being a bit of a murder palate cleanser.
The evening tours for riverboat groups always ended with a champagne toast, and Maggie volunteered to lead it. “A toast to Doucet. May we appreciate its beauty while we learn from its history.”
There were a few
hear, hear
s, they all toasted, and then she, Gaynell, and Vanessa escorted the group back to the riverboat landing. The evening shadows transformed the women’s polyester gowns into the illusion of silk taffeta. They waved parade queen waves to the boat as it paddled off down the river and froze like statues so the tourists could snap a few last-minute
shots. For a moment, the Ohio retirees could pretend that they were in another century, one where women’s gracious manners made them beautiful, horrible injustices were ignored, and murders were the by-product of duels fought in the name of honor.
“I gotta pee like a racehorse,” Vanessa announced, breaking the mood. She hiked up her hoop skirt so she could race back to the staff lounge while Maggie and Gaynell strolled behind her.
Maggie filled Gaynell in on the latest developments regarding Debbie’s death as they walked into the lounge to change. Vanessa had a head start on them but was slowed down by the difficulty of trying to zip up jeans that were at least a size too small. “Ru called and told me about the
latest
murder,” Vanessa said. She sucked in her gut and gave the zipper one last yank. “Y’all keep going like this and the only way you’ll have visitors is if you try to sell Crozat as some kinda creepy haunted house.”
“You know, Van,” Maggie said, making sure to use a hated nickname, “unnaturally tight pants can create infertility in women as well as men.”
“You’re just mad ’cuz you know I’m right.” Vanessa touched up her face with so much makeup that Maggie wondered if she was heading over to Nudie’s Princess Palace to pole dance. “And ’cuz you don’t have a boyfriend.”
Maggie didn’t deign to respond. Unfortunately, it was because she knew Vanessa was right on at least one count. Crozat B and B was in big trouble. It was time for her to change the conversation. “Gay, any chance you could cover my shifts for the next couple of days?”
“Sure. I could use the money.”
“Thanks.”
“Wish I could help you,” Vanessa chimed in, “but it’s Ru and me’s two-month-aversary and I got to plan something special.”
“I appreciate the thought, Vanessa,” Maggie said, choosing the high road.
She finished changing and said good-night to her coworkers. As she walked to her car, she pulled out her cell and called Tug.
“Hey, honey,” he said. “What’s up?”
She lowered her voice. “If any of our guests take you up on the offer to find other accommodations, tell them you checked and nothing in the area is available. I need to buy some time.”
“To do what?” Tug asked, worried.
“As soon as our guests leave, it’ll be that much harder—maybe impossible—to find suspects besides Jan and Kyle. Don’t worry; I’m not going to do anything stupid or unsafe. I won’t be like one of those dumb cheerleaders in a horror movie who goes roaming around a house where there’s a killer on the loose. I’m just going to research some stuff.”
“Well, that couldn’t be vaguer,” Tug responded, his concerns not allayed. She didn’t respond. “All right, but be careful. And let me know if you need anything. Just me. We’re gonna keep your mom out of this.”
“Definitely.”
“More secrets, I’m afraid,” Tug sighed.
Maggie ended the call and got into her car. As she drove home, she concentrated on clues that would lead in the opposite direction of Kyle and Jan. Gaynell was still waiting to hear
from her brother about his negative experiences with the Pi Pis, but an Internet search might also yield some dirt. The Rykers clearly had something to hide. For the sake of their kids, Maggie hoped it wasn’t murder. And she couldn’t forget the ring and brochures she’d discovered under Beverly’s bed. It was time to give those another look and see if they sparked anything useful. She also realized that she’d never put the original brochures and the ring back in the Clabbers’ bedroom as she had planned. There was no time for that now; she’d give everything to Bo and just tell him that she’d found it all while cleaning the Clabbers’ room.
*
By the time she got home, Crozat was quiet and few lights were on. Guests and staff had retreated for the night, probably worn out by the day’s events. Maggie noted that Gran’s light was out too, so she tiptoed across the shotgun’s floor, eliciting only small squeaks from the centuries-old cypress boards. She retrieved the desk key from its hiding place in her bureau and went to her desk in the living room. She was about to unlock the desk drawer, but as she inserted the key, the drawer slid open. It was already unlocked.
Maggie paused, trying to recall when she last went into the drawer. Maybe she’d forgotten to lock it. But the memory she retrieved was a clear picture of placing the Clabber items under other documents, turning the key, and tugging at the drawer to make sure it was properly locked. In fact, she remembered locking all four drawers on the desk.
She checked them. Each was unlocked.
Her heart heavy with fear, she opened the drawer and pawed through its contents until she found the file marked “Receipts.” She was relieved to see the copies she’d made of the Clabbers’ brochures and Beverly’s ring. Then she dug to the bottom of the pile to find the originals. She saw nothing. Fear blossomed into panic as Maggie yanked out the drawer and dumped everything in it onto the floor. She went through the papers and loose ends over and over again. But the ring was gone, as well as the original brochures.
“My goodness, what is going on out here?” A sleepy Gran’ appeared in her bedroom doorway, her lace-trimmed cream nightgown gently billowing from the breeze of the ceiling fan above her. “I was afraid we had mice, or one of those giant flying palmetto bugs had found their way in. I still have the occasional nightmare from when I thought I heard someone in my room and turned on the light only to find one of those disgusting winged roaches wandering through my perfumes.”
“Gran’, have you been in this drawer? Did you take a ring and some brochures from it? It’s okay if you did; I just need to know.”