“Go out the way you came in,” Bo said. “I’ll pretend this didn’t happen. But if I ever catch you contaminating a crime scene again, I will instantly haul your ass to jail.”
Bo’s harsh words wiped out her dreamy reverie. She left without a word through the room’s French doors, glad that she hadn’t shared the envelope from the chest of drawers with him—or the gold-and-diamond ring that she’d found hidden under the bed between the mattress and the spring coils.
Later, back at the shotgun house, Maggie sat on her bed and pondered the brochures in her lap. After Bo booted her out of the Rose Room, she’d stepped onto the veranda and found Gran’ fast asleep.
So much for standing guard,
Maggie thought. She didn’t have the heart to wake her grandmother, so she returned home alone, put on a pair of gloves, and carefully opened the envelope she’d found in Beverly Clabber’s drawer.
Unfortunately, the only gloves available were Gran’s elbow-length black evening gloves, which were warm on a ninety-degrees-plus day. But the last thing Maggie needed was to be busted for tampering with evidence, so damp hands were a small price to pay if it meant she wouldn’t leave fingerprints on anything. Her plan was to make copies of both the envelope’s contents and the ring, and then replace everything once the Rose Room was reopened, trusting that the Shexnayders would uncover the items during one of their meticulous cleaning rounds and turn them over to the police.
The envelope contained two brochures. One was for McDonough Castle in Perthshire, Scotland, and the other was for a quasi castle—technically a “country home,” the brochure explained—in the Gloucestershire county of England. Both had been kitted out as luxury hotels.
Nice life where you can afford these places,
Maggie thought, a little envious. But “life” was the operative word, and both Clabbers’ lives had been snuffed out, one by nature, the other by design. There was the possibility that they’d visited the sumptuous establishments before coming to Doucet, but the brochures had a crisp sheen that spoke of being brand new rather than carted across an ocean and through Great Britain.
She put down the brochures and picked up the ring. Designed for a woman, the diamonds on its flat front spelled out an ornate monogram—a small
b
sandwiched between two large
D
s. Except for the small
b
, the initials didn’t resemble Beverly Clabber’s. Were they from a previous marriage? Did the ring even belong to her? What if a previous guest had left it behind? Maggie could match the initials to archived reservations, but she assumed someone who’d forgotten a ring this valuable would have contacted Crozat the minute they realized that it was missing. Besides, Marie Shexnayder’s near-OCD level of maid service could be counted on to unearth anything forgotten by past visitors.
Given that she felt safe assuming that the ring and brochures belonged to Beverly, what did it all mean? Were they connected, or had the woman just found separate hiding places for things she valued? And why exactly were the brochures so important to her? Maggie could see keeping them in a safe
place so they’d stay in pristine condition, but hiding them like they were blue chip stock certificates made no sense. Yet that’s exactly what Beverly Clabber had done.
Maggie closed her eyes, placed her hands on the brochures and ring, and cleared her mind, just the way Gran’ had taught her. After a few meditative breaths, her intuition kicked into high gear, sending the powerful feeling that the answer to why Beverly Clabber was murdered somehow lay in the three items resting under her hands. If she could figure out how the ring and brochures were tied to Beverly’s death, it would help lead the police to who did it.
She turned on the color printer that she’d treated herself to when she moved back home and carefully made copies of the brochures and ring. Then she hid the originals under a pile of papers she kept in the bottom drawer of the heirloom desk where generations of Doucets had sat paying plantation bills, keeping diaries, and penning the occasional lovesick note to a potential suitor or mate they were crushing on. She searched for a clean manila folder and couldn’t find one, so she stuck the copies of the brochures and the ring in an old folder labeled “Receipts.”
Maggie locked the drawer and tugged at it to make sure this was the rare Crozat lock that did its job. Satisfied, she hid the key under the liner in her underwear drawer—it had worked for Bev Clabber—and then pulled off Gran’s evening gloves. This took some effort, since her calloused painter paws were larger than Gran’s delicate hands. She finally peeled off the gloves and headed to the main house to help her father find accommodations for any guests who wanted to bolt after their police interviews.
She found Tug hunched over his computer in the B and B office. “How’s it going?” she asked.
Tug crinkled his forehead and pinched the bridge of his nose as if trying to relieve a headache. “Bad,” he said. “Pelican is sold out because of Fet Let. There are three conventions in New Orleans right now, so you can’t even find a place to stay on airbnb-dot-com. LSU starts this week, so the Baton Rouge area’s a no-go. I found a Motel 6 in Metairie and a few iffy choices everywhere else. Not sure I want to take responsibility for steering our guests toward the Chateau des Femmes Motel on Airline Highway. Especially since I think it’s partly a halfway house.”
“They could go north, or west to Lafayette.”
“For one thing, that’s a whole different vacation. And for another, Rufus would probably make a stink about it. He doesn’t want to go chasing all over the place if he needs one of them. Too much work.”
“We’ll give everyone suggestions and let them make their own decisions. Look at the upside: the more guests who leave, the less of them we have to float.”
Tug gave his daughter a half smile. “Ouch. You are
cold
.”
“And here I am thinking I’m being an optimist.” Maggie put an arm around her dad’s shoulder. “We’ll present all the options during what might turn into a very unhappy happy hour.”
“Just keep the liquor flowing, darlin’.”
Which was exactly what Maggie did an hour later as Tug distributed a handout of lodging alternatives to each guest. The only ones missing were the Ryker kids, who were sheltered in
their room, and Kyle Bruner. The Texan had told the family in private that he had no intention of bailing on them. Whether this declaration was motivated by pure human decency or the fact he was seriously crushing on Lia didn’t matter. He would remain a guest, and a paying one at that.
“These suck,” Georgia Two griped as he glanced at the list. “We’ve stayed in nicer places during spring break, and last year the motel had bedbugs.”
“We didn’t come to Cajun Country to stay in a Motel 6,” Jan declared.
“We also didn’t come here to stay where somebody was murdered,” Angela countered.
“More wine, Angela?” Maggie made the question rhetorical by filling the Cutie’s glass as she spoke. It was Angela’s third refill. The flush of gentle inebriation was starting to bloom on her cheeks, as well as those of a few other guests.
“I think we need a family meeting,” Lachlan Ryker said to his wife, who nodded. “Let’s go talk to the kids.”
The Rykers excused themselves. There was grim silence as the remaining guests pondered their choices. Maggie discreetly topped off a couple of glasses. Finally, Cutie president Jan spoke. “You know what? When I look around this room, I don’t see a killer anywhere. Do you?” The others exchanged uncomfortable glances. “Well, do you?” Jan pressed. A few glanced around and muttered no.
Encouraged, Jan continued. “You know what I
do
see? People from all different parts of the country who came here to experience the culture and beauty of Cajun Country and of Crozat itself. Nice people, good people whose adventure
shouldn’t be derailed by a nutjob off the streets or someone who had a vendetta against Mrs. Clabber—who none of us even knew before this week.”
The others, gaining confidence, chorused agreement. “I never even thought of that,” Emily Butler said. “The poison could have been planted months ago. We all saw how many pills she had. Someone could have stuck poison in one of them and just waited until she got around to taking it.”
Maggie debated what she could and couldn’t reveal about the box of arsenic found in the Crozat plantation store. “Evidence may be produced that shows a local poison was used,” she said, proud of how police procedural she sounded. Or legal procedural. She wasn’t sure which but still felt good about it.
“Has anything been proven?” Jan demanded.
“Well, no, but—”
“Then it’s just a theory. Besides, lightning doesn’t strike twice.”
“Unless it’s a serial killer,” Georgia Three pointed out. “They always strike a bunch of times. That’s kind of their job.”
Jan flicked a dismissive hand at the student. “I doubt that out of all the places in the world, a serial killer would choose an old lady in a remote area to start his spree. I think Emily’s scenario makes the most sense. In which case, this whole crazy nightmare is over.” Jan motioned to the other Cuties. She was on a roll now. “I think I speak for all in my group when I say that we’re not going to let some psycho ruin our vacation. Evil can go straight to hell where it belongs, because we’re going to stay at Crozat and show our support for the wonderful family
that has fought through terrible times to keep a small piece of American history alive so that they could share it with the rest of us. Yes, we Peli
can!
Right, ladies?”
Angela nodded a little reluctantly, Suzy with trepidation. Debbie beamed. She leaned over to Maggie and whispered, “That’s why she’s our leader.” Maggie smiled weakly. She was torn between being touched by Jan’s support and resenting its price tag. Since the other guests seemed a beat away from giving Jan a standing ovation, it was obvious they shared her commitment to not bailing on Crozat. Maggie’s last hope was the Rykers, who hadn’t been around to hear Jan’s rallying cry.
“The kids want to stay,” Lachlan told Maggie when she tracked the couple down after the rest of the guests had dispersed to ready themselves for dinner.
“And,” Carrie added with a helpless shrug, “we could hardly say no, could we?”
Maggie, who had heard “no” quite a bit from her own parents while growing up, thought that was exactly what parents were supposed to say when the situation called for it, but this wasn’t the time to debate parenting styles. “We’re so glad you’ll be with us for the rest of the week, and we’ll do everything we can to make sure you leave Crozat with wonderful memories,” she told the Rykers with the forced enthusiasm of a cruise director before retreating to the kitchen to give Ninette a hand preparing dinner.
Later, as Maggie served the guests, she studied everyone at the table while they made small talk. Kyle, the Cuties, the Butlers, the Rykers, the Georgia boys—did one of them have a connection to the Clabbers that led to murder? She wished that
she had Jan’s confidence in the innocence of Crozat’s guests, but something was bothering her. Why had they all chosen to stick around? She had a sense that it went beyond the understandable lure of a free ride. But a sense was all that she had. Since Rufus would provide nothing but obstacles, Maggie realized it was up to her to ferret out whatever secrets the group might have.
*
That night, long after everyone at Crozat had gone to sleep, Maggie sat in bed typing away on her tablet. She’d decided to research alphabetically, starting with the Butlers. Both Emily and Shane had a heavy presence on social media, which wasn’t a shock. So did Maggie. In fact, she was surprised that she’d never crossed iPaths with either of them.
The only revelation, found in a gossipy
New York Post
Page Six blurb about their engagement, was that Emily Butler, née Fuller, came from a Boston Brahmin family while Shane was the first member of his blue-collar Long Island family to attend college. Emily had “married down,” as society mavens liked to cluck. She was the only child of divorced parents, and ancestors on both sides could be found on the Mayflower manifest. But when the upper class crashed, it crashed hard. Emily’s mother was a model and drug addict who ran off with the lead singer of an eighties hair band. She had died eight years earlier when her heart stopped in the middle of breast lift surgery. Emily’s father passed away the month before Emily’s wedding of “liver disease”—which Maggie immediately recognized as alcoholism. Maggie imagined that the poor girl welcomed the chance
to join the Butler clan, which the
Post
painted in a boring but much more grounded light. Maggie gazed at the wedding party photo that accompanied the story. Emily, in an exquisite 1920s-style beaded wedding gown, was flanked by four women of varying ages who all bore a resemblance to Shane and looked uncomfortable in their elegant ice-blue drapey satin bridesmaids’ dresses. If the only members of her bridal party were, as she guessed, Shane’s sisters, then poor Emily lacked friends as well as family.
Having read all she could find about the Butlers, Maggie moved on to the Cuties. Angela DiPietro seemed to lead the typical life of a suburban empty nester.
Why does every couple feel the need to go on an Alaskan cruise the minute their kids move out of the house?
Maggie wondered as she paged through pictures of Angela and her husband mugging next to totem poles and a series of what she assumed were supposed to be artsy photos of pine trees that instead looked like someone kept dropping the camera.
Maggie yawned and debated powering down but opted to check out one more guest. She typed in an image search for “Debra Stern” and the screen filled with a variety of Debra Sterns from coast to coast. Maggie found a photo that looked vaguely similar to the Cajun Cutie—if the Cajun Cutie had been a female executive who preferred power suits to ill-fitting leggings. Maggie stared at the picture, wondering if she’d made a mistake. She scrolled through a dozen more images for Debra Stern but returned to the original one that caught her eye. She was sure the woman in the navy wool blazer with the confident smile was the Crozat’s anemic guest.
The caption under the photo read, “Debra Stern, CEO, SPI.” Maggie typed this into her search taskbar and was rewarded with a long list of sites that revealed Debbie had founded Stern Partners International, a headhunting firm with offices around the globe, which she’d sold five years prior for a small fortune. Debra Stern, CEO, was successful and ambitious—the polar opposite of the dim bulb she now appeared to be.
Maggie turned off her tablet and snuggled under the cool cotton duvet cover. But she was too excited to sleep. She’d finally found someone with a secret—perhaps a secret that somehow led to Beverly Clabber’s murder.