As Maggie drove to her tour guide shift across the river at Doucet Plantation, she pondered the best way to bring up the dichotomy of Debbie to Cuties leader Jan, who might hesitate to talk behind a member’s back. She slowed down as she passed through Pelican’s infamous speed trap, the brainchild of a very proud Rufus. While Pelican PD usually spared locals, they showed no mercy for people trying to make time between New Orleans and Baton Rouge when I-10 backed up, and Maggie grudgingly gave Rufus credit for gifting Pelican with a steady stream of much-needed speeding ticket income.
The morning went by quickly as bus after bus unloaded vacationers taking advantage of summer’s last week. Maggie, suited up in her fake plantation garb, gave back-to-back tours where she patiently answered the same questions over and over again; no, it wasn’t hard to be a hired hand at the estate that her mother’s family once called home, and yes, she’d pose with visitors for selfies next to the portrait of Magnolia Marie, the ancestor she’d been named after.
By lunchtime, Maggie was ready for a break. She took her sandwich and joined a few of her fellow guides at their private rest area behind the overseer’s cottage. “You are Doucet’s queen of selfies,” Gaynell Bourgeois, a nineteen-year-old coworker, teased her.
“I know, right?” Maggie said as she fanned herself. “If I had a dollar for every one I posed for, I wouldn’t need this job.” She took off her banana-curled wig, pulled a travel-sized antiperspirant out of her bra, and swiped it across her underarms to avoid the dry-cleaning fee that would come out of her salary if she got sweat stains on her flouncy costume. She was getting to know and like some of the other women working at Doucet, like Gaynell, who seemed sweet and ingenuous. There was only one coworker Maggie wasn’t crazy about.
Vanessa Fleer was a tall, zaftig woman teetering on the edge of obese and had the arrogance that sometimes accompanies ignorance. A trend follower who considered herself Pelican’s foremost trendsetter, she’d recently tried the ombré look on her bleached blonde perm. The at-home dye job resulted in an erratic patchwork of yellow and orange, giving her hair the look of melting sherbet punch. As if Vanessa weren’t unlikeable enough on her own merits, she was dating Rufus Durand.
“Lord, it’s a hot one,” Vanessa said. She motioned to Maggie’s deodorant stick. “Can I borrow that?” Without waiting for an answer, she pulled the deodorant out of Maggie’s hand, pushed aside the frilly sleeves of her plantation gown, and swabbed her underarms.
“I had two busloads of Japanese tourists,” Gaynell, Maggie’s Doucet bestie, shared eagerly. She sat cross-legged on a towel,
the edge of her pantaloons sticking out under her knee-length plaid dress. Gaynell, who barely grazed five feet and weighed under a hundred pounds, often got drafted to play a plantation child since she was the only guide who fit into the costume. “I love the Japanese group tours. They take so many pictures with me, I feel famous. And they gave me some real nice tips.”
“Japanese don’t usually tip, it’s against their culture,” Vanessa informed Gaynell in her usual superior tone. She tossed the deodorant back to Maggie, who pointedly dropped it into a nearby trashcan. Vanessa didn’t seem to notice. She was too busy devouring a diet cookie from her latest weight-loss plan. “The men were probably hoping you’d run off with them and be their geisha.”
“God, Vanessa, that’s so racist,” Maggie said, disgusted. Vanessa rolled her eyes and sat down on a bench. Her hoop skirt popped up like a spring, covering her face and revealing a too-tight pair of Daisy Dukes. The other women roared with laughter.
“Shut up!”
“I’m sorry,” Gaynell said as she wiped tears from her eyes, “but it’s funny every time.”
“Yeah, well, when I marry Rufus Durand and we turn Grove Hall into a showplace, I’m gonna invent a hoop skirt that’s way easier to sit in.”
Grove Hall, the decrepit plantation home with beautiful bones that Maggie had immortalized in her Save Our Structures series, was the Durand family home. Descendants had been trying to unload the place for years but couldn’t without Rufus agreeing to the sale. And Rufus constantly refused,
preferring to live in a trailer on the property and get pleasure from how much Grove Hall’s decay bothered upstanding Pelican citizens like the Crozats.
“What about the curse?” Gaynell teased Vanessa. “You know all Ru’s relationships are supposed to fail. My mom told me he’s already been married three times.”
“So?” Vanessa adjusted her skirt, which continued to fight back. “That’s only one more ’n me. Besides, my relationship with Ru is stronger than any stupid curse. I can’t believe your great-great was so mean, Maggie. Then again, she
was
the only River belle who married one a’ them Yankees.”
It never took long for Vanessa to get on Maggie’s nerves. “‘One a’ them Yankees?’ You know, Vanessa, just because you’re wearing a hoop skirt doesn’t mean it’s actually 1860. Besides, Magnolia Marie’s ‘Yankee’ didn’t live very long, poor guy. He went in one of the yellow fever epidemics.”
Vanessa pounced on this. “Speaking of not living long, ohmuhgawd, that murder at Crozat is so terrible for y’all. People must be canceling their reservations like crazy.”
Vanessa was right, but Maggie would never give her that satisfaction, so she kept quiet.
“Their loss,” Gaynell declared. “Crozat is awesome.”
“Still, Maggie, I feel for you,” Vanessa said, doing a bad imitation of somebody who actually felt emotions like sympathy. “I know it can’t be fun giving tours here at Doucet when your family used to own it. If y’all lose Crozat, it’d be pain on top of pain.”
Maggie drew in a deep breath, quelling the urge to give Vanessa a swift kick in the hoop skirt. “As I’ve told you a
million times, I
do
have fun working here. And while I know us losing Crozat is Rufus Durand’s wet dream, it’s not going to happen.”
Vanessa stood up and held her hands together as if she were praying. She wasn’t; instead, she was doing some old-fashioned isometric exercise that claimed to firm up sagging breasts. “I heard—and I can’t say from who—that the lady who died wants to be buried here. Someone I know heard from the lawyers for the estate and it turns out she used to live here. Can you believe it?”
Maggie couldn’t. Beverly Clabber had lived in Pelican? When? Where? This widened the pool of suspects considerably. Maybe the murderer wasn’t a Crozat guest. Maybe it was someone from the woman’s past settling an old grudge.
“You and Rufus sure have some interesting pillow talk,” Gaynell said, shaking her head, her soft blonde curls floating back and forth as she did.
“I didn’t
say
I heard it from Ru Ru, I just said I
heard
it,” Vanessa protested lamely. Maggie gagged at the nickname but filed it away as a future tool with which to annoy Ru. Right now, she needed to focus on the new information she’d picked up from the “Loch Nessa Monster,” as Vanessa’s coworkers secretly called her.
Maggie vowed to run this development by Gran’, who wasn’t much younger than Beverly and might remember her from the past, given enough clues. “Wow, Vanessa, that’s so weird,” Maggie said, hoping to stimulate more gossip. “Mrs. Clabber never said a word about it. Did the lawyer say anything else?”
Vanessa shrugged and continued her exercises. “That was all Ru Ru said. And then we got busy, if ya know what I mean.”
The women, who knew exactly what Vanessa meant, exchanged a look and managed not to recoil at the image emblazoned on their brains.
*
After finishing her shift at Doucet, Maggie clocked out and drove to Fais Dough Dough, where Briana and Clinton Poche were helping Lia restock the store shelves with gift items. “Your mugs are selling great,” Lia told her. “And you know what else are? The mouse pads. I guess people like a little history with their hi-tech devices.”
“Can we talk?” Maggie asked her cousin sotto voce.
“Sure. Briana, honey, you’re in charge of the register.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Briana said, thrilled with her newfound authority. “You hear that, Clinton?” she called to her brother. “I’m in charge.”
“Of the register, not my life,” her brother retorted. He followed this observation with a loud belch in his sister’s face.
“Okay, you two, that’s enough,” Lia said. “Briana, don’t make me sorry I asked you, and Clinton, you need to come up with a new party trick.”
Armed with chicory coffee and plates of Lia’s latest culinary inspiration, Bourbon Pecan Croissant Bread Pudding, she and Maggie retreated to a small café table in the building’s back garden. Maggie didn’t know which smelled more delicious, the pudding or the border of heliotrope sparkling with drops left by a late-afternoon rain.
“Big news,” she told Lia. “Beverly Clabber used to live in Pelican.”
“What?!”
“Yes. Total shocker.” She related Vanessa’s bombshell to Lia, who was as stunned by the news as Maggie had been.
“Do they know anything else, like what her maiden name was?”
“Vanessa and Rufus ‘got busy’ before she got any more gossip out of him.”
“Ugh.”
“I know.” Maggie finished the last spoonful of her bread pudding. She was one step away from licking the bowl but managed to control herself. Instead she ran her finger along the inside of it. “So . . . anything new between you and that tall drink of Texas water, as Gran’ would say?”
Lia laughed. “I think we like each other.”
“Want to share something not so blatantly obvious to everyone in the world?”
“We’re getting to know each other slowly and carefully.”
“How does that work when Kyle has a vacation clock on him?”
“He creates software programs, so he can work anywhere, really.”
“So, are you saying he may stick around for a while?”
“Yes. He may. I hope so.”
Lia finished the last sip of coffee in her cup and swirled the grounds absentmindedly.
“Let’s see what message your coffee sends,” Maggie said. “I’ll read the grinds.”
Lia looked at her skeptically. “You can do that?”
“When my life was imploding in New York, I visited this Iranian psychic a friend recommended. She read my grinds and taught me a little about coffee fortune telling.”
“Was she any good?”
“She foretold the death of my relationship,” Maggie said in an arch, sonorous tone, and Lia laughed. Maggie took her cousin’s cup, placed the saucer over it, and turned the cup upside down. She then righted the cup and looked inside. She grinned at Lia. “I see a shamrock. That means your wish will come true.”
Maggie left Fais Dough Dough with a tray of the bread pudding. Ninette, inspired by a rave review Maggie called in, had decided to serve it as the Crozat evening dessert. Maggie kept the Falcon’s top up for a change so the car could fill with the sweet, spicy aroma. As she pulled into the driveway behind the plantation’s main house, she noticed a nondescript silver sedan parked in her usual spot. A parking decal from the Shreveport PD tagged the car as Bo’s. Annoyed, Maggie pulled in next to it a little too close, making sure to ding Bo’s car when she opened her door. She grabbed the bread pudding tin and marched into the house. Her stomach fluttered with nerves when she found the detective in the front parlor with Gran’. He had his notebook out and was obviously interviewing her, a grim expression on his face.
Gran’ gave Maggie a cheery little wave. She might as well have been welcoming her to a tea party. “Hello, darlin’. Have you heard the latest gossip? Beverly Clabber used to live in Pelican. Years and years ago, when we were both girls. She wasn’t Beverly Clabber then, she was Francine Prepoire. Where ‘Beverly’ came from, I’ll never know, you’d think she’d have stuck with Francine. But anyhoo, Bo here—you don’t mind if I call you Bo, do you? I feel like we’ve reached a point where informality is acceptable.”
“Bo is fine, ma’am,” Bo responded politely. He was too tall for the delicate Victorian side chair he was sitting on, and as he adjusted his position, Maggie caught a glimpse of a gun under his blazer.
“Where was I?” Gran’ said, pressing an index finger to the side of her temple. “Oh, yes. Maggie, you remember my dear old friend, Yvonne Rousseau, don’t you? Well, in a piece of impressive detecting work on Bo’s part, he discovered that during Francine-slash-Mrs. Clabber’s brief time in Pelican, she paid
Yvonne a visit. Yvonne may be in a home with Parkinson’s, but her mind is still sharp, so Bo was able to interview her about their conversation. He of course can’t reveal much of what transpired, but he did share that Yvonne remembered Francine stole my first love from me, Ignace Roubideaux. Isn’t that funny? An ancient Pelican soap opera revisited after all these years.”
In what was becoming an unpleasantly familiar sensation, Maggie felt the urge to throw up. “Gran’, that makes you a murder suspect,” she said as she pointed to Bo. “That’s why he’s here.”
“I know. Isn’t that exciting?”
“No,” Maggie practically shouted as she lost patience with her grandmother. “It’s not exciting at all, it’s horrible.” She glared at Bo. “Does my grand-mère need a lawyer? Because we’ll get her one, a great one, the best in Louisiana, the best in the country, and if you’ve done anything inappropriate here, he or she will have your ass on a plate.”
“Magnolia Marie Crozat,” Gran’ said sharply. “That was incredibly rude. You apologize to Bo this instant.”
“It’s all right, ma’am, no apology necessary,” Bo’s tone was quiet but authoritative. Bo turned to Maggie. She noticed that he had well-defined cheekbones and wondered if there was some Houma Indian in his ancestry. “Mrs. Crozat and I—”
“Please, call me Charlotte.”
“I prefer Mrs. Crozat.”
“All right, fine,” Gran’ said, a little annoyed.
“Mrs. Crozat and I,” Bo continued, “are just trying to see what she remembers from the past about Francine Prepoire Clabber, Ignace Roubideaux, or anyone who knew them.”
“And
I
was telling Bo that Francine did me the biggest favor of my life by stealing Ignace from me. I found comfort and love in the arms of your Grand-père Crozat, the most wonderful man I’ve ever known. Francine and Ignace barely lasted a month or more, then she left town—forever, I thought, until today. Ignace moved to Baton Rouge, where he died many years ago after plowing his car into a tree while drunk. So you see, I’m not a murder suspect at all, am I, Bo?”
Maggie didn’t like the way Bo only responded with a slight smile. Gran’, however, was oblivious. She gave Bo a friendly pat on the knee. “My, you must have worked up an appetite with all this talking. Why don’t you stay for dinner?”
“Thanks very much, ma’am, but that wouldn’t be appropriate.” Bo glanced at the tin in Maggie’s hands a bit wistfully. “Although whatever you have there smells pretty good.”
“Well, if you won’t stay, we’ll just make you a plate to go, right, Maggie?”
“No, really,” Bo said. “As an officer of the law, it’s improper for me to accept gifts of any kind. That includes free food and beverage.”
“Oh, please,” Maggie snorted. “Ru’s closets are probably full of stuff he ‘confiscated,’ or got as ‘thank-yous.’ But,” she hastened to add, realizing she might be encouraging Bo to join them for a meal, “I respect your ethics.”
Bo acknowledged this with a nod and another of his slight smiles. She couldn’t be sure, but this one seemed a little less enigmatic—it bordered on being a genuine smile and created a crease on the right side of his mouth that in other circumstances she would have called sexy.
Bo stood up to go. He wore his blue sport coat over a finely checkered tan button-down shirt and jeans, and she tried to ignore how the casual work look somehow seemed sexy on him. “Thank you both for your time. My men got called away to an accident on I-10, but they’ll be back later to finish searching for that box of poison you remembered seeing, Miss Crozat.”
As soon as Maggie was sure Bo was out of earshot, she turned to her grandmother. “Gran’, you need to remember that until they catch whoever killed Beverly or Francine or whatever her real name is, we are all suspects.
All
of us. Everyone in this house and now pretty much everyone in Pelican.”
Gran’ waved her hand dismissively. “Save your lecture, dear. The new addition to Pelican PD is as smart as he is handsome. He’s an astute enough judge of character to be able to see that I had absolutely nothing to do with Francine’s death. I’m sure the genuine shock on my face when he told me who she was quickly ruled me out as a suspect. I wonder if I have any pictures of her. I must dig up my yearbook. Oooh, maybe a picture in it will help lead Detective Dreamboat to the real murderer.”
Gran’ took off to search her past for evidence of Beverly/Francine. While it didn’t seem to bother Gran’ much, Maggie hated that Durand was eyeing her grandmother as a potential murderer.
I have to deflect his attention from her to someone else,
she thought as she walked down the hall into the kitchen, where her mother was preparing dinner. Maggie put the bread pudding down on the counter; her arms ached from carrying the sweet carbo load for so long.
“Hey, chère,” Ninette said without taking her eyes off the beef she was seasoning in a large cast iron pan. She was cooking up a large batch of grits and grillades, a meal usually served at breakfast or lunch. But since Crozat’s guests found the dish too heavy for breakfast and were rarely around for midday meals, Ninette enjoyed making it the centerpiece of a dinner menu. “Is that detective done giving Gran’ the third degree?”
“I’m not sure who was messing with whom there,” Maggie said.
Ninette let out a deep sigh. “I just want this whole horrible business
over
,” she said.
“I know, Mama. Me too.” Maggie noticed perspiration doing a slow drip down the side of her mother’s face. She took a paper towel and gently wiped it away and then kissed Ninette on the cheek. “You feel warm,” Maggie said, concerned.
Ninette laughed. “For goodness’ sake, why wouldn’t I be warm? I’m cooking.”
Tug came in through the kitchen back door, laden with groceries. “Here you go,” he said to Ninette as he put down the bags. He gave his wife an affectionate pat on her bottom. “Everything for your fete crawfish.”
“Ohmygod, I totally forgot about the fete,” Maggie said with a groan as she helped her mother unload groceries into the cupboards and refrigerator.
Ninette checked the crisper drawers. “I need okra and red pepper from the garden.”
“I’ll get it,” Maggie said.
“Next year I’m not going to all this trouble. I’m just gonna make a big pot of franks and beans.”
“Yeah right, Mom,” Maggie laughed. Fet Let participants claimed bragging rights to certain dishes, and Ninette was famous for her Crawfish Crozat, a delicious pasta dish. Her mother threatened not to make it every year, but Maggie knew Ninette relished the moans of gustatory delight she got from her long line of customers. Fet cooks competed to see who’d run out of food first, but mostly they fought over second place because Ninette always nailed the top spot.
Maggie went out to the garden, where she picked enough okra and red pepper to fill a large basket. She was about to take it inside when she saw Cuties Debbie and Jan walking through Crozat’s parterre. The formal garden, whose design dated back to Crozat’s earliest days, featured immaculately clipped bushes and gravel paths laid out in a symmetrical pattern; maintaining it was a labor of love for Tug.
Jan’s sturdy frame and height of close to six feet meant that she dwarfed Debbie. But Maggie noticed there was nothing intimidating about her presence at the moment; in fact, she seemed parental with her compatriot. When Debbie yawned and said something to Jan, the Cutie board president nodded and patted her sympathetically on the shoulder. Debbie then headed toward the coach house, most likely to nap before dinner. Jan gave her a little wave good-bye and continued her stroll through the parterre, stopping now and then to admire the flowering plants that the trim bushes encircled.
This was Maggie’s chance to get the Cutie president alone and do a little digging about Debbie and her alter ego, Debra Stern. She put her basket in the shade and made her way over to Jan, who seemed pleased to see her.
“This garden is fantastic,” Jan said. “It’s very calming.”
“I know. It sure seemed to have that effect on Debbie—almost like it made her sleepy.”
“She’s a little tired from all of our sightseeing.”
“Is Debbie okay?” Maggie asked, concern coloring her voice.
“Oh yes, she’s fine. Just needs some rest.”
“It seems like something’s wrong. Is she unhappy with her stay here? I would totally understand, given the crazy circumstances.”
“No, she’s not at all unhappy here. She loves Crozat. We all know that what happened had nothing to do with your family.”
“What a relief. I can’t tell you how much we appreciate y’all’s support.” Maggie hoped a little charm and flattery might open Jan up, but the woman’s lack of response proved that Gran’ had not passed on the Glossy gene to her granddaughter.
As Maggie walked with the Cutie president, she debated the best way to draw the woman out. If she boldly asked what the deal was with Debbie, she’d reveal herself as a snoop, which would put Jan off. “A friend said she recognized Debbie from articles on the Internet,” she said, mixing a white lie with the truth. “My friend says she’s this incredibly successful businesswoman. I told her she must be wrong, because, no offense to Debbie or anything, but she doesn’t seem like that kind of person.”
Jan’s paced slowed. “Actually . . . your friend is right.”
“Really?” Maggie played up the surprise in her voice. She hoped she wasn’t milking it too much. “Wow, I don’t see that at all.”
“Well . . . she
was
a successful businesswoman. She’s not pursuing that anymore.”
“Why not?” Maggie adopted an innocent tone, grateful that she still remembered a few tricks from a high school drama elective.
“It’s just . . .” Jan hesitated. She glanced toward the coach house. There was no sign of Debbie or any other Cutie, for that matter.
“You’re not gossiping if you’re trying to help someone understand a friend,” Maggie gently prompted her, hoping that Jan wouldn’t wonder why she should feel compelled to help an innkeeper’s daughter “understand” a fellow Cutie. Luckily, Jan took the bait.
“You’re right,” Jan said. She hesitated again, and then launched into her story. “A few years ago, Debbie went through a horrible experience that almost destroyed her. Before she joined the Cuties, she was one of the country’s top female entrepreneurs. She’d started her own headhunting company and expanded it all over the world. Then one of those venture capital types mounted a hostile takeover. The only way Debbie could keep the company away from him was to sell it. Stern Partners International was her life. She never married or had kids or even a pet. When SPI was gone, she had a total nervous breakdown. She wound up in a psychiatric facility and underwent ECT—electroconvulsive therapy.”
“Electroshock? God, that’s so old school.”
“It’s made a comeback. Her psychiatrist assured us that ECT has changed a lot over the last few decades, and it’s the most effective treatment available for severe depression. But
it wiped out months of memory. Between that and the huge doses of antidepressants she’s on, Debbie’s a completely different woman now. I’ve been with her when we run into people from SPI, and they don’t even recognize her at first.” Jan shook her head sadly. “The Cuties have become her family, her whole world. We look after her. When she wanted to serve on the board, Suzy insisted that she be given the job of secretary, even though she was a gimme for treasurer. But Suzy was adamant about how it would be too stressful for Debbie and even offered to serve as treasurer herself. That’s how much we all care about Debbie and look after her.”
Maggie clucked a few appropriately sympathetic remarks, but Suzy’s alleged altruism set off an alarm bell, and she replaced Debbie as a potential suspect in Maggie’s mind. Maybe this Cutie had a personal agenda for steering Debbie away from managing the organization’s finances and taking on the task herself. State and federal prisons were peppered with white-collar criminals doing time for embezzlement, and Maggie wondered if Cutie Suzy had succumbed to the temptation of tampering with the Cajun Cuties’ books. If this was so, and Beverly Clabber had accidentally stumbled upon information that would have exposed Suzy, Beverly’s death might just be a deadly case of “follow the money.”