by Ellen Byron
Ninette appeared in the front parlor doorway. “Maggie, chère, I’m so sorry to interrupt, but Helene is here, and she needs to talk to us.”
“Is that the voodoo priestess?” asked a sleek Manhattanite visiting from New York with her boyfriend. “I was going to book an appointment with her, but something came up.”
Helene Brevelle, a tiny black woman in her seventies, stepped out from behind Ninette. She crossed her arms and glared at the Crozats’ guests. “And I know what that somethin’ is.”
Maggie jumped up from her chair. “Let’s go to the office.”
“I’ll keep an eye on things here,” Bo said.
Maggie threw Bo a grateful look, then followed her mother to the back parlor that served as the B and B’s office. Helene stomped along with them. Tug and Grand-mère were already there. Maggie closed the door. “Helene, what’s wrong? Why are you so upset?”
Helene adjusted the multicolored tignon wrapped around her dyed-black hair. It had come askew during her angry march down the hall. “Because I thought we were all friends and cared about each other.”
“We are,” Tug said, perplexed. “We do.”
“Then why did you hire a psychic to steal my business?”
Every member of the Crozat family stared at Helene, dismayed. “I think I speak for all of us,” Gran said, “when I say that we have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Your masseuse,” Helene said. “She’s been spreading the word about how she’s a psychic and offering readings for a cheap price, so people are canceling on me and going to her.”
Four mouths dropped open. “Wha-wha-what?” Maggie stuttered.
“Yeah,” Helene said, her anger replaced by surprise. “You didn’t know?”
“No, we swear,” Ninette said. “We’d never consent to anything like that.”
“She’s got a setup in the woods. Calls it ‘The Tent of Telepathy.’” Helene snorted. “Talk about cheesy. She’s probably selling snake oil from there too, or those magic pills that help old men do the nasty.”
Maggie gathered her wits. “Helene, I’m so sorry about this. We’ll take care of it, I promise.”
Helene seemed mollified. “Well … I feel better knowing y’all weren’t part of it. I’d appreciate it if you could make that tent go away.”
“Oh, no worries,” Tug said. “The last thing we want is some scam operation on our property, cousin or not.”
Ninette steered Helene toward the door. “You know what would make you feel better? Some of my Scary Spicy Sugar Cookies and Chocolate Monster Milk.”
“Skip the cookies and make the milk whiskey,” Helene said.
The two left, Ninette pulling the door shut behind them. “Psychic?” Tug said. He searched for a reaction to the bizarre development and ended up with, “Susannah? What the what?”
Maggie paced the room. “Susannah never said a word about this. Not one word.”
“She’s obviously trying to squeeze more money out of her stay,” Gran said. “I have half a mind to cross those MacDowells off our wedding list. Although I was hoping they were the kind of out-of-town guests who don’t come but send a gift.”
“We’ll talk to her,” Tug said.
Maggie stopped pacing. “No. I will. Hiring her was my idea. Laying down the law is my responsibility.” She glanced at the antique walnut clock that sat on the room’s marble fireplace mantel. “It’s only six. I’ll go up to the studio now. The sooner we end this, the better. Tell Bo what’s going on and that I’ll call him later.”
Maggie left the manor house and traipsed through the woods to her studio. She rapped on the door. After a brief pause, Susannah opened it a crack. “Oh. Cousin Maggie. The twins are out. Doug and I were about to have dinner.”
Maggie ignored the note of dismissal in Susannah’s voice. “This won’t take long.” She pushed the door open and walked past the massage therapist, who was dressed in a chiffon-y black maxi dress. Doug sat at the carved oak table, a steaming bowl in front of him. The scent of vegetables wafted from it. “We have a small problem, but it should be easy to clear up,” Maggie said.
Susannah seemed puzzled. “Has someone complained about my work?”
“No.” Maggie decided to lead with a little flattery. “I’ve only heard raves, which is wonderful. The problem is that I’ve also heard you’ve set up a side business as a psychic.”
“Oh, that.” Susannah said. “For a minute I was worried. Yes, a few years ago, I realized that I’d developed a level of extrasensory perception through my ability to connect with a human body through massage. Since there’s so much clairvoyant energy in Louisiana, I thought it offered a perfect chance to marry my two strengths.”
Doug motioned to his wife with his spoon. “She’s got a gift, that one.”
“A gift you never mentioned before,” Maggie said.
The woman shrugged. “You never asked.”
“Susannah, we didn’t bring you here to be a psychic,” Maggie said, hating every word of the conversation. “I’m sorry, but you need to shelve that and focus on the strength we hired you for: massage.”
“Wow,” Doug said. He’d started eating and spoke with a mouth full of whatever vegetable mélange filled his bowl. “That’s a pretty cold way to talk to family.”
“I’m trying to keep this about business,” Maggie said.
“I appreciate the amazing opportunity you’ve given me,” the massage therapist said. “But I’m going to continue offering readings to my clients. I’m not going to deprive them because of a miscommunication.”
Susannah turned her back on Maggie and went to join Doug at the table, her filmy dress floating as she walked. “I’m sorry, but that isn’t going to work for us,” Maggie said.
Susannah ignored her. She smiled at her husband. “Do you like the stew?”
“Yup. Who knew root vegetables could taste this good?” There was an edge to Doug’s jovial tone.
Maggie watched the two for a minute. Then she said, “I’m an only child. When I was growing up, I envied friends who had extended families, so when you got in touch with me, I was thrilled. A long-lost cousin. Wow. But I never should have mixed family with business. That’s on me.” Maggie paused, dreading what she knew had to come next. “We’re obviously not on the same page here. Much as I hate doing this, if you’re not willing to stick to our original agreement, I have to let you go.”
“You do you,” Susannah said, using Maggie’s least favorite expression. “I’ll let my clients know that I’ll be moving my massage appointments here.” She gestured to the studio.
“No,” Maggie said, now defiant. “First of all, you’re not stealing clients who booked Crozat Spa’s services. And if you’re not employed here, you’ll have to move out of my studio. If you want to stay in Pelican, that’s your decision. We’ll give you time to find a new place.”
Doug ripped off a hunk of bread from a large loaf and swabbed his bowl. “Yeah, that won’t be happening.”
“Excuse me?” Maggie said, infuriated by the man’s audacity.
Doug grinned at his wife. “Do you want to tell her or should I?”
“I should, since I’m the Crozat.” Susannah turned away from her half-eaten root stew and faced Maggie. “You know how my family owns the land next to yours? Well, as it turns out, this old shack you like to call your studio is on my land. We’re not going anywhere.”
Chapter 5
Maggie’s heart pulsed. Her face flushed. I wonder if this is what a stroke feels like was her sidebar thought. She found her voice. “This ‘shack’ was originally the Crozat schoolhouse, and it’s on our land, not yours. It always has been, ever since it was built.”
“Actually, that’s not true. Here, I’ll show you.” Susannah got up. She and her dress floated to a set of shelves that had held Maggie’s art supplies before the MacDowells commandeered the space. The massage therapist stood on her tippy-toes and removed a rolled-up document from the top shelf. “
Doug, honey …”
“Oh. Sure.”
Doug cleared the bowls from the table, placing them in the sink Maggie used to clean her paintbrushes. Susannah unrolled the document. It was a copy of an old map. “My late father ordered this from your town records before he passed on.” Susannah pointed to a spot on the map. “There’s your Crozat land. And here’s mine. And there’s the schoolhouse. On my land.”
Maggie scrunched her eyes and bent over the map, studying it. She stood up. “What I see is an ink blot where the property line is.”
“No, that’s part of the property line.”
Maggie glared at her cousin. “I’ll be at the Hall of Records first thing in the morning, which happens to be run by our town mayor, Eula Banks. I’ll get my own copy of this map and show it to her, and we’ll see who’s right—and it’ll be me.”
Susannah rolled up the map. “I don’t trust small-town cronyism. Doug and I will be there when your mayor takes a look at the map.”
“Fine.” Maggie strode over to the door and threw it open. “In the meantime, you’re fired!”
Maggie slammed the door shut. She stormed through the woods to the manor house, where she found her mother in the kitchen. “You won’t believe this.”
Ninette put an index finger to her lips. “Shh. Calm down. Help serve our guests dessert, and then we’ll talk.”
Ninette handed her a tray of plates filled with slices of her famous rum raisin cake with rum frosting, then picked up a second tray. Maggie bumped the swinging door between the kitchen and dining room to open it. “Hey y’all, time for one of my mama’s famous desserts,” she said, plastering on a big smile.
“I can attest to our hostess’s way with treats,” Barrymore, who had availed himself of a free meal, told the guests. “If you happen to serve me the largest slice, I won’t complain.”
Maggie faked a laugh and distributed the plates, making sure Barrymore got the smallest slice. “Enjoy.” She then retreated to the kitchen, where she texted her father and grandmother: FAMILY MEETING. ASAP!
Maggie waited impatiently for the guests to finish dinner. As soon as they departed for their lodgings, she pulled Ninette, Tug, and Grand-mère into the office. Lovie, the guest parrot, was spending the night in the room so that her occasional squawk didn’t wake up nearby guests. Maggie relayed the upshot of her confrontation with the MacDowells. “That can’t be right,” Tug said when she broke the news about the schoolhouse.
“Acck! Can’t be right,” Lovie squawked.
“I agree, but we’ll find out for sure tomorrow morning at the Hall of Records,” Maggie said. She took a swig of the bourbon she’d poured to calm her nerves.
“You’d think obnoxious Canadian would be an oxymoron, but the MacDowells have proven that’s not the case,” Gran said. She held out her Old-Fashioned glass. “Another belt, please.”
Ninette, who rarely drank, drained her glass and held it up to Maggie. “Me too.”
“Acck! Belt, please. Acck! Me too!”
“She heard us, Lovie dear,” Gran said to the bird. “No need to repeat.”
Maggie refilled the women’s glasses, as well as her own. “I am so Mac-done with the MacDowells. They are Mac-dead to me.”
“Acck! MacDowells! MacDead!”
Gran pinched the bridge of her nose. “Lovie, my love, please give it a rest.”
“MacDowells! MacDead!” Maggie could have sworn Lovie was taunting her grandmother.
“Uh-oh, sounds like I’m interrupting something.” Emma Fine opened the door an inch.
“No worries, we can’t solve our problem until the morning.” Maggie drained her glass.
“I just wanted to let you know I noticed a little doggy business in the hallway,” Emma said. “There might also be, um, a present from the parrot. Her owner was letting Lovie wander around the house this afternoon.”
“It’s come to this,” Gran said. “We are literally running a zoo.”
“Acck!” Lovie squawked. “A zoo!”
* * *
Eula Banks, Pelican’s grandmotherly mayor, scoured the map with a magnifying class in the dusty room that served as Pelican’s loftily named Hall of R.ecords. The Crozats watched over one shoulder while Susannah and Doug hovered over the other. “Hmmm,” Eula murmured, peering closely at the map.
“Hmmm what?” Maggie asked, trying not to sound as anxious as she felt.
Eula straightened up and adjusted her readers. “It does appear that the schoolhouse is on the other side of your property line,” she informed the Crozats.
“Told ya.” Doug said this with such glee that Maggie wanted to punch him. She noticed her father’s clenched fists and realized he had the same idea.
Eula held up a hand. “Most of it.” This earned her quizzical looks from both sides of the warring parties. “Not all.” She pointed to the ink blob on the map and addressed the Crozats. “This here runs through the schoolhouse, so about a quarter of it is on your side of the land.”
The family examined the map. “You’re right, Eula,” Tug said. “The schoolhouse must’ve been built after they drew the property lines. I’m guessing it was meant for both families back then, so having a foot on either side of the land didn’t much matter.”
“We get the front door,” Maggie to the MacDowells. “Which means you can’t use it anymore.” Despite the gravity of the situation, she enjoyed the small victory.
Susannah was unfazed. “We’ll use the back door.”
“The stove is on our side,” Maggie shot back, “so it’s off-limits to you.”
“There’s a grill in the back,” Doug said. “On our side. The wife and kids’ll tell you how much I love to grill a good hunk of meat. And vegetables, of course,” he added, after a look from his vegetarian wife.
“We get the sink and fridge,” Maggie said.
“We’ll use the sink in the bathroom,” Susannah instantly responded. “And that fridge barely works. We’ll replace it with a nice new one. On our side of the schoolhouse.”
Eula checked her watch. “Sounds like y’all are working this out,” she said cheerfully. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I got a meeting with the head of sanitation in a few minutes.”
“Thanks, Eula,” Ninette said, her tone despondent. “We’ll get out of your way.”
The MacDowells sailed out, followed by Maggie’s much less cheerful family. Maggie hung back. She pleaded with the mayor. “Eula, we can’t live like this. Did you hear how I sounded?” Maggie mocked herself. “‘We get the front door; we get the sink.’” Embarrassed, she stopped. “I haven’t been so petty since I fought over My Little Pony toys with my cousin Lia when I was five. Isn’t there anything we can do? Claim squatter’s rights or something? My family’s been using that schoolhouse for years. It’s my art studio. It’s such a special place for us.”
Eula shook her head. “I wish, chère. I looked into the situation before y’all came in this morning. When it comes to squatter’s rights, we got a little bit of French law going on here, thanks to the state’s Napoleonic Code.” She directed Maggie to follow her to the H of R’s wheezy old computer. Eula pressed a key and read from the screen: “‘There must be a prescription for transfer of the property from one person to another. If a property owner has demonstrated that they have attempted to reclaim their land, then this action alone may be enough to resolve any squatter’s rights to the property title or deed.’” Eula finished reading. “And from what I saw this morning,” she said, “there was a whole lotta reclaiming on the part of your cousin.”
Maggie swallowed to keep from crying. “Yeah. A whole lot. Well, I appreciate you trying. Thank you.”
“I’m truly sorry for y’all.” There was pity in Eula’s voice. “If it makes you feel any better, I canceled my second massage with that terrible woman. And my reading.” Eula looked guilty. “Well, I haven’t canceled my reading yet. But I will. Promise.”
Maggie left the Hall of Records. Feeling depressed and helpless, she
called Bo on the drive home and vented about the MacDowells. “It’s not only about my studio, which is bad enough. What if these horrible people do decide to retire here and build a house on the property? It’s their right, but how could we ever be neighbors? It’s already ugly. If Susannah follows through on her threat and sets up her own massage practice pretty much feet from our spa, it’s only gonna get uglier.”
“I wish there was something I could do to help.” Bo sounded pained. “If they make any noise, I can get them on disturbing the peace.”
“They’re too smart for that.” She slammed a fist on the steering wheel. “They planned this whole thing, Bo. They didn’t care about meeting family. It was all about getting down here and stealing our business. Susannah’s already had two weeks to build a client base. Of our customers.” Maggie transferred her anger to her car horn, honking at the person in front of her. She rolled down the car window and yelled, “The sign says ‘Stop,’ not ‘Stop, text, and take a selfie’!”
“Okay, you need to relax,” Bo said. “For now, focus on your guests. Give them the kind of good time they can’t stop talking about. You’ll find another massage therapist. Until then, Mo will get word of mouth going about the spa being open and her fancy facials, which’ll bring in new customers.”
“You’re right.” Bo’s sensible advice made Maggie feel calmer. “Thanks, cher. Je t’aime tellement.”
“I love you so much, too.”
By the end of the conversation, Maggie had reached Crozat B and B. She pulled into the graveled lot next to the spa and parked. She found her friend Mo Heedles at work behind the spa’s receptionist desk. “I canceled all the massage appointments,” Mo said. “Word’s out in town about how those MacDowells are trying to steal your art studio, so I can pretty much guarantee that the locals won’t be paying Miss Susannah-Thinks-She’s-All-That a visit. Of course, visitors still might.”