by Ellen Byron
In the morning, she called Bo as soon as she woke up. “Breem’s stable but still in critical condition,” he told her. “VBPD searched his house but didn’t find a gun or strychnine, so his arrest is on hold. He’s still a suspect in Susannah and Doug’s deaths, though.”
“Even though he’s a victim himself now?”
“Don’t look under that rock, chère. Not to be callous, but you want him to be a suspect. It means Ville Blanc is backing off you and your family. I gotta go. I’ll call you later.”
Whether Breem was under suspicion or not, Maggie vowed to stop by the hospital and see him when he was well enough to receive visitors. She showered and slipped on jeans and a V-neck T-shirt featuring the stylized rendering of the Crozat manor house that decorated her line of local souvenirs. Then she headed over to the house itself, where she helped her mother serve breakfast to their Paranormal guests before they embarked on a Pelican’s Haunted History tour led by the ever-industrious Helene Brevelle, who would also be giving the excited participants spiritual readings. But Maggie sensed an undercurrent of tension. Word of Breem’s stabbing had reached the group, engendering a debate about suspects and motives. “I can’t help thinking that my sighting of the rougarou was a harbinger of this tragedy,” Cindy said, unable to hide the humblebrag in her tone.
“Oh, will you stop with that,” Jerome, another member of the group, snapped at her. Others loudly seconded this.
“I was just making a point,” Cindy said, affronted.
“A point you keep making over and over again,” Jerome said. “You saw a rougarou. We get it. You don’t have to keep throwing it in our faces.”
“What?” Cindy huffed. “Like it’s my fault I did the work you were too lazy to do.”
“Hey, wait a minute—”
Maggie was about to step in when DruCilla appointed herself peacemaker. “Would y’all like to hear Lovie sing?”
“Yes,” chorused everyone except Cindy, who responded with a disgruntled “No.”
Lovie, who’d spent breakfast perched on DruCilla’s shoulder, entertained the guests with a song about worms going in and out of a body. Maggie remembered it from childhood, and it made her lose her appetite. But the others, with the exception of Cindy, seemed to enjoy the bird’s lusty rendition, and that’s what mattered.
Maggie volunteered to take on cleanup detail after breakfast. First she called Kaity Bertrand to report that Crozat, like the other B and Bs, was still being plagued by a rougarou. Kaity promised to share this with the rest of the B and B reps, which Maggie hoped would dissipate their hostility toward her family’s hostelry. Then she focused on mindless tasks that allowed her mind to wander, which in the past had led to unexpected insights into some of the murders bedeviling Crozat. Who would want to try and kill Walter? she wondered as she scraped scraps off a plate into a compost container. Was it revenge? Did someone think he murdered Susannah and Doug? Did they have evidence? If so, what was it? An hour later, the kitchen and dining room were sparkling clean and Maggie had a long list of questions. Unfortunately, she didn’t have an answer to a single one of them.
She walked through the wide hallway that ran the length of the manor house, allowing for breezes to ventilate the home on warm days. Maggie stepped outside onto the veranda. Rain had fallen during the night, and drops still clung to the large lawn that fronted Crozat. The air was redolent with the scent of fresh-cut grass. Maggie heard the repetitive squeak of the porch swing and looked over to see Emma rocking back and forth, a vacant look on her face. The stage manager clutched an unlit cigarette between the index and middle fingers of her left hand. She lifted the cigarette to her mouth, then seeming to remember it wasn’t lit, dropped her hand. Maggie approached her. “Emma? Are you all right?”
“I haven’t slept in … I don’t know … thirty-six hours?” Emma spoke in a dull, almost robotic tone. “Life never goes according to plan, does it? You do your best, and then …” She lifted the cigarette and dropped her hand again. “Doug was such a nice man. He put up with so much from that beeyotch Susannah. He was finally free of her. And that psycho crazy guy from the cemetery had to go kill him.”
Maggie sat down next to Emma. “We don’t know for sure that Walter Breem is the one who killed Doug.”
“Oh, please.” Emma’s voice was heavy with scorn. “The strychnine was growing on the guy’s property, so he obviously used it to kill Susannah. Doug must have figured this out, so then he had to go, too.”
“But why would Walter kill Susannah? I don’t think he even knew her.”
Emma shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe she looked at him wrong. I told you, he’s crazy.” She held up the cigarette. “I really need to light this. But I know I’m not supposed to smoke here.”
“No, not at any of these old wooden places. They’re all a fire waiting to happen. But why smoke? What happened to chewing gum?”
“I ran out,” Emma said. Her lower lip trembled. Then she began to weep.
Maggie put an arm around the young woman. “Let’s get you some gum. Come on.”
“O-o-kay,” Emma stuttered through her shuddering sobs.
Maggie led Emma to the Falcon and helped her get in. “Great, I knocked my purse over,” Emma said. “A bunch of stuff fell out.” She bent down and picked up a few items from the car floor with shaky hands. “I’m such a mess. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Maggie said. “It’s traumatic when someone you know is murd—” She stopped herself and chose a gentler path. “Dies unexpectedly.”
They drove to the nearest Park ’n Shop. Maggie insisted that Emma rest in the car while she bought the gum. She returned with it to profuse thanks from the stage manager, who immediately stuffed a few pieces in her mouth.
When the women got back to the B and B, they found Ninette waiting on the veranda. “There you are. I’m glad I found both of you.”
Maggie noted the look of concern on her mother’s face. “What’s going on, Mom?”
Ninette wrinkled her brow, deepening the fine lines of aging on her forehead. “I went over to the schoolhouse. The coroner released Doug’s body.” Maggie heard Emma whimper. “Bonnie and Johnnie are supposed to take him back to Canada tomorrow. Bonnie seems to be managing her grief, but Johnnie looks terrible. Worse than that … I think he’s drinking again.”
“He is.” Emma spit her wad of gum into a wrapper and balled it up. She took a new stick out of her purse, then shoved it back and pulled out a cigarette instead.
Maggie and her mother glanced at each other. “Oh, dear,” Ninette said. “I’m so sorry to hear that about Johnnie. Is there anything we can do?”
Emma shook her head. “His bottom wasn’t rock bottom. He needs to hit that. Until he does, there’s nothing anyone can do. Trust me, I know.” She gave a strangled, mirthless laugh. “Because, guess what? Turns out my bottom may not have been rock bottom either.”
Maggie and her mother watched the young woman slump off with her head down and shoulders sagging. “Is it my imagination, or is she taking Doug’s death unusually hard?” Ninette asked.
“It’s definitely not your imagination,” Maggie said. “Her reaction is pretty extreme for someone who barely knew the guy. Or so we think.”
Ninette’s cell pinged a text. She pulled the phone from her apron pocket. “Bonnie. She wants to know if we have any packing tape. I like hearing the word packing.” Ninette’s tone was hopeful.
“Unfortunately, she doesn’t appear to be heading back to Toronto.”
“Oh,” Ninette said, deflated.
“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you later. I have packing tape. I’ll bring it to her.”
“Thanks, chère. I need to make a batch of ghost cookies for the guests checking in this afternoon. A small group from the riverboat picked us as their weekend excursion.”
“Bless those nonrefundable add-on trips,” Maggie said.
“Oh yes,” Ninette said with a vigorous nod. “They’re keeping what’s left of the
old roof on this place over our heads.”
Maggie left her mother for the shotgun cottage, where she dug up a roll of packing tape that she then carried to the schoolhouse. Bags of trash were parked next to the building’s door, which was open, helping to dissipate the room’s rancid smell. Bonnie, clad in tight jeans and a clingy top, her strawberry-blonde hair pulled into a high ponytail, appeared much more functional than she had the day before. “Hi,” she greeted Maggie. She waved her inside. “I’m purging, and, for a change, I’m not talking about my last meal.” She noticed the awkward expression on Maggie’s face. “That’s a joke.”
“Oh.” Maggie relaxed. “To be honest, I wasn’t sure.”
Bonnie took the roll of tape Maggie offered her. “I mean, it’s not like I don’t purge. I just didn’t today. Which is why it’s a joke.”
“Ah.” Maggie faked a laugh.
Bonnie gestured to a couple of open boxes on the couch. “My dad’s stuff. I’m donating it. Is it okay if I leave it here?”
“Sure. I can bring it to the church. They sometimes give away clothes at the food pantry.”
Maggie watched while Bonnie ran tape over the top of the box. “Emma’s taking your dad’s death really hard.”
“We all are.”
“Yes. I mean, of course you and Johnnie are; he was your father. With Emma, though … I was under the impression she barely knew him. But maybe she knew him better than I thought?”
Bonnie slammed down the tape and glared at Maggie. “Can I please mourn my father without you turning this into an investigation?”
“Your father was murdered,” Maggie felt compelled to point out. “That actually requires an investigation.”
“By detectives, not some B and B waitress.”
Maggie managed not to snap back at Bonnie. She wasn’t done trying to mine intel from the blogger. “I’m sorry your trip here had to end in such a horrible way.” Bonnie had no way of knowing Maggie was privy to her purchase of Phyllida’s home, so she decided to lob this fact at the young woman and throw her off-balance. “I guess you’ll be back for the closing.”
“Huh?” Bonnie said, confused.
“For the house you bought.” Gotcha. Feeling smug, Maggie waited for Bonnie’s reaction.
“Oh. I thought you were talking about the land and the chemical companies.”
The conversation had taken a turn that threw Maggie, not Bonnie, off-balance. “Wha-wha—” she stuttered. “Are you saying you’re still going to sell the land?”
“Yeah.” She tossed a couple of men’s shirts into an empty box. “Why wouldn’t we? Once we bury Dad, I’m coming back to close the deal on a house I bought so I don’t have to keep living in this dump—”
Maggie gritted her teeth to keep from shouting, It wasn’t a dump until you moved in!
“—and I’ll meet with different companies who are interested in the property.” Bonnie stopped packing and attempted to fix a sympathetic gaze on Maggie. “I know this is hard on your family.”
“A little.” This time Maggie didn’t squelch the anger in her response.
“But I want you to know that I’m not gonna go back on my Dad’s offer to combine our properties for a better sale.”
“That is so generous of you.” Bonnie either didn’t notice or chose to ignore the sarcasm in Maggie’s tone. “You know, you keep saying I, not we. I assume Johnnie’s got as much say in this as you do.”
Bonnie picked up a can of shaving cream and tossed it into a nearby trash can. “We’re twins. I means we with us.”
We’ll see what Johnnie has to say about that. “I need to get going,” Maggie said. She headed toward the front door. “Have a safe flight.”
“Uh-huh.” Bonnie, distracted by an incoming text, eagerly checked her phone. Her face fell.
“No Gavin?” Maggie couldn’t resist saying.
“He’s super busy,” Bonnie said, her tone defensive. “And so am I.”
Bonnie slammed the door so hard it almost propelled Maggie down the schoolhouse path.
* * *
“We have to talk them out of it,” Tug said. The family was on the veranda waiting for the group from the riverboat. Maggie had broken the news about Bonnie’s determination to sell the MacDowell property. “We can’t run a vacation business next to a chemical plant or oil storage tanks. Or live next to one. I hate saying this, but if it was worst-case scenario and we couldn’t stop the sale, we’d have to sell too. We could put in a proviso that the company had to keep and maintain this house.” Tug gestured to the manor home. “Like Shell did with Ashland-Belle Helene. But that’s the best case in a worst-case scenario.”
The family lapsed into a glum silence. Even the scent of sugary goodness emanating from Ninette’s tray of ghost cookies didn’t lift their spirits. “I’ll tell you one thing,” Gran finally said. “Family or not, I am so not inviting those evil twins to our wedding.”
A minivan made a right turn off the River Road and rumbled down the plantation’s long driveway. “Game faces, everyone,” Tug said, and the family plastered on big smiles.
“I still think Johnnie’s the answer to stopping the sale,” Maggie said, as she grinned and waved at the tourists disembarking from the van. “I just have to track him down and talk to him.”
The new guests, a small group of retired teachers from Germany on their first visit to the States, proved clueless about Pelican’s recent misadventures, much to the Crozats’ relief. They chattered enthusiastically in heavily accented English during Maggie’s tour of the plantation and its outbuildings. She ended the tour at the spa, where the visitors lined up to book spa treatments with Mo. “I am wanting the Voodoo You package,” a spritely woman in her late seventies told Mo.
“That’s a wonderful choice,” the skin care maven enthused. “It’s part Swedish and part hot-stone massage, with stones blessed by our local voodoo priestess. You won’t find a treatment like it anywhere else on the planet, and you can quote me on that.” The other women oohed and aahed and clamored for their own appointments, much to Maggie’s delight. It reinforced her belief that ceding control of the spa to Mo Heedles was the best decision she could have made.
With the new visitors in Mo’s capable hands, Maggie set out on a hunt for Johnnie MacDowell. She’d sent a text to him hours earlier, but he’d never responded. Maggie followed his usual Zen walk path but didn’t run into him. She was about to give up when she heard someone retching in the woods. She pushed aside brush and ducked branches, hurrying toward the sound. She found Johnnie, covered with sweat, leaning against a tree at the edge of the bayou. “Oh, hi,” he said, slurring the two short words. “I’ve got a wee bit of a stomach thing going on.” He giggled. “Okay, that’s not true. I’m kind of a lot drunk. I don’t blame myself; I blame you.” He pointed at Maggie with a coquettish gesture. “But I shouldn’t be blaming you when I should be thanking you.” He held up an almost empty bottle of bourbon. “I’m not familiar with this brand—it must be a Southern thing—but it’s delicious. What a thoughtful gift.”
“That’s not from me, Johnnie,” Maggie said. “I know you’re in recovery. I would never give you liquor.”
Johnnie wagged at finger at her. “The card had your name on it, missy, so stop being modest.”
He stepped away from the tree, staggered, and fell to his knees, still holding the bottle. Maggie bent down and helped him to his feet. She held him around his waist and put one of his arms around her neck. “Let’s get you where you can lie down.”
They started walking, Maggie half dragging Johnnie. “Sorry,” he said with genuine embarrassment. “I’m not usually such an ugly drunk. Not sure what’s happening.”
“Maybe the liquor is hitting you harder because you’ve been sober for a while.”
“Yeah, maybe. I feel really dizzy. Like I could faint.”
Johnnie’s speech was thick and his eyes drooped. Maggie, anxious to reach the manor house before he passed out in her arms, tried moving faster
, but he was close to being dead weight. They finally reached the back door. Maggie freed a hand and gave the door a hard rap. “Coming,” Tug called. He appeared a few seconds later. “What the—”
“Just open the door, Dad. We’ll put him on the day bed in the office.”
Tug opened the door and relieved Maggie of her charge. She followed the two men into the office. Tug deposited Johnnie on the antique walnut day bed and the poet quickly passed out, releasing his grip on the bourbon bottle, which fell onto the room’s Oriental rug. “Poor guy,” Tug said, as he and Maggie watched Johnnie’s chest rise and fall with shallow breaths. “Your mama was right. He did fall off the wagon.”
“I think it’s more than that. I think he was drugged.”
Maggie used the corner of her T-shirt to remove the bourbon bottle from Johnnie’s tight grip. “Drugged?” her father asked. He scrunched his face, perplexed. “Why? And what are you doing?”
“This is evidence,” she said, referencing the bottle. “I think it’s spiked. Johnnie didn’t fall off the wagon. He was pushed. And someone tried to frame me for it.”
Chapter 20
An ambulance arrived within minutes of Maggie dialing 911. “You’re on a roll,” Cody Pugh told Maggie as he helped load the sick man into the emergency vehicle. “Counting Rufus, that’s two that didn’t leave Crozat in a body bag for a change.”
“Yay, us,” Maggie said, her tone dry.
Once Johnnie was on his way to the hospital, Maggie led her father through the woods to the Crozat schoolhouse. Several large garbage bags sat next to the building’s door. Maggie peeked through a window. “Good, no Bonnie. We won’t have to explain what we’re doing.”
“What a stench,” Tug grumbled. “Too bad we didn’t bring the masks we use in the attic.”
“I’m hoping we won’t be at this too long,” Maggie said. “If Johnnie received the bourbon as recently as I think he did, the card that came with it should be on top of the garbage.”