Murder in the Bayou Boneyard

by Ellen Byron

  “I heard he was gonna sell to Harbor. Told you I know what all goes on around here.” Maggie gave a slight nod but didn’t say anything, instead waiting for Breem to find the strength to continue. “Chemicals. Don’t need more of ’em on the River Road. Went to try and talk sense into the man. He got mad. Pulled a gun and yelled at me to get off his property. I didn’t take to that and yelled back. He went to shoot, I grabbed the gun, bullet ricocheted off a rock and got him in the side.”

  “So you took the gun and hid it?”

  “Coward’s way out. I was gonna own up to it. Turn myself in. But then this.” Breem winced. He motioned to the cup of water, and Maggie helped him take another rejuvenating sip. “Land. Lifeblood of a town. Preserve it or leave it to nature.”

  “Like with the Dupois gardens, Mr. Dupois?”

  Bo shifted position again. The caretaker stared at her. Then he formed a shaky smile. “You know.”

  Maggie nodded. “When I was at your house that one time, you asked me to hand you a book. I did. It was in French. From what I heard of the man who claimed to be Walter Dupois, he wasn’t much of a reader, if he could read at all. Walter Dupois went off to college and came back a young man. A young man who kept to himself. And I’m guessing who, like his family, wanted to shut away the world. Especially after his one love, his wife, left him.” She gestured to Bo. “My fiancé is a detective. He’s been looking into the real Walter Breem’s past. He was an uneducated day laborer who liked to drink and party with women. And he definitely didn’t speak French. But you know who did? Etienne Dupois. Fluently. In fact, he majored in it at Columbia University.”

  Dupois took in Maggie’s revelation. “Always knew you were a smart girl. I’d be working on the land when you and your friends walked by on the way to school. Heard the way you talked. And how kids teased you for being a smarty-pants. And artsy. I could tell it hurt. I felt bad for you.”

  Exhausted, Dupois closed his eyes and took a few shallow, raspy breaths. Maggie took the old man’s hand. It felt like bones and a thin layer of skin. “I wish I had known,” she said. “We could have been friends.”

  “Least we are now.”

  “Yes.” Maggie gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “We are.”

  Dupois closed eyes again. Each breath he took sounded harder to release. The nurse tending to him came into the room. She was followed by Father Prit, Pelican’s beloved local priest, who greeted Maggie with an empathetic nod. The nurse and Father Prit examined the readings on the room’s monitors. “It won’t be long,” the priest said. “I’ll stay.”

  “I will, too,” Maggie said.

  And she sat by Etienne Dupois’s bedside holding the old man’s hand until he drew his last breath.

  * * *

  Pelican laid native son Etienne Dupois to rest on a day darkened by lowering gray and black clouds. With the real Walter Breem’s body discreetly reinterred in a nearby cemetery, Etienne Dupois was placed next to the memorial tomb for the fan dancer who’d broken his heart and hastened his descent into living as a recluse. Gran theorized, “Knowing what we do of the Dupois history, I believe that was their natural inclination. It never would have occurred to any of them, including Etienne, that the problem lay within the family and not with the world around them. A strain of depression and possible mental illness passed from one generation to the next.”

  After a somber ceremony, the Crozats hosted a luncheon for the attendees in the tent housed on the B and B grounds. Being that this was Pelican, word quickly spread, and the luncheon transformed into a party, albeit a low-key one. Long folding tables sagged under the weight of casserole dishes and pie plates. Local musicians took to the tent’s stage to perform, sticking to ballads like “Jolie Blon.”

  “How soon before they break into dance songs?” Maggie said in a wry tone to Bo. She, her family, and a few friends had established a bulwark on the manor house veranda, where they were hydrating themselves with pitchers of Pimm’s Cups, courtesy of Tug.

  “An hour, maybe two,” Bo guessed. He pointed to a man dunning a frottoir, the washboard instrument favored by zydeco musicians. “Or any minute. Tuneece Labadie is already in position.”

  Maggie’s cell rang. “Great, another spam call. Ignoring.” She pressed the red button to end the call.

  “I wonder how Etienne would have felt about all this,” Ninette said, surveying the growing crowd. “I’m not sure he would have liked it.”

  “Probably not,” Maggie said. “He was a loner by nature.”

  “It’s still hard to believe no one figured out the switch between him and the real Walter Breem until now,” Ione said.

  “On the surface maybe, but when you drill down, not really,” Maggie said. “The Dupois family kept to themselves. They almost lived like it was still the nineteenth century. Etienne was the only child and his mother homeschooled him.”

  “He and I were about the same age, and I can’t say I ever laid eyes on him,” Grand-mère said.

  “Does anyone know what’s gonna happen to that old house of his and all his property?” Ione asked. “Not that I’d want it. Lord knows what’s going on in that old wreck of a place.”

  “The caretaker cottage where he lived is in good shape on the inside,” Maggie said. “That’s one of the reasons I got suspicious about whether or not Walter Breem was for real. The manor house probably needs a ton of work.”

  “It would be a shame to see it rot away,” Tug said. “Pelican needs all the housing it can get.”

  “At least Eula shut down that Gavin Grody,” said Mo, who was taking a break from her busy spa schedule. “No more Rent My Digs and fake rougarous.”

  “What a relief that is,” Ninette said. “Our guests who were looking for paranormal and supernatural activity may have enjoyed those sightings, but no one else did.”

  “I heard he’s buying up property in Ville Blanc now,” Lee said, “and they are not happy about it.”

  “Speaking of not happy in Ville Blanc,” Bo said, a smug gleam in his eye, “the one friend I got at Ville Blanc PD told me Zeke Griffith got reamed by his superiors for missing pretty much every clue to the real killers because he was so focused on pinning the crimes on y’all.”

  “Why?” Tug wondered. “What did we ever do to him?”

  “It’s not about us but what we represent to him,” Maggie said. “It’s a class thing. He called me an ‘upper-cruster.’ He’s got a chip on his shoulder about people with a lineage like ours thinking we’re better than everyone else.”

  Tug barked a laugh. “Seriously? If I’d known that, I would’ve shown him the bill I got for roof repair after the last big storm. Too bad our fancy-shmancy ‘lineage’ can’t pay it off.”

  Tuneece Labadie climbed onto the stage, and the band transitioned into an up-tempo zydeco tune. The dance floor quickly filled up. “So much for the respectful slow songs,” Bo said with a grin.

  “They’re good.” Maggie turned to her grandmother. “If Gaynell and the Gator Girls aren’t back from their tour, we should hire them for our wedding.”

  “Noted,” Gran said. “Lee and I have made a few other decisions that I hope you’ll sign off on. We thought we could have the meal catered by JJ and Junie’s, get the cake from Fais Dough Dough, and give truffles from Bon Bon Sweets as favors.”

  Maggie shook her head, amused. “After running all those wedding expo vendors through hoops, you’re going with what I suggested in the first place.”

  “Those vendors won’t suffer. I gave my list of the ones I liked to Sandy, now that she and Rufus will be planning a wedding.”

  “And Kaity helped me write up nice reviews of the places we visited and put them on the Internet,” Lee added. “Thank goodness I got a great-granddaughter who does all that posting stuff.”

  “I’ll be gifting you ladies with a special Here Comes the Beauty package for your big day,” Mo said to Maggie and Gran. “You can build your bachelorette party around it.” She pointed first at Bo and then Lee. �
��I’m also offering Man Up Massages. Ain’t no reason why every bachelor party has to end up at a strip club.”

  Gran’s phone sounded an alert. She checked it. “The B and B just got a wonderful reservation for next weekend. Listen to this—‘I read a review posted by the Paranormals and saw the video. Can’t wait to check out Crozat B and B for myself and for my TV show, Great Weekend Getaways. Richard Seideman, Executive Producer.’”

  This news was met with high-fives and woo-hoo!s from the group. “Great Weekend Getaways?” Mo said, thrilled. “That’s huge! It’s one of Travel TV’s most popular shows. I love it.”

  “It’ll be great for business,” Tug said, beaming.

  “It’s fantastic,” Maggie said. “But what review? And what video?”

  “Hold on,” Gran said, head bent over her cell phone. “I’m doing a search. Ah, found the review: ‘Our visit exceeded expectations. The Crozat family does everything possible to make their guests’ stays a wonderful weekend they’ll never forget. If you’re lucky, you might even run across a rougarou in the woods.”

  “That has to be from Cindy,” Maggie said, amused.

  “It is. But it’s signed Cindy and the Paranormals, so she’s speaking for all of them. Oh, and here’s the video. It’s from someone else. Look.”

  Gran held up her phone, and the others crowded around it. DruCilla appeared on the screen with Lovie on her shoulder. “Lovie, tell people what you thought about our visit to Crozat B and B.”

  “Acck!” Lovie squawked. “Lovie loooooved it! Acck!”

  “Awesome,” Maggie said. “Let’s hear it for Crozat’s favorite bird.”

  The others laughed and cheered. They clinked their glasses together, then fell into relaxed chatter. Maggie noticed a middle-aged man dressed in what looked like a Quentin MacIlhoney–pricey suit wandering around the Crozat grounds. He carried a briefcase that also looked expensive. “Does anyone know who that is? I saw him at the funeral. He looks lost.” She waved to him and called, “Hello. Can we help you?”

  “Yes,” the man said, relieved. He clambered up the manor house steps. “I’m looking for Magnolia Marie Crozat.”

  “That’s me,” she said, surprised.

  “Finally. I tried calling you from two different numbers, but you hung up and blocked both of them.”

  “I’m sorry. I thought you were a robocall. But you are …” she prompted him.

  “F. Jackson Stoddard. Jack for short.” The man extended his hand, and a mystified Maggie shook it. “I’m the late Etienne Dupois’s lawyer. Is there somewhere private we can talk?”

  * * *

  “Everything?” Maggie said, stunned. “He left everything to me?” She and her family had retreated to the B and B’s parlor office, where F. Jackson Stoddard informed her that she was Etienne Dupois’s sole heir. “I barely knew him.”

  “You knew him as well as anybody,” Stoddard said.

  “The first time I talked to him was, what?” She looked to her family and Bo for help, but they also appeared to be in shock. “Two, maybe three weeks ago?”

  “You gave him aid after he was attacked by a Gavin Grody. Mr. Dubois filed suit against him, by the way, and it’s pending. After you helped Mr. Dubois out, he called me and said he wanted to draw up a will. He’d never had one before. He found me in a phone book. Can you believe that? In this day and age.”

  “He never did want much to do with the modern world,” Gran said.

  The lawyer pulled a file out of his briefcase. “Here’s a copy of the will. I recommend that you read it, make notes of any questions you have, and then set up an appointment with me to finalize things. My card is attached to the will. The estate is substantial. But you’ll have to decide what to do with that white elephant of a manor house, as well as that abandoned lot of a garden.” He glanced at his high-end watch. “I best be going. I’m having dinner with an old friend from law school. Y’all know Quentin MacIlhoney?”

  “We do,” Tug said.

  “He wants to talk to me about joining his practice. Says the murder rate around here could give New Orleans a run for her money. Hard to believe. Seems like a pretty sleepy place. Anyway …” He again extended his hand to Maggie. “I look forward to hearing from you.”

  Stoddard departed. No one spoke. Then Maggie said, “Did that just happen?”

  “It did.” Tug held up the will, which he’d been perusing. “This is real. And the lawyer wasn’t kidding. It is substantial.”

  He handed the document to Maggie. “Will you look at it with me?” she asked Bo.

  “Of course.”

  “This is all … I don’t know what it is.” Ninette clutched her head in her hands. “Tug, honey, would you mind mixing up another pitcher of Pimm’s Cups? I could use one. Or many.”

  “I was thinking the same thing,” her husband responded.

  “I’ll get us fresh glasses.”

  Tug left for the veranda and Ninette headed to the kitchen. Maggie and Bo sat down at the parlor’s antique desk and thumbed through the will. Gran peered over her granddaughter’s shoulder. “My oh my. I guess our wedding is on you. I’m joking, of course.”

  “No joke, it is. And the roof repair, and our honeymoons, and … and … and …”

  Bo put a hand on Maggie’s shoulder. “Whoa, chère. It’s okay. You can slow down. Plenty of time to take a hard look at this and figure out the future. Right now, forget about the money and everything else. You made a difference in a lonely man’s life. Take a minute to let that sink in.”

  “Thank you.” Maggie opened the desk’s top drawer and placed the will in it. She closed the drawer, then turned to Bo. “I could use a hug.”

  “I can give you way more than that.”

  Bo took Maggie in his arms. Gran headed for the door. “As a cartoon character once said, ‘Exit, stage left.’ I have some calls to make. I need to confab with Lia and Kyle about the flavors of our wedding cake. I think a tasting might be in order.”

  * * *

  It was dark when the funeral luncheon–turned–party finally wound down. Maggie walked Bo to his SUV. “I’ve been thinking about the Dupois manor house. I read an article on something called co-living. Where people have separate living quarters but share common areas like a kitchen and rec room. Maybe I could hire Chret Bertrand and his crew to fix up the house for that kind of arrangement.” Chret was her friend Gaynell’s boyfriend and an ex-Marine who now ran a successful construction business staffed solely with fellow veterans. “It would give people who feel like they’re being priced out of Pelican a chance to stay here.”

  “Magnolia Crozat, landlady,” Bo said, laughing.

  She wrinkled her nose. “I hadn’t thought about it that way.”

  “It’s a fantastic idea,” he said, kissing her forehead. “Something to talk about when the time is right. But we both need some rest after the last few days. The last few weeks.”

  He pulled Maggie into his arms, and they shared an embrace. Bo reluctantly let go. He climbed into his car and took off for home. Rather than tuck herself in for the night, however, Maggie pulled out her car keys. She got in the Falcon, turned on the engine, and backed out of the parking area.

  * * *

  Maggie stood in front of Etienne Dupois’s tomb. The cemetery was silent but peaceful. Any sense of danger around the Dupois estate had dissipated. The stillness brought to mind a quote from her favorite novel, Wuthering Heights: “I lingered round them, under that benign sky; watched the moths fluttering among the heath, and hare-bells; listened to the soft wind breathing through the grass; and wondered how anyone could ever imagine unquiet slumbers, for the sleepers in that quiet earth.”

  Maggie dropped to her knees. She crossed herself and recited the Lord’s Prayer, then placed a hand on the tomb. “Bonjour, Etienne. I’ve thought a lot about what you said to me about the land before you died. Preserve it or leave it to nature. I wanted to let you know that I will preserve your home. But I will let nature reclaim the Dup
ois gardens. You made me the custodian of your family’s heritage, and I will do everything in my power to live up to that honor.”

  She rose and returned to her car. Maggie drove toward home but stopped across the River Road from Crozat B and B and got out of the car. She hiked up the levee, a full moon and clear night sky lighting her way. At the top, she perched on a log left over from the Crozat Christmas Eve bonfires on the levee and contemplated how much her life had changed in the year plus since she’d retreated to her family’s ancestral home in failure mode, thanks to a disastrous relationship and career crisis. Now she had friends. A fiancé. A future. There had been a time when Maggie couldn’t imagine living out her life in Pelican. Now she couldn’t imagine leaving it.

  She gazed at the river below, winding its lazy way past New Orleans to the Gulf of Mexico. Behind her lay the quaint streets of her hometown. Locals might joke that their small village was a Cajun Brigadoon. But unlike Brigadoon, Pelican, magical as it might be, would never disappear into the mists of time. One generation would beget another for time immemorial.

  “Yes, we Peli-can.” Maggie murmured the town’s proud slogan to the wind. “Now and forever.”

  Lagniappe

  The Dupois plantation and garden is inspired by a massive plantation that once dominated Louisiana’s Great River Road, an estate so grand it was nicknamed Le Petite Versailles. Built by Francoise-Gabriel “Valcour” Aime, who was considered the wealthiest man in the South during the early to mid 1800s—and earned himself the nickname “the Louis XIV of Louisiana”—the plantation’s twenty-acre garden was particularly legendary, with flora imported from around the world. Exotic fish floated in an artificial lake. Violets covered a manmade hill that featured a Chinese pagoda. Bridges spanned a bucolic stream. Aime also built the iconic Louisiana plantation, Oak Alley, and eventually purchased Felicity and St. Joseph plantations for his daughters.