by Ellen Byron
“It’s been in the rules since the contest started.”
“Yes, but now it’s the twenty-first century. And a girl shouldn’t be punished because she got into trouble.”
“The rule does its job of ferreting out contestants with poor judgment.”
“I don’t think—”
Gerard, losing his patience, threw a hand up in the air to stop Maggie from arguing. “It’s a moot point because we all know Belle Tremblay will be our pageant queen.”
“Wha-wha-what?” Maggie, outraged, sputtered. “Are you telling me the winner is predetermined, and this whole thing is a farce?”
Gerard sucked in a breath. “No, I’m saying, given Belle’s accomplishments and pedigree, I can’t imagine a better contestant.”
“Excuse me, but—”
“Ignore him, Maggie,” Robbie said. He glared at Gerard. “The rest of us will make sure every contestant gets a fair shot.”
“I’m not saying they won’t,” Gerard replied. “But you’ll see I’m right. She’s lovely and talented. Plus, her pedigree is impeccable.”
“You make her sound like a schnauzer at a dog show,” Maggie said. Mo held a napkin over her mouth to cover a laugh.
“Nooo.” Gerard elongated the word in a show of exaggerated patience. “She’s a Tremblay and Savoy on her father’s side and her great-great-grandparents were a Boudreau and a Favrot on her maternal grandfather’s side, descended from two of the founding families of Pelican.”
“Names from a hundred years ago shouldn’t mean anything now.”
“Spoken like an infernal millennium, or whatever you’re calling yourselves these days. Your entire generation needs a good spanking.”
Maggie glared at him and pulled at her skirt, which had attached itself to the brocade upholstery of the sofa upon which she was seated. Her traditional getup hadn’t deflected the man’s dismissive attitude. Mo put a hand on her knee. “A little advice, my new friend. Never get in a pissing match with a skunk.”
Gerard pursed his lips. “I’ll choose to ignore that tasteless remark.” He adjusted his reading glasses as he perused a list attached to a clipboard. “All we have left to do tonight is a group photo for that beast known as social media. Maggie, you’re the youngest—”
“Not by much,” Mo hastily interjected.
Gerard ignored her. “So you’re in charge of making sure the Historical Society gets some press from this event.”
“You do know I’m only filling in for Gran’ until she gets better,” Maggie reminded him. “And she’s getting better every minute.” I hope, I hope.
“Please,” Robbie said. “It’s one less chore he’ll dump on the rest of us.”
“Alright,” she said, caving out of sympathy for the beleaguered businessman. “But I don’t have a selfie stick.”
“I do.” Mo pulled one out of her purse. “I got my own PR to worry about, so I never miss a chance for some self-promo.”
Maggie attached her phone to the selfie stick, and the other judges huddled around her. “One, two, three—smile.” The judges did so, and Maggie snapped a photo burst. As soon as she finished, the judges dropped their smiles and broke apart.
“I’m officially adjourning tonight’s meeting,” Gerard said. “Tomorrow we have interviews with contestants scheduled at the end of the school day. Please be on time.”
“Before everyone goes,” Constance said, “I have a picture of this year’s crown. I think it’s particularly lovely.”
Constance pulled a photo from a folder and passed it around, to murmurs of approval. “It’s spectacular,” Maggie had to admit. And it was. The front of the crown rose a majestic eight inches from its base. It was festooned with a rhinestone gumbo-filled black pot resting on a log fire made of sparkling yellow and orange rhinestones. For the first time in her life, Maggie imagined herself wearing such a fancy headpiece. She pulled out her cell and snapped a photo of the crown, then texted it to Bo with the message “Now I want one.” A few seconds later, he texted her back: “Lol! Hypocrite.”
Post-meeting chatter between the judges was interrupted by the arrival of Ninette, who carried a frosted King Cake on a platter. “I was testing a new filling for my King Cake and would love some volunteers to let me know how it is.”
There was a chorus of eager yeses. While Ninette cut the cake, Mo handed postcards to Maggie and Constance. “I’m having a Veevay Vivacious You Party. We’ll drink champagne, try products, and get all pretty. Tell your friends. It’s the perfect girls’ night out.”
“Sounds fun,” Maggie said. “I’m a bit of a sucker for beauty products.”
“Then you are my new best friend,” Mo declared. She threw an arm around Maggie’s shoulder and gave her a squeeze.
As the judges enjoyed their cake, Maggie wandered over to her mother. She was a prisoner of Gerard, who was fawning over Ninette. “Absolutely delicious. This has to be one of the Crozats’ most treasured heirloom recipes.”
“Actually, I clipped it from one of those celebrity chef magazines they sell at the market,” Ninette said politely. “I’d best be putting the rest away before it goes stale.”
Ninette extricated herself from the unctuous judge, leaving him to Maggie, who searched for a topic that might be of mutual interest and drew a blank. She finally blurted out, “So, they still haven’t identified the man who died in the bayou behind our house. Have you heard about that?”
Gerard’s whole body tightened. “Only gossip.”
“It’s sad no one seems to know who he is. The police are working on it, though.”
“Seems like a waste of time. I’m sure he’s simply some transient from New Orleans. Pelican PD must have more important things to do.” Gerard checked his watch. “Constance, we need to go.”
The judges said perfunctory goodbyes, and then Mo and Robbie followed the Damboises out of the manor house. Maggie replayed her exchange with Gerard in her mind. She closed her eyes and painted a mental picture of his body language. Then she picked up her phone and texted another message to Bo: “Gerard Damboise knows something about the murder victim.”
Chapter 4
Seconds after the text went through, Maggie’s phone rang. “Talk to me,” Bo said. “What did you pick up from this guy indicating he might be a lead?”
“It’s only an instinct—”
“And yours are pretty good.”
“He got very uncomfortable when I brought up the mystery man. Then he tried to end the conversation as fast as possible.”
“I’ll bring him in for questioning.”
“Do me a favor and wait a little while. I don’t want Gerard connecting me to this in any way. I’m picking up a lot of hostility among these judges. The way things are going, you might end up with a few more murders on your hands.”
“Oh man, I do not have time for that. I’ll give this Damboise guy a call in the morning and have him in about lunchtime. Hey, buddy, that black pot’s not an ashtray—it’s an heirloom. Flick your cigarette somewhere else. Sorry. Ru has his deadbeat friends over.”
“I’m more concerned about something else. Tell me you don’t have your own black pot.”
“Of course I do. Me and every gumbo- and jambalaya-lovin’ man in Louisiana has one. My baby’s been handed down through generations, just like your dad’s.”
“Your baby?” Maggie whimpered.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Except I just got a bleak vision of my future.”
Bo chuckled. “I can guarantee you it will include some fine cast iron cooking.”
Bo signed off, and Maggie decided to check on Grand-mère. She made her way to the Rose Room, where she found Gran’ being tended to by her octogenarian boyfriend, Lee Bertrand, proprietor of Pelican’s lone service station. “Look, chére. Lee brought me flowers and chocolates, like it was Valentine’s Day.” Gran’ proudly showed off both.
“Every day I spend with you is Valentine’s Day,” Lee said.
�
�Coming from anyone else, that line would engender an eye roll,” Gran’ said with a laugh.
“I’ll try to stick to flowers and not flowery language,” Lee responded.
“Hey, Maggie, I hear you’re a pageant judge now.”
“Only until Gran’ gets better,” Maggie said, adding hopefully, “which will probably be any day now, right?” Gran’ answered Maggie’s question with a sneeze and a phlegmy cough.
“Guess who entered the contest?” Lee said. “My great-granddaughter Kaity. Since she and her grandmama, my daughter Ginnevra—we call her Gin cuz it’s short for her name, and it’s her beverage of choice … Where was I?”
“You were saying that since Gin and Kaity have been living with you,” Gran’ gently prompted.
“Right. Since they moved in with me on account of the flood, they’re considered residents, and she’s eligible. Gin’s super excited.”
“What about Kaity?” Maggie was wary of the mothers Gran’ referred to as “momtestants.”
“Oh, she’s excited too. She hears the crown is ‘to die for.’” Lee stood up. “I’ll be back tomorrow, Charlotte. You make sure and get your rest.”
Lee blew Gran’ a kiss, gave Maggie a small salute, and took off. Maggie sat on the edge of the bed and leaned in to give Gran’ a hug. Gran’ gently pushed her back. “Oh no you don’t,” she said. “I get what you’re doing … trolling for germs.”
Maggie opened her mouth to protest and then stopped. “Busted,” she admitted. “This judging gig is rough. I don’t know if I can make it through without blowing up at Gerard Damboise. He’s already trying to force a winner down our throats.”
“Who?”
“Some girl named Belle Tremblay.”
Gran nodded. “Ah, she’s a Tremblay. Now I see what’s happening. Gerard is obsessed with growing the Historical Society into an actual museum housed in an impressive historical location, and he’s constantly trying to raise funds for that. He once tried to pressure old Adella Poche into bequeathing the Society her Creole cottage, which has been in the Poche family for generations. Adella’s son Rex threatened to clock Gerard, which put a stop to that, although I think Rex might reconsider Gerard’s offer when Adella passes, because I can’t imagine he’d give up the glamour of life in New Orleans for a homestead in our quiet little village.”
Gran stopped to take a breath. “Anyhoo, Gerard’s been cozying up to Jules and Pauline Tremblay for years. He’s desperate to have them donate memorabilia and antiques to the Historical Society, especially items from Pauline’s ancestors, who were Boudreaux and Favrots. Artifacts from founding families like that are particularly important in terms of attracting donors who like to feel they’re hobnobbing with the gentry.”
“Aren’t the Crozats and Doucets founding families too?”
“Yes, and we’ve donated, of course, and will again. But Gerard knows better than to keep bothering me. In fact, I know a way to prevent him from bothering you as well. I’ll give him a call. I doubt he’d want the town to know that in his off hours he tries on the clothes displayed at the Society. Particularly the Confederate general’s uniform.”
Maggie gaped at her grand-mère. “How do you know that?”
Gran fluffed a pillow behind her and affected regal stature. “Chére, I’m the town doyenne. It’s my job to know everything. And equally important to know when to use it.”
* * *
Before heading to work the next morning, Maggie stopped at the Crozat’s garage. Chret Bertrand, her friend Gaynell’s boyfriend and Lee’s great-nephew, had started a small construction business employing his fellow military veterans. She found him surveying the building’s flood damage with his friend Jayden Jones. Maggie exchanged a hug with Chret and gave Jayden a warm greeting. Jayden, a reserved African American man who seemed older than his twenty-two years, returned her greeting with a small smile and a nod. When the Crozats had found out Jayden had been left homeless by the flood, they’d invited him to stay with them in the manor house. He’d refused but accepted their loan of a tent and a spot to pitch it.
“I’m sorry we haven’t been around. We’ve had a lot of maydays since the flood,” Chret said. He placed his hand on the lower half of the garage wall, right below the damp line marking where the floodwaters had stopped their rise. “This has hardly dried at all. We’re gonna have to take the walls down to the studs. I’ll also rent industrial fans to dry out the wood. Last thing I want to do is trap any moisture inside the walls.”
“Amen to that,” said Maggie, who’d grown up with the moldy aroma of a centuries-old home.
“We’ll go ahead and order what we need, since it’ll take time to get everything here. I’m putting Jayden in charge of this project.”
“If that’s all right with you, ma’am,” Jayden said.
“The only thing that’s not right about it is you calling me ‘ma’am.’”
For the first time since Maggie met the former soldier, he looked flustered. “I’m so sorry, ma’am—I mean—”
“Maggie,” she said, smiling to reassure him.
“Yes, ma’am—Maggie.”
Maggie glanced around the damaged building and frowned. “We’re really strapped for cash, so all we can afford is the most basic work to keep this place from being a total loss. Turning it into a spa is a pipe dream for now.”
“It’ll happen,” Chret said, expressing a confidence Maggie didn’t feel.
“I hope so. It’s so hard for us to compete with the bigger operations around here like Belle Vista. And the flood sure hasn’t helped. Anyway, I better get to work. See y’all later.”
“Tell Gaynell we’re gonna celebrate her new position at Doucet,” Chret said. I’ll give Bo a call, and we can all celebrate together.” He motioned to Jayden. “Maybe we’ll even get this guy a date.”
Jayden looked down at the ground. Maggie felt a stab of sympathy for the young man. “We don’t have to make it a dating thing,” she said. “Just a group of friends going out to pass a good time.”
Chret, who was working through his own post-service issues, had the sensitivity to pick up on Maggie’s cue. “Exactly. Just friends hanging out.” He gave Jayden a fond clap on the shoulder. “We best get back to what we were doing.”
Maggie said goodbye to the vets and took off for Doucet. But her mind was on Jayden. She knew nothing about his past, but it was clear to her the former soldier harbored pain.
* * *
When a steamboat dislodged a tour group twice as large as originally expected, Maggie had to split her time between giving tours and running the busy gift shop register. Ione let her leave early for the pageant interviews, but she still bounded into Crozat’s front parlor with only moments to spare.
Gerard eyed her casual clothes with distaste. “We can’t expect our contestants to maintain a grooming standard if we don’t adhere to one ourselves,” he scolded her.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t have time to change,” Maggie said, somehow managing to temper her annoyance. Then she had a brainstorm. “And I learned last night the great-granddaughter of my grand-mère’s boyfriend is a contestant. So, I’m afraid I’m going to have recuse myself from judging due to conflict of interest.”
Maggie gave herself an imaginary pat on the back for sounding so official, but Mo laughed. “Oh, honey, if we disqualified judges who had a connection to contestants, there wouldn’t be anyone left to judge.” She patted a spot on the sofa next to her. “Pull up a sit.” Maggie, deflated, plopped down next to Mo.
“Besides,” Robbie said, “Gin has been one of my Park ’n’ Shop cashiers for years. If anyone was looking for a way out due to conflict of interest, it’d be me. Not that I am,” he added hastily.
“I want to go over the structure for this afternoon,” Gerard said. “The contestants and their mothers will wait in the hallway. We’ll go out and greet them to put everyone at ease. It can be an extremely tense situation. Then we’ll take the contestants, one by one, for a five-minute
interview. We’ve narrowed the field to six young women, of which we’ll choose three as finalists. Constance will lead the interviews. The rest of us will focus on evaluating the contestants. Any questions?” The others shook their heads. Gerard checked his watch. “It’s go time.”
The judges left the parlor and entered the hallway as a group. Mothers nudged their daughters to put away their cell phones and adopt good posture. “Hello, and welcome to the ninety-third annual Miss Pelican Mardi Gras Gumbo Queen contest,” Gerard intoned. “This year’s queen is sitting among you. The rest of you impressive young ladies will be her court. The Miss Pelican Mardi Gras Gumbo Queen Pageant is a glorious tradition in our historic town…”
While Gerard droned on, Maggie studied the women and teens perched or slouched in their seats. She recognized Gin from her similarity to her father, Lee. The woman’s smoker’s cough and heavily lined face attested to some hard living. She’d been married so many times that she’d given up taking her husbands’ surnames and gone back to Bertrand. Her granddaughter Kaity, who’d also taken to using Bertrand as her last name, had a friendly face and the strawberry blonde hair that ran in the family. Maggie noticed the girl across from Kaity had dyed black hair pulled back behind her ears to show cartilage piercings, and looked miserable. But it was the two women next to the pierced girl who caught her attention. Mo noticed Maggie fixating on them. “The one on the right is Pauline Tremblay, mother of Gerard’s pick for queen,” Mo said under her breath.
“I met her once briefly,” Maggie said, also keeping her voice low. “She works part-time for my friend Bibi Starke, who’s an interior designer in Baton Rouge. Pauline’s supervising the restoration of Grove Hall, my cousin Lia’s new place.”
“Pauline is fantastic; she did my house. But take a gander at the gal on Pauline’s left. That’s her cousin, Denise Randall. Interesting, huh?”