Mardi Gras Murder

by Ellen Byron

  “That woman is a cocktail psychic,” Maggie said with fervor.

  “She is indeed.” JJ winked and walked away.

  Bo took a swig of beer as Maggie sipped her perfectly mixed Pimm’s Cup, a refreshing blend of Pimm’s Number One, ginger ale, and lemonade. “How was Mo’s party? Did you pick up any other intel?”

  “Well … Robbie Metz’s wife, Stacy, has issues.” Maggie relayed her impression of the convenience store owner’s wife and the brief moment of kleptomania she’d witnessed. “Gin was right there to put the stolen jar back. Like it was routine for her.”

  “Stacy’s condition doesn’t appear to be public knowledge. So the Metzes have a secret. And secrets and murder are often not-so-strange bedfellows.”

  “And ‘secrets’ was Gerard’s last word to me. Back to the party: there’s Denise, who’s got a schizy situation where she adores her cousin Pauline yet is obsessed with one-upping her. There’s nothing secret about that drive of hers. And she sure wasn’t a fan of Gerard’s.”

  Bo took a few more swigs of beer. “Okay, so we have Denise, possibly Mo or Robbie Metz. And Gin, who’s got a temper on her. Can’t leave out Constance, because she’s the spouse. I almost forgot Denise’s cousin Pauline. We don’t know much about her.”

  “She’s the lead decorator on Lia and Kyle’s house, and they have nothing but positive things to say about her.”

  “Then maybe she can give us some insight into Denise and whether or not she might ever go off the rails. And we can’t rule out your tent guest, Jayden.”

  “Oh, I so don’t want it to be him.”

  “You have a soft spot for vets, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do, and I’m proud of it. I’m also proud of the fact you trust me enough to have a conversation like this.”

  “You’ve proven yourself to have great instincts. Even Rufus admits that. Plus, you can insinuate yourself into situations I can’t. You’re welcomed at venues where we’re guests non grata, which gives you a shot at hearing and seeing things people hide from me, and the police in general. So if I have to take a dodgy route to nail a perp, well, c’est la vie.”

  “I like the way you think.” Maggie noticed his bottle was empty. “You finished your beer. Want another one?”

  “No. I don’t know. Maybe.”

  Bo winced and rubbed his forehead. Maggie placed a soft hand on his callused one. “What’s bothering you?

  “That dang artist’s eye of yours. Don’t miss a thing, do you?”

  “This was pretty much a gimme.”

  “It’s Whitney.” Bo paused. “She had a miscarriage.”

  “Oh. Poor thing—that’s terrible.”

  “It was early on. They’re going to keep trying.”

  “I assume this means she and Zach worked through their problems. I hope it happens soon for them.”

  “Right, me too. But…”

  “But?”

  “It’s a lot to throw at Xander.”

  “There’s nothing to throw at him yet. And…”—Maggie searched for a way to put her next thought delicately—“it wouldn’t hurt to start getting him used to the idea of having siblings.”

  Bo massaged his temples. “It’s complicated. Way too complicated to talk about when I have a bruiser of a headache.”

  “So, not a good night to invite you home with me?” Maggie said, keeping her tone suggestive but light.” “Gran is sleeping in the manor house while she’s recuperating.”

  Bo shook his head regretfully and stood up. “I think I need about twenty hours of sleep.” Maggie rose from her chair, and Bo put his arms around her waist. “I’m sorry I’m such crappy company. I love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  They kissed. Then he pulled away. “I gotta take off. Rufus is having his gang of miscreants over again tonight, and I can’t remember if I locked the guest room door. Last thing I need is to find one of them passed out on my bed, which has been happening on a regular basis. I’ll call you.”

  Bo left and Maggie moved from the table to the bar. Old Shari studied her and then announced, “I feel you for a double shot.” She poured bourbon into a shot glass and pushed it toward Maggie, who downed it.

  “You’re glum, chére,” JJ said.

  “I got an ‘I’ll call you.’”

  “From Bo? No worries there. You know he will.”

  “Yes. But there’s weirdness.” Maggie shared their conversation with JJ. “I’m trying to understand exactly why it’s complicated. I’m glad Bo and Whitney have a strong relationship for exes—but is that what’s complicating our relationship? Or is this purely about Xander? I know if Whitney and Zach had a baby, a sibling might be difficult for him to adjust to, at least at first. But I think he would eventually—and even benefit emotionally and socially because of it.”

  JJ motioned to Old Shari, who added a shot to Maggie’s glass. “It’s not just about Whitney and Zach having a baby, is it? You want your own someday.”

  “Yes.” Maggie looked down at her drink. “I do. I was an only child. It’s lonely. And sometimes you play catch-up emotionally. A kid on the playground says something nasty or pushes you, and you take it to heart. It stays there. You don’t know that’s what siblings do sometimes and then quickly brush off. I want a couple of kids, and if Bo doesn’t, we need to have that conversation.”

  “But at the right time,” JJ said. “Which may not be right now with what all’s going on in his life.”

  “I know. But I can’t put it off too much longer, says the gal who’s taken to tweezing her gray hairs. Why is it always the woman who has to bring up the baby thing?”

  Maggie groaned and knocked back her shot.

  * * *

  The next morning, Maggie woke up, showered, and went into the cottage kitchen, where she found her mother sitting at the table with a cup of coffee and a copy of the Pelican Penny Clipper. “Your father’s in my kitchen, doing yet more tinkering with his gumbo recipe. Good thing we don’t have guests right now; I might have scared them away yelling at him.”

  “Your yelling is everyone else’s conversational tone, so I wouldn’t worry about that.” Maggie poured herself a cup of coffee and motioned to the newspaper. “Anything salacious in there today?”

  “No. Non-update updates on Gerard’s murder. A plea for information on our John Doe. Little Earlie’s in his serious journalist mode, which is good for the rest of us. I made banana pecan pancakes with brown sugar butter.”

  “I thought I smelled something incredibly delicious.” Maggie took a plate from the drying rack and piled pancakes onto it. She’d need sustenance for the lie she was about to tell.

  After polishing off the stack of pancakes on her plate and resisting the urge to go back for seconds, Maggie retreated to the living room. She took a deep breath and tapped a number into her cell phone. “Petit Plastic Surgery,” a chipper young woman’s voice answered. “We make what’s good even better. Can I help you?”

  Maggie ramped up her best ditzy Southern belle accent. “I sure hope so. I messed up. I made an appointment for my boss but forgot to write it down. She’s gonna be soooo mad at me if I don’t get it onto her calendar.”

  “No problem, I can do a search for it. What’s her name?”

  “Maureen ‘Mo’ Heedles.”

  Maggie heard the sound of tapping on a computer keyboard, and then silence. “I’m sorry. I show nothing under that name.”

  “Really?” This was unexpected. Had Mo somehow figured out her appointment was exposed and cancelled it? “I think it was next Tuesday maybe?”

  More keyboard tapping. “Nope. Nothing. Are you sure you have the right doctor?”

  “Totally sure.” Maggie had a brainstorm. “Can you check under the name ‘Martha Stewart?’”

  “Oh, I don’t have to look that up. I remember the name because it’s the same as the famous lady’s. To confirm, the visit’s a follow-up to her liquid facelift procedure. How does she look? The bruising should have gone away
by now.”

  “She looks great. You’d never know she had any work done.”

  “That’s the goal.”

  Maggie thanked the receptionist and ended the call. She now knew Mo’s secret. The question was, had Gerard? And if so, had he somehow been using it to blackmail her?

  Chapter 12

  Although the holiday was still days away, several Doucet guides called in sick with Mardi Gras Fever, Louisiana’s most contagious disease. Maggie put her art restoration project on hold and once again struggled into her antebellum gown to lead tours. At the end of the day, she hustled into town for the talent portion of the pageant contest, which was being held in the St. Pierre Parish Historical Society’s permanent temporary home. The cavernous space offered better acoustics than the cozy environs of Crozat.

  Ironically, the Historical Society’s location—a former potato chip warehouse next to the Park ’n’ Shop—was the ugliest building in the lovely Cajun town. Maggie sympathized with Gerard’s obsession with finding a historically significant location. He must have found it frustrating to display Pelican’s treasures in an industrial setting that still smelled like lard.

  Maggie yawned as she parked, and decided she needed coffee. She went into the convenience store and picked up a large one, black. She poked around the aisles for a snack that wasn’t two-thirds artificial ingredients, settling on a bag of pretzels. As she stepped up to the cash register to pay, a voice behind her said, “I’ll get that.” She turned to see Jayden Jones standing behind her with a container holding four coffees. “Oh hey, Jayden.”

  Jayden met her greeting with a slight smile and nod. “I’m getting coffee for the guys I’m working with. We’re doing flood repairs at the Pelican police station.” He put down the coffee and pulled out his wallet.

  “You don’t have to pick up my tab.”

  “I should be doing more than that for all the kindness your family’s shown me.”

  Jayden paid, and then he and Maggie left the store. Pageant contestant Kaity waved from the parking lot, where she was exiting Gin’s car from the passenger side. “Hey, Maggie,” she said. Then her eyes lit on Jayden. “Hello.” She said. Her voice had the come-hither tone Maggie imagined a phone sex operator would have.

  “Hello,” Jayden responded politely.

  Kaity sauntered over. “I’m Kaity. We almost met at Crozat, and then all heck broke loose when my grammy got dissed by that other lady.”

  “Jayden Jones.”

  Kaity extended her hand with a flirtatious smile Jayden ignored. He gave her hand a hardy shake and dropped it, which Kaity didn’t seem too happy about. But she persevered. “I never did get to thank you for helping Gram and breaking up the fight.”

  “No thanks needed.”

  “Oh, I disagree.” Kaity amped up the flirt wattage on her smile.

  “Hey!” Gin’s voice crackled like a gun report. She jumped out of the car and pointed a finger at Jayden. “No consorting with a minor.”

  “I have no intention of doing so, ma’am.” Jayden’s response was polite, but a vein twitch in his neck told Maggie he felt otherwise. “Have a nice day, Maggie.”

  Jayden started for the police station. As he passed Gin, he gave her a small salute. “Ma’am.”

  Kaity gave her grandmother an angry look. “Thanks for embarrassing me to death.”

  “Put boys outta your head for two minutes, and go practice your talent.”

  Kaity harrumphed and stomped off. Maggie faced Gin. “You had no right going off on Jayden like that. It was—”

  “Racist?” Gin gave a mirthless laugh. “Two of my husbands were black. So were a couple of my daughter’s. Our husbands were good men who had the bad luck of marrying not so good women. It ain’t about race, Maggie. It’s about hoping and praying Kaity finds a better path than me and her mother. Who’s in jail for selling the opioids she got addicted to.”

  Maggie felt terrible. For someone with vaunted visual skills, you totally whiffed this. “Gin, I’m so sorry.”

  “No worries. Wavin’ it off.” Gin waved her hands in the air like she was chasing away a bee. “But that’s why this pageant is so important to us. So really, really important.”

  Gin ambled over to the warehouse, leaving Maggie feeling unsettled. What did Gin expect from her? And how far was she willing to go to get it?

  * * *

  O mio babbino caro, mi piace, è bello, bello.

  Vo’andare in Porta Rossa a comperar l’anello …

  Belle was in the middle of singing “O Caro Bambino,” the aria from Puccini’s Giani Schicchi that was every soprano’s go-to showpiece. Maggie couldn’t deny the teen was technically perfect, but her mind drifted between replaying the conversation with Gin and debating the best way to extract information from Mo about her appointment with Petit Plastic Surgery.

  Mi struggo e mi tormento! O Dio, vorrei morir!

  Babbo, pietà, pietà! Babbo, pietà, pietà!

  Belle finished the aria. The other judges burst into applause and a few “bravas.” Maggie noticed Mo wipe a tear from her eye and Robbie restrain himself from jumping up for a standing ovation. She pitied Allouette for having to follow this act. Then again, Allie had grown up with a mother who both basked in and resented the shadow of her more glamorous cousin, so maybe she was used to it.

  “Are we all settled after that bravura performance?” Constance asked. The judges nodded. “Magnolia, would you show in the next contestant?”

  Maggie left the audition area and headed to the waiting room. Allie and Belle were in the middle of what appeared to be an intense conversation. Maggie cleared her throat, but the girls didn’t notice. “Allie?”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  Allie turned away from her cousin to Maggie, then turned back. A look Maggie couldn’t identify passed between the girls. “Everything okay?”

  “Yes, fine. Belle was giving me some advice on my talent portion.” Allie hugged her cousin, and Maggie could swear she saw Belle’s eyes glimmer with tears. “I love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  Allie followed Maggie into the audition room. Maggie took her seat with the other judges and gave the teen an encouraging smile.

  “Um, I don’t really have a talent like Belle does. But I do write stuff. So, I thought I’d read one of my poems. This one’s called ‘The Magic of Yes.’” Allie pulled a piece of paper from the back pocket of her jeans, unfolded it, and began to read.

  There was magic in this room.

  When a song sang through the ceiling

  Like a sad garden of crystal played by the wind …

  The poem continued. It was beautiful, and Allie finished to a round of enthusiastic applause. She seemed surprised but happy by the positive response. “Thanks a lot—’bye,” she said, and ducked out of the room.

  “Alright, let’s choose a winner of the talent portion,” Constance said. “I think we can agree Kaity didn’t ‘bring it,’ as the kids say.” Kaity had already come and gone with her talent, which began as a monologue she’d memorized from a TV cop show and devolved into a much more interesting soliloquy about how she’d decorate the warehouse for a Harry Potter–themed wedding.

  “Yes, although I loved her party ideas,” Mo said. “She’ll be getting a call from me when I throw my Spring Veevay bash.”

  Maggie had to agree. “I think event planning may be her talent.”

  “So, it’s between Belle and Allouette,” Constance continued. “All in favor of Belle.”

  Three hands went up. Only Maggie’s didn’t. “Belle’s got a lovely voice, but I thought the performance was … proficient. Allie’s poem was stunning.”

  “I’m sure we all agree with you on that,” Constance said while Robbie and Mo bobbed their heads in unison. “But I don’t think we can call writing an actual talent, do you?” Robbie and Mo shook their heads.

  Maggie bristled at this attitude. “Writing’s not a talent? Seriously, Constance—”

  “Please cal
m down; I’m using talent in the most basic sense of the word. Belle got the majority vote. She wins this portion of the contest. I’ll let her know. Magnolia, you can tell the other two girls how much we enjoyed their work. We’re done for today.”

  Constance stood up, and Robbie and Mo followed her lead. Maggie stuffed down her resentment and approached the widow. “I haven’t had the chance to ask how you’re doing.” Constance responded with a small shrug, which gave Maggie zero information. She pressed on. “I truly admire your strength.”

  “That’s my stoic Yankee stock. My mother’s family was from New England, as Gerard never tired of reminding me.” Constance didn’t bother to hide the bitterness in her voice.

  “Have you made funeral arrangements? Grand-mère’s been asking.” Grand-mère hadn’t been, but Maggie needed to keep the conversation going if she was going to glean any more information from Constance.

  “I’ve already had him interred.”

  “You did?” Maggie was too surprised to dissemble.

  “Yes. Robbie told me how in the Jewish faith it’s considered disrespectful to leave a loved one unburied, and I thought it was a marvelous sentiment. He even had his rabbi perform a service. It was the most private of ceremonies. Gerard would have wanted it that way.”

  Maggie’s mind whirled as she tried to process this new information. She couldn’t imagine anyone who would have wanted a private ceremony less than Gerard. In the brief time she’d known him, he’d made it obvious he considered himself one of Pelican’s most illustrious citizens. She also considered it a good bet that the only thing Gerard would have wanted less than a tiny funeral was a Jewish send-off. And why the rush? Did Constance have something to hide? Or did Robbie?

  “Well, I guess Gerard will be honored by the essay contest,” Maggie said, regaining her composure.

  “Oh, he’ll be honored in many ways. Tomorrow there will be a front-page story in the Penny Clipper announcing an upcoming Historical Society exhibit on the Pelican orphan train. Dedicated to the memory of Gerard Damboise.”

  Who vigorously fought the idea, Maggie thought. The toxic underbelly of the Damboise marriage was beginning to depress her.