by Ellen Byron
“Can and will. But let’s make sure no one sees it leaving here. If whoever’s after the treasure is still around and knows you have the painting, you could be in danger.”
“Good point. There’s a lot of that going around right now.”
Maggie left Ione’s office for the gift shop, where she grabbed a lap blanket emblazoned with the logo she’d designed for Doucet. She then returned to her studio, packed up the supplies she’d need to continue the restoration, and took them to her car. When that was done, Maggie took the lap blanket and carefully wrapped it around the painting. She stepped into the hallway, glancing in both directions to make sure she was alone, then sprinted out of the building, continuing to check for curious passersby. Employees were busy leading tours, and any workmen on the property seemed to be at lunch. When she reached her car, Maggie opened the trunk of the Falcon and laid the painting flat on the trunk’s floor. The car’s red ragtop was down. Eager to make a fast escape, Maggie used a trick her grand-pére had taught her when she was a teen. Instead of opening the driver’s-side door, she hurdled over it into the front seat. Then she peeled out of the parking lot and took off for home.
* * *
As soon as Maggie got to the shotgun cottage, she ran the painting inside and then dashed over to the manor house to help her family check in the guests who were arriving pre–Mardi Gras. All shared how impressed they were with Pelican’s comeback from the flood, and the Crozats expressed gratitude for their support by gifting them with complimentary coffee mugs featuring a lovely illustration of the plantation manor house rendered by Maggie.
She was just returning to the kitchen, after serving the new arrivals wine and cheese in the front parlor, when her cell rang with a call from Mo. “Where the aitch-e-double hockey sticks are you?” her fellow judge demanded.
“At home helping my family. Why?”
“You’re supposed to be here.”
“Where’s ‘here’?”
“The Pelican High School auditorium. For the evening-gown portion of the contest. Get your sugar buns over here. We’ll wait for you.”
Mo ended the call. Maggie uttered an expletive that earned her a raised eyebrow from Tug, who was stirring yet another pot of gumbo, this time in Bo’s black pot. Steam rose from the pot, and with it the scent of onions, herbs, poultry, and meats. Gran’ sat at the kitchen table, sipping a hot toddy, while Ninette stirred a bowl of remoulade sauce to ladle on a shrimp and avocado appetizer. “Sorry, all—my judging duties call. I forgot I have to commit the dated and sexist act of judging how girls look in evening wear.”
“Count yourself lucky,” Gran’ commented. “There used to be a bathing suit portion. You dodged that bullet. Oh dear, a poor choice of words these days.”
“Go ahead, chére,” Ninette said. “We’ll be fine without you.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
Once again, Maggie ran to her car. The River Road was empty of traffic, so she flew to the high school, which lay on the outskirts of town. She parked and raced into the auditorium. It was empty save for the other judges—Constance included—who sat in the front row of the cavernous space. Although Maggie was relieved the contestants didn’t have to parade in front of gawking spectators, she’d wondered why the pageant bothered to utilize such a large space. “Makes the girls stand up straight,” Mo had said, to which Maggie responded, “Huh?” To which Mo said, “You’ll see.”
Constance patted the seat next to her. “Come. Sit.” Maggie sat down and tried to catch her breath. “Before we start,” Constance said, “I wanted to let you know I got your message about those files—the ones for Bridget Colleary and Jacob Seideman. I spent the day searching every location I could think of, but found nothing. I’m afraid I have no idea where they are.”
Maggie sighed. “That’s frustrating. But thank you for looking.”
“Do you think the mur—” Constance stopped, unable to say the word murderer. “Do you think whoever sent Gerard to meet his fate might have them?”
Maggie’s lips formed a thin line. “I think there’s a very strong chance they might.”
Mo climbed the stairs to the stage. “Just so y’all know, the evening gown portion is less about beauty and more about highlighting each contestant’s personal style. We’ll be focusing on what their choices tell us about them, as well as the grace and confidence with which they carry themselves.”
Mo gave the contestants, who were in the wings, a high sign and scrambled back to her seat. Belle glided onstage with the élan of a Miss America contestant. Her blonde hair was slicked back in a soft chignon. She wore a pale-blue chiffon evening gown with a lace bodice. The gown was fitted to the waist, and then flared out in a cloud of filmy fabric. “In the days of selfies and reality stars, teens take a risk when they make a traditional choice,” Belle said, reciting a prepared speech. “But it’s a risk I’m proud to take. The dress I’m wearing belonged to my mother, Pauline Boudreau Tremblay. She wore it when she herself won the crown of Miss Pelican Mardi Gras Gumbo Queen. Whether or not I’m lucky enough to win that title is not the point. The point is that I honor both my mother and a Pelican tradition by wearing this gown. And I promise to take a bigger risk: as much as this moment means to me, I will not be taking a selfie and posting it on the Internet.”
Belle turned and glided offstage to enthusiastic applause from three of the four judges. Maggie, not wanting to appear petty, joined them halfheartedly. There was a brief pause, and then Kaity Bertrand sashayed onto the stage. “Whoa,” Mo couldn’t help blurting. Kaity’s look was the polar opposite of Belle’s. Her hair, curly and wild, was dyed pink at the tips to match the Day-Glo pink of her skintight, mermaid-style satin gown, which featured a slit that ended mid-thigh and a bodice festooned with beads, rhinestones, and sequins. “Hey, y’all,” she greeted the judges cheerfully. “All I wanna say is thank you so much for giving me an excuse to get my Grammy to buy me this totally kick-butt dress. And FYI, I will be taking a whole bunch of selfies and posting them all over the Internet. Hollah!”
Kaity pulled a cell phone out of her cleavage, struck a pose, and snapped a picture. She gave the judges a thumbs-up and practically skipped off stage, or at least did as much skipping as could be accomplished in six-inch, silver platform heels.
“Oh dear,” Constance said.
“She gets points for honesty,” Robbie said.
Maggie sympathized with Kaity’s beleaguered grandmother. There was no way Gin could keep the sassy teen on a short leash.
There was another brief pause, and then Allie came on. Mo was right about the impact of a walk down the stage’s pseudo runway. It even took the slouch out of pageant-averse Allie’s posture. Her dark hair was styled into a 1920s-style bob. She wore a simple black gown of a shiny material Maggie couldn’t place. As Allie wended her way to center stage, the stage lights bounced off her dress. Constance gasped. “Oh my Lord. Is that dress made of trash bags?”
“Yes, ma’am, it is,” came Allie’s voice from the stage. “I created this dress from recycled trash bags. When I’m done wearing it, I can take it apart and use the bags for their original purpose. Ms. Heedles said our choices tonight were supposed to tell you about us. Belle and Kaity’s gowns are both beautiful. But neither of them is me. This is.” Allie gestured to the dress she’d constructed.
“Are you saying you’re garbage?” Mo asked, confused.
“No. I’m saying I’m practical. And resourceful. And proud to wear something that challenges the disposable nature of today’s society. Thank you.”
Allie left the stage for the wings. It was Maggie’s turn to clap while the other judges sat in shock. “What was that?” Constance sputtered.
“It was exactly what you asked for—a girl sharing who she is with us,” Maggie said.
“Hmph. She should save it for one of those Occupy something protests.”
“Let me check to make sure the girls are gone.” Mo scurried up the stairs and peeked in both sides of the stage’
s wings. “They went back to the dressing rooms. We’re good.”
Mo returned to the other judges. “Let’s make this quick. I have to get to a Veevay party full of women with sun damage. All in favor of Belle.” She, Constance, and Robbie raised their hands. “We have a winner.”
“Excuse me, but I think all the girls deserve a vote count,” Maggie said.
“Seriously? Okay, fine. All in favor of Kaity.” No hands went up. “All in favor of Allouette.”
Maggie’s arm shot straight up.
“Noted. Belle still wins. I gotta go.”
The judges left the auditorium and went to their cars. Maggie’s cell rang and she tapped a button to answer the call. “Hi. How’s New York?”
“Loud,” Bo said. “I get why it’s called ‘the city that never sleeps.’ Considering how noisy it is every dang minute, it’s an insomniac’s worst nightmare. I was thinking of you and wanted to call.”
“I’m glad.” Maggie got into the Falcon and settled back into its bench seat. “Have you found out anything about Ira Stein?”
“I’ll tell you one thing: he was a big old pack rat. There’s piles of God-knows-what stacked floor to ceiling, with paths between the piles. We found a ton of notebooks, and we’ve been going through them, trying to find the most recent entries. Which involves deciphering the handwriting of a man who was starting to lose his wits, according to our new friend Max, who also clued us in to the fact that Stein did his genealogy research at the local library. The library won’t let us near the computers without a search warrant, and even with one, they’re not too happy about the whole thing. Apparently, the only people tougher than the cops in New York City are the librarians. And Ru didn’t make friends with either branch of public servant when he told them all to move their butts because he needs to get home for Mardi Gras.”
“Oh boy. That must’ve gone over real well with the NYPD.”
“Yeah, I won’t get specific about where the lead detective told Ru he could stick a Sazerac. But we did find a whole file folder filled with clippings about the Louisiana orphan train, so we’re getting close to connecting the dots. Anything going on back home I should know about?”
“There was an incident at Doucet.” Maggie told Bo about the destruction of the plantation steps.
“Huh. Sounds like some treasure-seeking vandalism. Unless there’s a link between the painting and the orphans, I don’t see a connection to the Damboise case. But I don’t like that someone was spying on you.”
“Neither do I, believe me.” Maggie glanced out her car window. She saw night had fallen during the course of her phone call, and she was alone in the dark, unlit parking lot. “I better get going,” she said, suddenly nervous.
“Right. Be careful, okay?” There was a pause. “I do love you.”
“Please don’t say it that way.”
“What way?”
“Like there’s an unspoken ‘but’ at the end of the sentence. Goodnight.”
Maggie ended the call before Bo could respond. It had been a long, stressful day, and she wasn’t in the mood for whatever excuse or attempt at an explanation Bo might drum up. Feeling jumpy, she double-checked her car doors to make sure they were locked. Then she pulled out of the parking lot and prayed for a safe, uneventful drive home.
Chapter 21
After a restless night devoid of much sleep, Maggie set up shop in the shotgun cottage living room. She placed the painting on an easel, positioning it near a window to capture the natural light. Maggie scraped and wiped away the top layer for hours, exposing more and more of the underlying scene. There was no clue about where a treasure might be buried. Nevertheless, she persisted. After a few hours, she had a breakthrough. Her meticulous work revealed that beyond the steps was a portrait of Doucet’s manor house. There was a candle in a window on the second floor—a window in the room where the painting had originally hung.
Gran strolled in carrying two coffee cups, bringing with her the rich scent of a café au lait. “You’ve been at that painting for hours, chére. I thought you might like a pick-me-up.” She handed Maggie one of the cups.
“Thanks.” Maggie sipped the brew and felt a renewed energy as the coffee coursed through her. “I found a clue in the painting. Look.” She pointed to the candle. “I think the artist is telling us it’s in the nursery.” A thought occurred to Maggie. She put down her coffee cup, picked up her cell phone, and scrolled through the notes app until she found what she was looking for. “Grata sit calidum, et de fisco,” she read.
“‘A warm and welcome treasure,’” Gran’ said.
Maggie stared at her grand-mère. “You know what that means?”
“In my day, the young ladies of Immaculate Heart Academy had to study Latin, the theory being how could you take the message of a Latin Mass into your heart if you had no idea what the priest was saying? I continued at Newcomb and became rather fluent.”
Maggie gave Gran’ an affectionate smile. “I love how I can still learn something new about you.”
“I’m an onion of a human being. Layer after layer. Now that I’ve translated for you, what does the saying mean in terms of your treasure hunt?”
“Let me think.” Maggie sat down on the living room’s red velvet–covered antique sofa. Gran’ joined her. Maggie furrowed her brow as she called up an image of the nursery. “I think the X’s on the stairs weren’t marking the spot; they were a clue that the treasure’s in the house. Warm and welcome … warm and welcome…” Maggie opened her eyes. “The fireplace,” she said, excited. “There’s a pineapple carved into the mantel, which is a symbol of wealth and hospitality. The painting hung above it. I think the treasure might be buried under the fireplace hearth.”
“Bene factom,” Gran’ said. “That’s Latin for ‘well done.’”
“I’m going to let Ione know what I’ve discovered and see if she can get permission from the Doucet board to excavate under the hearth.”
“It’s a good thing the state ceded control of that old place to a nonprofit. We’d be buried six feet under ourselves if we had to wait for permission from local bureaucracy.”
Maggie’s cell rang. She saw it was a call from her father and pressed “Accept.”
“I’ve got a problem,” Tug said. “I want to make another test batch of gumbo in Bo’s pot, but I ran out of flour for the roux. Your mama’s in the middle of lunch prep for our guests. Any chance you could make a quick run to Park ’n’ Shop for me?”
“Sure. I could use some fresh air.”
“Thanks, chére. I’ll reward you with a big bowl of you-know-what.”
“Uh … thanks, but to be honest, I’ll a little burned out on you-know-what.”
Tug emitted a theatrical gasp. “Tired of gumbo? What kind of Luzianne gal are you? Don’t make me report you to the cuisine police.”
Maggie laughed. “Fine, I’ll eat yet more of your gumbo. Now let me get to the store so I can pick up the flour.”
Tug signed off with a “Laissez les bon temps rouler.” Gran’ drained the last of her coffee and then picked up Maggie’s empty cup. “Between you, me, and the lamppost, I wasn’t sorry to see that old pot go. I endured decades of your grand-pére’s obsession with the gumbo cook-off only to see it transferred to your papa. But I’m glad your gorgeous beau donated his pot so graciously. Making his once-a-year gumbo does give my sweet boy Tug such pleasure.” She held up the cups. “I’ll wash these. You go get that flour.”
Maggie kissed Gran’ on the cheek, and the octogenarian departed for the kitchen. Then Maggie cleaned off her tools and carefully rewrapped the painting. She put it back in the closet, which she locked with the door’s ancient skeleton key.
* * *
At the Park ’n’ Shop, Maggie quickly found the baking section. She scanned the shelves, but the spot where the flour should be was empty. Tug wasn’t the only one burning through the essential roux ingredient.
“Can I help you?”
Maggie turned around t
o find Kaity Bertrand standing there. She wore a Park ’n’ Shop smock and her usual friendly grin. “Hi, Kaity. I didn’t know you worked here.”
“I just started. It’s part-time, a few days a week after school. Whatcha lookin’ for?”
“Plain old flour.”
Kaity checked the shelves. “Hmm, we must be out. But I’m sure we have some in the stockroom. Be right back.”
Kaity disappeared through a swinging door. Maggie looked around and saw Gin organizing a shelf of cereal boxes. She negotiated her way around other customers toward Kaity’s grandmother. “Hi, Gin. I ran into Kaity. She very helpfully offered to track down some flour for me.”
“Glad to hear it. She decided she wants to go to college, so she’s earning some money towards it. I have to say, I thought winning was the only way the Miss Pelican Mardi Gras Gumbo pageant might change Kaity’s life. But now I see that win or lose, it’s been a godsend for my grand-girl. Having to present herself in different ways made her see she wants more out of life than working here full-time”—Gin gestured to the store—“like her grammy.”
Maggie was relieved by Gin’s new, far less threatening attitude toward the contest. “Kaity’s lucky to have a grammy like you, Gin. If she didn’t know that before, I think she’s figured it out by now.”
Kaity came out of the stockroom, holding a five-pound bag of flour. She held the bag up triumphantly as if it were a trophy. “We have achieved flour.” She handed the bag to Maggie. “Here you go, and thank you for parkin’ and shoppin’ at Park ’n’ Shop.” Kaity gave another high-wattage grin. “I’m going on break, Grammy.” She kissed Gin on the cheek and bounced away.
Maggie picked up a few more items and checked out. She waved goodbye to Gin, then left the store for her car. She was about to start the convertible’s engine when she heard Kaity’s voice. “I’m so ticked off. I don’t have time for jury duty.” Maggie glanced out the car window and saw Kaity perched on the side steps of the store. The teen was in the middle of a cell phone call. “I never should’ve registered to vote, but my history teacher gave us extra credit if we did. I hear you can get out of jury duty if you pretend you don’t speak English.”