by Ellen Byron
The mixologist quirked his lip in a sly smile. “I like it. A lot. To be honest, I’ve thought about that myself. Not necessarily replacing Phillippe as the face of the brand—”
“Why not?” Kate gave him a sultry glance. “It’s a very handsome face.”
Trick returned her sexy expression, then said, “Maggie, my friend, someday you’ll be able to tell your friends that you were at the birth of Chanson’s brilliant reimagining.”
“Exciting,” Maggie said politely. Finding the couple’s behavior bizarre, she excused herself as quickly as possible. Kate and Trick seemed more annoyed by the star chef’s death than upset by it, any hint of sadness disappearing with their brainstorming of the restaurant group’s new direction.
Becca, on the other hand, was a study in grief. Her eyes were red rimmed, her face wet with tears, her hair and clothes unkempt. Maggie held her hand as the two women sat on the couch in the sous-chef’s room. “He was a visionary,” Becca wept. “Phillippe was ahead of the curve in every trend. Farm to table? Phillippe. Plant-based entrees? Phillippe. Sustainable and locally sourced? Phillippe. He’s the only chef on earth who could bring Cajun cuisine back from the culinary cemetery.”
“It’s not like it totally died,” Maggie said, feeling defensive.
“Yes, it did. Big in the eighties, then dead everywhere but here until Phillippe.” Becca burst into a fresh round of tears. “Dead. Phillippe. Oh God. I can’t believe those words are in the same sentence.”
Maggie pulled a tissue out of a box on the coffee table and handed it to Becca. The young woman wiped her eyes and blew her nose. “I heard they’re reopening the restaurant tonight. You’re not going in, are you?”
Becca shook her head. “I’m not ready. I need at least another day or two. I can’t stay away too long because I need the money. But I’ll be looking for another job. I can’t be in the kitchen where Phillippe and I worked together. It’s too painful.”
“I can imagine.” Maggie stood up. “I have to get to work myself. But if you need anything, let my mom or dad know. They’ll be here.”
“Thanks so much. I really appreciate how nice you’re all being.” Becca hung her head. “I haven’t even processed the fact they think Phillippe was murdered. I can’t deal with that now. I can’t.”
“Then don’t. Take the time you need to heal.”
Becca looked up. “The police will want to interview us all, won’t they?”
“Yes,” Maggie had to admit. “But don’t worry about that now.”
Becca nodded, her face drawn and pale. “Except … what if someone I know did this? What if I’m working with a murderer?”
Or what if this is all an act and the murderer is you? Maggie, ever the skeptic these days, thought but didn’t say.
* * *
Maggie counted the cars in front of her in line for the ferry and said a silent prayer that she’d make it on board. She’d already sat in the line for over half an hour and was beginning to wonder if her time might be better spent making the trek up or down the river to a functional bridge. The last car from the eastern-bound trip off-loaded, and a deckhand waved the waiting cars onto the ferry’s deck. Maggie was second to last. She breathed a sigh of relief and turned off her engine. Rather than sit in her car, she decided to take advantage of the full ferry experience. She got out of the Falcon and went to the boat’s railing, enjoying the day’s cool breeze. The wind blew the scent of cigarette smoke her way. Maggie wrinkled her noise and turned toward the odor. A grizzled, elderly man wearing a cap and windbreaker, both decorated with the state seal, leaned against the railing, smoking a cigarette. He tossed the butt in the river and doffed his cap. “Buongiorno, signorina. Welcome to the Baroness Pontalba. A fancy name for an old rust bucket.” He gave the ship’s railing a fond pat.
“You must be Captain DiVirgilio.”
“I am indeed, young lady.” He extended his hand, and Maggie shook it. “And you are?”
“Maggie Crozat.”
A wide smile decorated the ferry captain’s weathered face. “Maggie Crozat. Granddaughter of that heartbreaker, Charlotte Bringier Crozat. There wasn’t a young man for miles who didn’t long for her affections.”
“I can see that,” Maggie acknowledged with a laugh.
“Well, Miss Crozat—it is Miss Crozat?”
“Ms. Crozat-Durand. I got married recently.”
“Miz Crozat-Durand, why don’t you join me in the pilot house for the ride?”
DiVirgilio gestured for Maggie to follow him inside and up a flight of metal steps to the ferry’s pilot house. He introduced her to his engineer, then the old man positioned himself at the helm and checked the array of instruments in front of him. There was a crackling of communication, to which he responded. A moment later the ferry began its journey across the Mississippi River. “Great view, ain’t it?”
Maggie gazed through the wide expanse of glass. “I love it.” She reached into the tote bag she’d carried with her and pulled out her sketch pad. A lackluster drawing later, she traded the sketchbook for her phone, taking photos she hoped might inspire her. She turned her attention back to the ferry captain. “Grand-mère said you’re originally from New Orleans.”
DiVirgilio nodded, never taking his eyes off the river. “My family’s been in Louisiana since 1866, right after the Civil War. We came over from the Naples area. There’s snobbery in every culture. Here in Louisiana, it’s about genealogy. In Italy, it’s geography. Northern Italians look down their noses at the rest of the country. They say, ‘Everything below the Po river is southern Italy.’ ”
“I haven’t been to Italy in years. I forget exactly where the Po is.”
DiVirgilio held up an arm. “My hand is northern Italy,” he said, pointing to his hand. “And all the rest”—he wiggled his arm—“is southern Italy, according to the snobs. I grew up in the French Quarter. There were so many of my people living there they almost called it the Italian Quarter, you know.”
“I didn’t,” Maggie said, embarrassed by how little she knew about her home state’s history. She vowed to take a refresher course sometime. Maybe I can do that at Tulane instead of sessions with Vi. She quickly abandoned the thought, knowing it would disappoint Bo.
“My friends would run around the Quarter making trouble. I spent my time at the river’s edge, right by Café du Monde.” The ferry slowed as they approached the landing. “I love this river with all my being. But I learned early on not to trust it. It may look calm, but its current is ruthless. And sometimes deadly.”
Shouts rose from below as deckhands moored the boat. “I better get back to my car,” Maggie said. “Thank you so much, Captain.”
His face crinkled with another smile. “Antonio. Ci vediamo al ritorno. I’ll see you on the return.”
Maggie hurried back to her car. As she drove off the ferry, she pondered Antonio’s description of the river. How the calm disguised a deadly undercurrent. The same could be said of people, she thought. Possibly Phillippe Chanson’s murderer. But who might that be?
She got to Doucet as a busload of tourists from New Orleans was disgorging its passengers. All thoughts of murder were tabled when Ione drafted her as a tour guide. Two part-timers had quit for other jobs when their paychecks bounced, ignoring Ione’s pleas to return after replacement checks were issued. “This was been a day,” Ione said toward the end of it. She and Maggie were taking a break, recuperating with cups of tea in her office. “I’m sorry I had to drag you down to your old job.”
“No worries. I’m happy to do it.” Maggie took a sip of Earl Grey. “It’s a welcome change of pace from comparing my painting to better artists.”
Ione sat up in her chair. She wagged a finger at Maggie. “Stop it. You’re an incredibly talented artist. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
“Someone already did.” Maggie shared the story of her ill-fated session with Vi. “I hate that I don’t want to see her again.”
Ione blew a raspberry.
“Don’t let that woman get inside your head. I’ve read about the great Vi de Lavallade, and she’s full of herself. She probably needs to put people down to build her own self up. I bet she’s jealous of you.”
Maggie tried to buy into this, then gave her head a rueful shake. “No. Her approach may be harsh, but I think she’s right. Something’s missing in my work. I’ve lost my artistic edge. I’ve become too … normal.”
“There’s nothing wrong with normal, Maggie. Whatever normal is. I don’t think it’s the same for everyone.”
“True.”
“We cling to what gives us comfort.”
“Wow.” Maggie shot her friend a grin. “Profound.”
Ione kicked out her legs and threw her hands in the air. “That’s me. I put the found in profound. Which makes no sense but sounds good.” The women laughed; then Ione said, “Oh, I almost forgot.” She rose and picked up a vase of roses sunning on the windowsill. “You got more flowers from your secret admirer. They must have been delivered last night after we closed. I found them on the steps to the front door. I put the first bouquet in your studio with plenty of water.”
Maggie took the vase from Ione and eyed it. “These already look half-dead. I keep forgetting to ask Bo about them. I don’t see a note.”
“There wasn’t one this time.”
Maggie’s eyes met Ione’s. “I don’t think they’re from Bo. And that’s weird.”
“It very much is,” Ione said with concern.
Maggie’s cell rang. She handed the flowers back to Ione. “It’s Brianna Poche.”
“That sweet little teenager? See if she wants an after-school job as a tour guide.”
“Hi, Brianna,” Maggie said into the phone. “What’s up?”
“It’s Clinton,” the teen sobbed. “The police wanted to talk to him about that chef’s murder. He freaked out and ran away.”
Chapter 10
“What’s going on?” Ione whispered. “What happened? I can hear her crying.”
Maggie put a finger to her lips, then said into the phone, “It’s okay, Brianna, chère. We’ll get Clinton home. Take a breath and then tell me everything.”
She heard the girl inhale and exhale. When she spoke, her voice was shaky. “He got a message from someone at Pelican PD that they wanted to talk to him about his job at the restaurant. He guessed the police heard about how he got fired and think he may be the one who killed the guy. He said he had to leave town before he got arrested. I tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn’t listen.”
“Do you know which direction he headed?”
“South. His old girlfriend, Alexia, is a year older than him. She’s a freshman at Loyola University. My brother dated an older woman. That’s how cool he is.” This brought on a fresh bout of tears.
“Do you and Clinton follow each other on a ‘find friends’ app?”
“I think so.” There was a beat while Brianna checked her phone. “Yes. I can see him. He’s on I-10, going towards New Orleans.”
Maggie grabbed her purse with one hand, holding on to her phone with the other. “Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to start for New Orleans. I assume he’s on his way to Loyola, but you’re going to keep following Clinton and call me with any changes to his route.”
“Thank you, ma’am. Thank you, thank you.”
“Don’t worry, honey. Everything’s gonna be fine.” Maggie disconnected the call.
“I heard most of that,” Ione said. “I can’t believe the boy ran away. Oh, wait,” she said, her tone tart, “he’s a Black male teenager getting a call from the police. I can believe it.”
“I have to go. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. We can finish the day without you. Bring the boy home before he gets himself into serious trouble.”
Maggie hurried to her car. She called Bo and explained the situation as she drove down the West River Road. “I’m the one who called Clinton,” he said with a groan. “I only wanted to talk to him to get a feel for the dynamics between the other employees at the restaurant. I love the kid. I’d never see him as a suspect.”
“You might not, but like you said, there are a ton of other agencies involved in this investigation. And they might.”
“I swear I’ll do anything to protect him. The whole force will.”
“Let me talk to him first. We’ll take it from there.”
Maggie continued the drive toward the Crescent City, crossing the river and following route 310 North until it deposited her onto I-10 East. Brianna called to confirm Clinton was on the Loyola campus. “Which dorm?” Maggie asked.
“Biever.”
“Got it.”
Maggie exited the interstate at Carrollton Avenue. She made a left turn onto South Claiborne Avenue, a right on Calhoun Street, another right on Freret Street, then a left onto the campus. She parked and asked a student for directions to the dorm housing Clinton’s ex, Alexia. She reached Biever after a quick walk and tugged on the door. “You can’t get in without a pass,” a student walking by the dorm told her. Maggie called Clinton. Like a typical teen, he didn’t answer the phone call, so she texted him: I’m outside Biever. Just me. Need to talk. There was no response. She texted Please and waited. A few minutes went by; then Maggie saw the doors on one of the dorm’s elevators open and Clinton emerge from it, followed by a pretty African American girl.
Clinton pulled the door open. “Hey, Maggie. Brianna get to you?”
“Yes. You’ve got a wonderful sister.”
Clinton gave a halfhearted shrug. “You didn’t have to come.”
“Oh yes I did. Can we talk?” Maggie noticed the curious expression on the face of the student manning the admittance desk. “Somewhere private?”
“We can go to my room,” the girl said. “My roommate’s at the library.”
The three got into the elevator. “You must be Alexia,” Maggie said to break the tension as they rode to the third floor.
The tactic didn’t work. When Alexia spoke, her tone was ice-cold. “I am.”
“It’s cool, Lexi,” Clinton said. “Maggie’s good people.”
Alexia’s glare told Maggie she’d have to prove this. The teen led them to the end of the hall and unlocked her door. The room was decorated in typical dorm style, one side of the room a mirror image of the other except for the personal details the occupants had added. “That’s my side,” Alexia said, gesturing to the right. The bed offered the only seating besides the desk chair, which Alexia took. Maggie climbed onto the bed, positioning herself under a poster of a fist made up of the words No Justice, No Peace. Clinton took a seat next to her.
“Bo’s the one who called you,” Maggie began.
“I know,” Clinton said.
“He needs to talk to you about the people you worked with at Chanson’s. What you saw. What you might have heard. That’s it.”
“I don’t think so.” Clinton hung his head. “I was mad when I got fired. You know how I told you I said some things I shouldn’t have when the chef guy fired me? One of them was really bad.”
“Stop!” Alexia held up a hand. “Don’t say anything without a lawyer. Or a law student, maybe. I can run and find one.”
“Lex—”
“She’s right,” Maggie said.
Clinton expelled a profanity. “Alexia’s studying criminal justice. Did you know Black people are imprisoned five times more than whites? In some states, it’s ten times more. Here in Louisiana, it’s probably a zillion.”
“That’s awful,” Maggie said. “Despicable. But we’ve known you and Brianna your whole lives. We adore you. I know you’re scared but running away is not a good move. It looks like there’s something you’re running from. You have to trust Bo on this. He’ll do whatever it takes to make sure you’re treated fairly.” Maggie took out her phone and tapped in a message. “I just texted Quentin MacIlhoney.”
“The lawyer guy? Married to the big blond lady?”
Maggie suppressed a laugh. �
��Vanessa would pass out if she heard that, but yes.” Her phone chirped an incoming text. Maggie read it as she said, “I asked him if he’d do me a favor and represent you in your meeting with Bo. He just texted back one word: ‘Absolutely.’ ”
Clinton looked to Alexia, who give a slight nod. “Fine. I’ll go home. And I’ll talk to Bo.”
* * *
Maggie walked Clinton to his car to make sure he didn’t have second thoughts. Rather than heading straight home, she detoured to the Tulane campus, located next door to Loyola. She made her way through the campus to the art department on the chance Vi might be leading a session with students. I’ll feel better if I see that she’s rough on all her students, Maggie thought to herself. And boy am I insecure these days.
Maggie entered the building. The lights were on in Vi’s classroom, and she heard voices coming from inside. Maggie peeked through the glass of the old door and saw several students immersed in painting. Vi strolled by a young woman whose canvas was a riot of color and intricate design. “Shayna, this is fabulous. Your passion informs every tiny line and every bold explosion of shape.”
That is a pretty impressive piece, Maggie had to admit.
Vi moved from one student to another, lavishing each with praise as Maggie’s ego deflated to nonexistent. She was busy mentally flagellating herself when she realized Vi was staring at her. Caught, Maggie gave a weak wave and entered the room. “Hi, sorry, I didn’t want to interrupt you. I’m in town on business for the exhibit I’m curating,” she lied. “I’m the art restoration specialist and exhibit director at Doucet Plantation. Basically, their resident expert. And an artist myself.” She added this for the benefit of the students, who responded with polite disinterest, exacerbating her humiliation. “Anyway …” She turned to Vi. “As long as I’m here, I thought I’d set up my next session.”
“Let me check my schedule.” Vi retrieved a tablet from her desk and scrolled through a calendar app. “How’s Monday?”
“Perfect. That’s my day off.” It’s not, but it will be now. “Thanks. I’ll let you get back to work. Nice meeting y’all.” The students, absorbed in painting, assumed Maggie was Vi’s responsibility and didn’t respond. She let herself out of the studio and scurried from the building. “I hate myself,” she groaned as she trudged back to her car.