Cajun Kiss of Death

by Ellen Byron

  “No.” Maggie yawned and stretched. She planted her feet on the floor with a groan, feeling every minute of the lunch shift on her body. “It’s a long story, but I waitressed at Chanson’s this afternoon.”

  Bo raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”

  Maggie limped to the bathroom, where she splashed water on her face. “JJ’s in a bad way. Kate needed an extra hand. A few of them, really. I thought if I spent time with the restaurant staff, I could at least pick up some intel about who sabotaged Junie’s.”

  Bo assumed a thoughtful expression. “Hmm … I’m trying to remember when we hired you as an undercover agent.”

  Maggie gave her husband a playful swat. “I’ll be careful. I might be able to dig up something you can use. People reveal stuff in a casual setting that they hold back during an interrogation.”

  “Oh, now you’re a criminal behavior expert.”

  “You know I’m right.”

  The couple left the bedroom for the kitchen. Bo took a can of beer out of the refrigerator while Maggie reheated a cup of coffee in the microwave. “I’ve got a stalker update,” Bo said, now serious.

  This gave Maggie a jolt. “I was so busy today I forgot about that.”

  “You can bet I haven’t—and won’t, until I’ve locked up whoever it is. We traced the flowers to three different florists in the parish—not the shops. Their drivers. It’s the same story with all three of them. The delivery guys admitted that they found the arrangements next to their trucks with fifty-dollar tips and delivery instructions.”

  “But the shops didn’t sell the flowers?” Maggie asked, confused.

  “No. We think the suspect bought them at different grocery stores in the area. A person is way less memorable going through a grocery line than buying one-on-one from a florist. We’re checking with cashiers, but the fact it’s so close to Valentine’s Day makes it hard for someone buying a dozen roses, more or less, to stand out.”

  “Whoever’s doing this put a lot of thought into it.”

  Maggie drained her cup. But the buzz she felt wasn’t from the coffee. It was from fear. Her cell chimed with a text alert. She checked and saw a message from Vi: Need you to come tomorrow. 10 a.m. Bring bottle of single malt scotch. And talent.

  Maggie’s face fell. Bo noticed. Concerned, he asked, “What’s wrong?”

  Caught, Maggie faked a smile. “Nothing. I mean, I thought it was bad news, but it’s good news,” she tap-danced. “That was from Vi. I was afraid she needed to cancel our next lesson, but she just wants to move it up to tomorrow morning.”

  Bo’s expression cleared, happiness replacing worry. “I did good, huh?” he said, with a touch of self-satisfaction.

  Maggie, amused by the rare sight of her husband puffed up, kissed him. “You did great.”

  * * *

  Bo had eagerly returned the kiss, but Maggie was forced to put the brakes on their romantic interlude when she remembered the Doucet gala committee was scheduled to meet at Crozat that evening. She texted the committee members a change of location to Chanson’s, explaining that she would be waitressing. The question marks she got in response to the odd situation were answered with a simple text of Helping JJ.

  The women met up at the restaurant at five, before the dinner rush began. “You didn’t get any more flowers today,” Ione whispered to Maggie as they settled in for the meeting.

  “Maybe whoever’s been sending them heard the police were looking into it,” Maggie said. “Here’s hoping that scared them off.”

  “I’m sure it did,” Ione said with a conviction Maggie knew her friend didn’t feel, because she didn’t feel it either. Ione pulled a folder out of her tote bag. “All righty, let’s get subcommittee updates. Refreshments?”

  “We’ll be supplying all the sweets,” said Lia, Fais Dough Dough and Bon Bon proprietor.

  “And I’ve got an army of food donations lined up,” Ninette said. “Appetizers, casseroles, gumbos, jambalayas. It’s gonna be a feast.”

  “Good to know,” Vanessa said. She helped herself to a fistful of popcorn shrimp. “I’m eating for two now. ’Least that’s the excuse I’m using until I pop out Quentin or Quentina Junior.”

  Ione shot her a look. “Tell me you’re not really gonna name some poor child Quentina.”

  “ ’Course not. If it’s a girl, she’s gonna be Tookie. After my mama.” Vanessa pressed her lips together to keep from crying. Her mother, a tiny, peppery airboat operator rarely seen without a cigarette dangling from her leathery lips, had recently passed away from lung cancer. Maggie and the other women murmured condolences and support.

  Ione gently pivoted focus back to the meeting. She went down her list, getting updates on invitations, decor, and entertainment. “Charlotte,” she said to Grand-mère, “how’s it going with procuring silent-auction items?”

  “I have a big announcement on that score.” Gran fluffed her silver hair. She couldn’t have looked more pleased with herself. “Lee had some … plumbing issues … so we paid a visit to his urologist, Dr. Berg in Ville Platte. I’m pleased to share that the good doctor has kindly offered to donate an incredibly special procedure to our cause—a vasectomy.”

  There was a collective jaw-drop, and then the women burst into laughter. “Brilliant.” Gaynell wiped tears from her eyes as she chortled. “I bet that raises a ton of money—from wives.”

  “Can we bid on it for someone else?” Ione said, laughing so hard she developed a case of hiccups. “Because I can think of a few people who’d be doing the world a service by undergoing the procedure.”

  “Stop,” Vanessa begged. “I’m gonna laugh this baby out of me right here.”

  “You can’t.” Maggie gasped for air as she laughed uncontrollably. “I’ll get stuck cleaning up after you.”

  “My goodness,” Gran said. “If I had known the reaction this would generate, I’d have asked Dr. Berg to donate two vasectomies.”

  This engendered more peals. “We’re only laughing because she said the word vasectomy,” Lia snorted. “How old are we?”

  There was a sudden wall of sound. Maggie glanced toward the front of the restaurant. A tour bus had disgorged its load of passengers. Kate and Lisa, the one waitress the restaurateur had managed to hold on to, frantically tried to seat them all. Kate caught Maggie’s eye and mouthed, “Help!”

  “Sorry, all,” Maggie said to her friends. “I’ve been summoned.”

  Maggie spent almost two hours trying to prove to herself and her customers that she wasn’t a terrible waitress. She failed. But the tourists were good-natured and big drinkers, which helped ease Maggie’s embarrassment about her ineptitude. Unlike her, Scooter was in his element, putting on an oyster-shucking show he could have taken on the road. Orders delivered and a lull in new arrivals allowed Maggie a short break. She staggered over to her friends, picked up an almost-empty pitcher of Pimm’s Cups, and gulped the dregs of it. “Y’all didn’t have to stick around, but it was nice knowing I have friends here. Lord knows I wasn’t making any from the customers, and I don’t blame them.”

  “We’re having a fun time watching the oyster guy,” Gaynell said. “We got the table closest to him. I’m like to leave here covered in oyster juice.”

  Scooter juggled two oysters to roars of approval from the patrons.

  Maggie took another gulp from the pitcher. “At least someone here knows what they’re doing.”

  “You have many talents, chère,” Gran said in a comforting voice. “But best to leave waitressing to the professionals.”

  “I think what Maggie’s doing to help JJ is awesome,” Vanessa said. “It’s like that show where bosses go undercover, only it’s Maggie.” She spread her hands to mime a marquee. “Undercover PI. And this episode is called ‘To Catch a Killer.’ ”

  An oyster clattered to the floor. Scooter’s work glove slipped off, following the oyster onto the floor. He clutched his left hand and yelled profanities. Diners watched horrified as blood shot out of a wound cau
sed by the shucker missing the oyster and instead impaling his now-naked hand.

  Chapter 14

  Maggie grabbed a napkin and rushed it to Scooter. Groaning and cursing, he wrapped the napkin around his injured hand. Kate ran to him. “Scooter, what in the—” She finished the sentence with a string of epithets that brought a whoa from a patron wearing a United States Marines baseball cap. “This never would have happened if you weren’t showing off.”

  Kate pulled another napkin off a table to replace the one Scooter’s blood had already soaked through. He mumbled something Maggie couldn’t make out.

  “Great, you probably need stitches.” Kate didn’t bother masking her annoyance. “You better get to the hospital.”

  “I can’t drive my truck.” Scooter, wincing, held up his hand.

  Kate released an aggravated grunt. “God forbid they should have something useful like a rideshare in the boonies here.”

  “Not quite the way to endear yourself to the community,” Gran said, affronted.

  Kate ushered Scooter to the door. “Trick, hold down the fort,” she called. “And Maggie … try not to chase off too many customers with lousy service.” She pushed Scooter out of the restaurant.

  “Looks like the gala committee meeting’s adjourned,” Maggie said to her friends. “I’ll see you all tomorrow. If I survive tonight.”

  Fortunately, the dinner crowd thinned after the shucking debacle. With some side coaching from Lisa, Maggie transformed into a passable waitress. She fell into a rhythm that even allowed for a bit of musing about the night’s turn of events. Maggie replayed Scooter’s accident in her mind. It had come right after Vanessa announced the joke title for an imaginary episode of an undercover PI show. Was that coincidence? Or had “To Catch a Killer” triggered Scooter’s loss of control? He’d been nothing but confident—to the point of arrogance—until then. Why the sudden change?

  “Closin’ time,” Trick announced after the last table of customers finished dessert and headed out. He locked the door behind them. The waitstaff bused and cleaned the dining room. Maggie transferred dirty dishes to the kitchen, where the chefs and assistants were busy cleaning their own areas and storing all foodstuff. She returned to the dining room and pulled all the linens, depositing them in a pile by the door for the linen service. Lisa departed amidst a shower of profuse thanks from Maggie. Becca and Luis straggled out of the kitchen and plopped down at a table. “I’m closing out the register,” Trick said. “Anyone besides you two left in the back?”

  “Jerome and the others are gone, so only Lawton’s still here,” Becca said, referencing the dishwasher. “As soon as he finishes running the last batch of dirties, he’s taking off too.”

  Trick tapped on a computer screen. “I’m going to the hospital to see how Scooter’s doing. If you want a drink, fix yourselves something and then lock up for me.”

  Trick left for the hospital. Becca stood up and stretched. “Ugh, I so don’t feel like hanging out here.” She made a face. “This town is so boring. Usually when the dinner shift’s over, we go to another restaurant to have a drink, do a tasting. Chefs like to show off. Sometimes it’s the reverse—people come to us. But there’s nowhere to go here.”

  “There would be if Junie’s wasn’t closed,” Maggie pointed out, hoping for a reaction to the mention of Junie’s. Neither Becca nor Luis bit. Her opportunity to hang out with Chanson employees and hopefully pick up some gossip was fading fast. “We can have a drink at our place. Crozat. We’ve got a full bar and a fridge full of my mother’s fine leftovers.”

  Becca evaluated this option. “Sounds good to me. Added advantage of not having to get behind the wheel after a drink.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll pass,” Luis said. “Long day. I’m fried.”

  “Speaking of fried,” Becca said, “if Scooter can’t do his thing tomorrow, we should put a fried oyster po’ boy on the menu. Put his stock to use so it doesn’t go bad.”

  “Good idea. Run it by Kate.”

  “Why should I run it by her?” Becca snapped. “If I had to run it by anyone, it would be Chef Jerome, but he’s cool with whatever I say. He knows I’m next in line.”

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to insult you.”

  While Luis’s words were apologetic, Maggie picked up a definite undercurrent of hostility, with a hint of a sneer. But Becca didn’t seem to notice. “I’ll lock up here,” she said to Maggie, “and meet you at your place.”

  Maggie left for the B and B. She stopped in the kitchen, where she warmed up two slices of Sugar High Pie. She added a dollop of fresh whipped cream to each plate and brought them into the front parlor to wait for Becca. The sous-chef arrived a few minutes later, still wearing her chef coat. Maggie welcomed her with the piece of pie. “This looks good,” Becca said. She fell into one of the room’s comfortable club chairs, upholstered in a dusty rose damask, and dug into the pie.

  “What would you like to drink? FYI, there’s a dash of bourbon in the pie,” Maggie said.

  “Then I’ll have a bourbon, on the rocks.”

  “You got it.”

  Maggie fixed two bourbons on the rocks. She handed one to Becca, then, with her own drink and pie in hand, took a seat on the sofa opposite her guest. “How are you doing with everything? You seem like you’re feeling a little better.”

  “A little. Not much. But I have to power through the grief.” Becca washed down a forkful of pie with a slug of bourbon. “It’s so strange being in the kitchen without Phillippe.” She rested her fork on the plate and grew contemplative. “I’ve spent my whole career with the Chanson Group. He recruited me from the Culinary Institute and trained me. And then …”

  She paused, overcome with a wave of emotion. “You fell in love,” Maggie prompted.

  Becca nodded. “He and Kate have been divorced, like, ten years or something, so I wasn’t Phillippe’s first ‘kitchen wench.’ ” She said this with a sad half smile. “That’s what he called me. His kitchen wench. He was a true genius, you know. I learned so much from him.”

  “Hopefully not how to steal recipes,” Maggie felt compelled to say. “I should tell you that if my mother’s Sugar High Pie ever ends up on a Chanson menu, the group will be out one sous-chef.”

  Becca quirked her lip. “Noted.”

  “Now that I’ve worked at Chanson’s, I have to say, I noticed some drama with y’all.”

  “No more than at any restaurant,” the sous-chef said, sounding defensive. Maggie had a feeling this wasn’t true but let Becca continue. “Trick and Kate are a couple, but even though he and Phillippe were besties, Trick’s always been threatened by Kate and Philippe’s connection. It kind of bugs me too. I don’t understand how you can divorce someone and still need them so much. Kate says it’s all about business. Trick calls it codependent.” Becca was now all in on dishing about her coworkers. “Luis is basically ticked off twenty-four/seven because he was supposed to move up to sous-chef when I move up to executive chef, but Phillippe told him he’s not ready to make the move. Between us, Phillippe wasn’t sure he’d ever be. Luis would love to look for another job, but he’s DACA. Phillippe kept promising to hire an immigration lawyer who’d help him with his case, but he never got around to it, which is another reason Luis has a serious attitude problem. And then there’s Scooter.” Becca punctuated this with an exaggerated eye roll. “He’s the newest addition to the group. But what a head case.”

  Having failed to generate any useful tells by dropping Junie’s name earlier, Maggie opted to take a blunt approach this time. “So which one of your group framed Junie’s for health violations and got the competition shut down?”

  Becca gaped at her. “Is that what you think? It was one of us? You think someone who works with one of the most successful restaurant groups in the country was threatened by a local dive restaurant?” Her tone was derisive.

  “Junie’s is not a dive,” Maggie said, bristling. “It’s world famous for being one of the best and most authentic Cajun re
staurants in the state.”

  “Oh, please.” Becca’s tone was the vocal equivalent of an eye roll. “If it makes you feel better, it wasn’t me who got Junie’s in trouble. I can’t see Luis ever doing anything like that because he lives in fear of being sent back to whatever you-know-what-hole country he comes from. I could maybe see Scooter doing it as a goof or a dare because he’s such a nutjob, but even that is, like, a total reach.”

  “You didn’t mention Kate or Trick.”

  “Because I don’t have to.” Becca hesitated. “I mean, yes, they need Chanson’s Cajun Kitchen to work. Some of the other restaurants in the group are getting a little, I don’t know … stale? They’re hoping if this one is a hit, they can raise money to turn it into a national chain. But they’d never do something as desperate as setting up a competitor to fail an inspection.”

  Or would they? Maggie thought.

  “Sorry, but you’ll have to stick your nose into someone else’s business to solve that little mystery.” Becca scraped her plate and licked the fork, then finished her drink. “Thanks for the drink and snack. I’m whipped. I’m gonna crash. Should I put the dirties in the kitchen?”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  Becca departed for her room. Maggie brought the plates and glasses into the kitchen, loading them into the dishwasher. Feeling “whipped” herself from the long, hard day, she set the dishwasher to run during the night and left the manor house for her and Bo’s apartment.

  Walking past the parking area, Maggie noticed the shadows of two figures. As she drew closer, she saw Trick and Kate, deep in conversation. “Hi,” she called to them, and they instantly stopped talking. “How’s Scooter?”

  Kate affected a smile and gave a thumbs-up. “Fine. They stitched him up and told him to rest for a day. Then he’ll be good to go. ’Night.”

  She took Trick’s hand and pulled him with her toward the carriage house, leaving Maggie to wonder why they found it so important to end their conversation and get away from her.