by Ellen Byron
The staff exchanged nervous looks. “Uh, what exactly is he gonna tell?” Luis asked.
“Nothing good.” Kate took a whiskey Trick had poured her and downed it. “He’s been shadowing us for months. Who knows what he has in his notes and recordings?”
“But … but …” Becca stammered. “He can’t do that. Can he?”
“We’ll have lawyers look into it, of course,” Trick said, his voice calm, “and stop whatever we can. Kate was smart enough to insist he record every interview and give her copies of the transcripts. But ‘unauthorized biographies’ get published all the time. You may have to bring a libel suit to get any action. And truth is a defense.”
Given Dyer’s past as a respected journalist, Maggie was sure he knew better than to leave himself open to a libel lawsuit. She said nothing. Instead, she observed. Kate ranted; Trick calmed. Scooter glowered; Becca panicked. Luis worked at a neutral expression, but the nervous twitching of his left leg crossed over his right betrayed him.
“It’s too late in the evening to do anything about this now,” Trick said. “I’ll deal with it first thing tomorrow.”
The staff took the hint and dispersed. A night that had begun with a celebration ended on a glum note.
On the ride home, Maggie reflected on everyone’s reactions to the news that Dyer’s puff piece was segueing into a more threatening opus. It was obvious all the Chanson employees had concerns about what the journalist might reveal. But did one person’s concerns top the others because it involved murder? That, Maggie couldn’t tell, which frustrated her.
Her cell rang as she drove into the Crozat parking lot. She pressed the button on her Bluetooth earbud. “Hey, Vanessa. Everything okay? It’s almost midnight.”
“Everything is A-okay,” Vanessa chirped. “I just decided we’re going shopping for dresses to wear to the gala. Meet at ten AM tomorrow in front of Bon Bon.”
She hung up before Maggie could say no.
* * *
Maggie did as ordered, showing up to Bon Bon at ten on the dot. “I’ll keep you company, but I’m not planning on buying anything new,” she told Van. “It feels hypocritical to spend money that could be going to Doucet on a dress.”
Vanessa gave her bleached-blond mane a toss. “Quentin made a very generous donation to the Save Doucet fund, so I have no problem spending more of his money. Besides, with this baby growing every day, these’ll be my last days fitting into anything besides a muumuu. Hey, y’all!”
Maggie turned in the direction of Vanessa’s wave and saw Gaynell and Ione approaching. “She corralled us too,” Gaynell said with a grin.
“Ione, you’re spending your day off with me?” Maggie placed a hand on her heart. “I’m deeply moved.”
Ione responded with an eye roll. “Only half the day. We have to finish hanging the wedding exhibit later, remember?”
“No worries, that’s my plan. Are we waiting on Sandy?”
“She can’t make it,” Vanessa said. “She’s got rehearsal with the senior dance group. They’re choreographing a new number. All righty, ladies, let’s pile into the Lexus.”
Van drove the group to a Baton Rouge bridal shop that also sold cocktail and evening attire, a smart business move in a state with a months-long carnival season and more festivals than days of the year. The women browsed through racks of sequined, beaded gowns. Maggie, realizing she had reduced her wardrobe to jeans, leggings, and T-shirts, joined the search, but she stuck to the sales rack. Vanessa kept a saleswoman busy pulling so many gowns that they filled an entire dressing room, forcing her to try on the merchandise in a second dressing room. She came out clad in a tight bejeweled blue-green gown. “What’d y’all think?”
“You look like a pregnant, aging mermaid,” Ione, ever blunt, said. The saleswoman coughed to hide a laugh. Vanessa harrumphed and flounced back to the fitting rooms.
“I’m not finding anything that feels right,” Gaynell said. “But since I’m performing, I can get away with wearing my onstage outfit, lucky me.” She pulled an elegant tomato-red jersey cocktail dress from a rack. “Maggie, this would look wonderful on you.”
She held the dress up to her friend. Ione nodded her approval. “Not too fancy, not too plain. And a gorgeous color. You can wear it on Valentine’s Day, too. I’m sure Bo has great plans in mind for your first one as marrieds.”
Maggie tamped down an unexpected well of emotion. “We’re going to New Orleans. Dinner at Broussard’s, and then we’re spending the night at the Reveille New Orleans Hotel, where my friend Lulu works.”
“Lucky girl,” Ione said.
“He’s getting me out of town to save me,” Maggie blurted. “He’s afraid of what my stalker might do.” Tears bubbled up and then flooded down her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she wept. “I don’t know why I’m so emotional. It must be my cycle.”
Her friends guided her to the large tufted gray ottoman that served as the store’s seating area. “Chère, you got nothing to apologize for,” Ione said. Gaynell’s vigorous nods backed her up. “Some loon is messing with your life. If anyone’s got reason for tears, it’s you.”
“True dat,” Gaynell seconded.
Ione extracted tissues from a box labeled Mother of the Bride and handed them to Maggie, who wiped her cheeks. “I should be excited about my first Valentine’s Day as a married woman. Instead I’m dreading it.”
Ione crouched down in front of Maggie. “Nuh-uh. No dreading. Like the saying goes, worry is paying interest on a debt you may not owe.” She took Maggie’s hands in hers and squeezed them. “You are one of the strongest women it’s my gift to know, way stronger than some bully who’s too cowardly to face a person and has to play tricks on them instead. You go to New Orleans with that handsome husband of yours and y’all pass a good time. Pass a real good time, if you know what I mean.”
Gaynell gave a hoot and Maggie had to laugh. “Ha. The way you said that, there’s no way I could miss what you mean.” She hugged Ione, then stood up and hugged Gaynell. “I’m so blessed to have y’all as friends. You’re my galentines.”
“Awww,” Gaynell said. “Group hug.”
The three hugged. “Y’all, prepare to be wowed,” Vanessa called from the dressing room. She burst into the shop area clad in a flattering Empire-style tangerine chiffon gown with a beaded bodice and struck a model pose. She noticed the group hug and dropped the stance. “What’d I miss?”
* * *
After lunch in Baton Rouge, Maggie returned to Crozat with the red dress. Her friends were right. The dress looked stunning on her and would work for both Valentine’s Day and the Doucet gala. She stopped by the party tent to check out Rosé the Riveters’ new song and witnessed chaos. The Riveters struggled with the choreography for “Beat Me Dad Eight to the Bar,” resulting in collisions and eventually a pileup when senior Mariella Fleur lost her balance and fell, taking several riveters down with her. Sandy, watching from the audience, caught Maggie’s eye and mouthed, “Help me.” Then she announced, “Take a break, gals,” adding with a mutter, “Lord knows I need one.”
Gran, out of breath, came off the dance floor and dropped onto a folding chair. Her granddaughter handed her a cup of water. “Merci. We could use some more work on this number.”
“A little,” Maggie said, amused.
Gran adjusted her bandanna headkerchief, which had come askew during the disastrous dancing. “It doesn’t look like Sandy choreographed anything more difficult than she did for the other song,” Maggie said. “What’s the problem here?”
Gran eyeballed the area to make sure no one was in listening distance, then whispered, “There was a bit of a kerfuffle about who got the front row, so Sandy had the marvelous idea of rotating rows, giving everyone a chance to shine up front. But it’s been a bit tricky getting the timing right.”
“I can see that.”
Gran stood up. “Time to get back on the—” She stopped and stared. “What the what?”
Maggie followed Gran�
�s gaze to see Quentin MacIlhoney leading a dozen men, some close to his own sixty-plus years in age, some older, into the tent. All wore bomber jackets and baseball caps, many sporting the insignia of the military branch in which the wearer presumably once served. “Greetings, all,” Quentin said.
Gran put a hand on her hip and eyed him. “What exactly are you up to, Quentin?”
“My friends and I thought it’d be fun to entertain the gala ‘troops’ with the male equivalent of what y’all are doing.” He made a show of his outfit. “In keeping with the theme, we’re dressed as fly-boys.”
“Except,” Abel Garavant, one of Quentin’s compatriots, said, “We’re fry-boys.” He illustrated this by holding up a fry basket from his restaurant.
Gran gleefully clapped her hands together. “What a fantabulous idea! I love it! I’m sure Sandy can come up with a wonderful number for the Fryboys. Can’t you, Sandy?”
Sandy, who was unscrewing the cap to her flask, whimpered. Maggie gave her friend a comforting pat on the shoulder. “Remember, it’s for a good cause. And I promise to make a vat of whatever it is you’re drinking available to you at every rehearsal.”
The Riveters and Fryboys busied themselves chattering and flirting with each other. Maggie started for home to change into work clothes before crossing the river to Doucet. She passed Abel on her way out. “I have to say, that fry basket is a great touch, Abel.”
“Thanks. I was hoping we could all have them and do some kind of routine. I read about a drill team that does a synchronized act with briefcases. Something like that.”
“Sounds fun.”
Abel fiddled with the fry basket. “Ash told me you stopped by and asked about my police interview. It wasn’t fun. I’m sure your mama’s wasn’t either.” He hesitated. “I know you and Ash didn’t date for long …”
“Hardly at all,” Maggie said.
“I was sorry about that. I would’ve loved to see my boy settle down here with a nice girl. Like you.”
The conversation was beginning to make Maggie uncomfortable. “Ash is a catch. He’ll find the right girl.”
“Maybe he did. And maybe she got away.” Abel backtracked. “I don’t mean just you. Could be someone else. He doesn’t tell me much. I blame that big-deal college education of his.” Abel forced a laugh. “I’m kidding.”
No you’re not. Maggie felt for the man, a laborer and widower who’d done everything in his power to give his son the opportunities he’d never had, only to feel the unexpected distance they’d put between them. “I’m proud of him,” Abel continued. “I know his mama would be too.”
“You’ve got a lot to be proud of,” Maggie said. “And I know he’s proud of you too.” Her cell alerted her to a text. She retrieved the phone from her jeans back pocket and checked it. “My mother’s asking for me.”
“Go.” Abel shooed her off, fry basket still in hand. “Tell her I say hey and that after this whole dang thing is over, we gotta compare notes on our arrests. I had no idea handcuffs hurt your wrists so much.”
Per Ninette’s instructions, Maggie met her parents in the manor house kitchen. The minute she walked in, the expressions on their faces told her something was wrong. “Dyer never showed up for breakfast or lunch,” Tug said. “But his car is in the parking lot.”
“I thought maybe he wasn’t feeling well, so I brought breakfast to his room,” Ninette added, her brow creased with worry. “I knocked, but there was no answer. Same with lunch. Given what all’s been going on around here, we asked Pelican PD for a welfare check. Artie and Cal are on their way over.”
Maggie’s nerves vibrated with alarm. She and her parents waited in silence. They heard a car pull into the parking area, arriving with the rattles, snorts, and rumbles usually associated with a cartoon vehicle. Moments later, Officers Cal Vichet and Artie Belloise came in through the back door. “What smells so good?” was Artie’s first question, which came as no surprise. The portly officer was a fan of Ninette’s cooking to the point of regretting a lull in criminal activity at Crozat, where an investigation always came with treats, if not a full meal.
“I got a pan of Gooey Pineapple Pecan Cake I just took out of the oven,” Ninette said. “While it’s cooling, we’ll take you to our guest’s room.”
Artie nodded his approval. “Glad the timing worked out. Our patrol junker is leaking oil. I had to stop and feed the beast.”
The group left the manor house for the garconniere. Cal gave Tug the nod to unlock the door, and he complied. The five stepped inside the room. The instant they saw it, Maggie and her parents let out a collective gasp. The room had been trashed. Furniture lay upended. Several broken lamps littered the floor, which was covered with a mess of papers and what looked to be pieces of a computer. Ninette covered her mouth with a shaking hand. “I … I … Oh …”
Tug surveyed the scene, his face grim. “Somebody wanted to send Gossmer a message.”
“I’m guessing he got it,” Artie said. “And then some.”
The others followed Artie’s gaze to a large, deep-red puddle on the floor. The Crozats didn’t need the officers to tell them the liquid was blood.
Chapter 19
Police tape marking off a deadly location was an all-too-familiar sight at Crozat B and B. But new to the B and B were (a) the lack of an actual body and (b) a glut of law enforcement officers from at least four different agencies, the assumption being that Dyer Gossmer’s disappearance was tied to Phillippe Chanson’s murder.
Bo kept the Crozats updated on developments. “The parish sheriff’s Criminal Investigation Division is taking the lead on this one,” he shared. “One of the broken items in the room was a clock—”
“Not the antique inlaid French mantel clock, I hope,” Gran said, concerned. “It was in perfect working condition. I can’t imagine what it might cost to repair that. Sorry,” she added, seeing the reproachful looks from her family, “insensitive First World problems. Continue.”
“The clock gave us a tentative time to work with of three-fifteen AM.”
“I didn’t hear a thing,” Tug said. He turned to the others. “Did any of you?”
They all shook their heads. “Between the garconniere’s thick walls and isolation from the rest of the B and B, you’ll probably have a hard time finding anyone who heard anything,” Maggie said to her husband.
“I figured as much. But we still need to interview everyone who was here during that time period.”
“Do you mind starting with me, cher—I mean, Detective—I mean—” Hearing her mother giggle, Maggie flushed. “I have to finish hanging the wedding dress exhibit at Doucet.”
Bo tried to hide a smile. “A great example of why I won’t be interviewing my wife. He will.”
Bo indicated a St. Pierre Parish officer hovering nearby. He motioned to the woman, who acknowledged this and came to them. “I’m Detective Shawn Holahan of the St. Pierre Parish Sheriff’s Office. I just need to run a few questions by y’all, one at a time.”
“We know the drill,” Tug said with a sigh. “Maggie, take Detective Holahan to the office.”
Maggie led the detective toward the manor house. They passed Becca, who was crossing from the parking area to the carriage house. She wore her chef jacket and carried her toque under her arm. “Hey, Maggie. I’m taking a break between lunch and dinner. What’s going on with all these cops?” Her eyes widened in fear. “There hasn’t been another murder, has there?”
Not sure what to say, Maggie gave the detective a questioning look. Holahan responded with a slight nod, then trained her eyes on Becca. Maggie had been through enough investigations to know she was gauging the sous-chef’s response to the news Maggie was about to deliver. “Dyer is missing. His room was trashed. There’s evidence of blood.”
Becca gasped, clapped a hand over her mouth, and then dropped it. “She said she’d kill him.”
Not surprisingly, the detective sparked to this. “Who did?”
“Kate Chanson.”
Maggie saw the gleam in Holahan’s eyes. “Phillippe Chanson’s widow? She said she’d kill the missing individual?”
“Yes,” Kate said. “You heard her, right, Maggie?”
Holahan’s gleam pivoted toward her. “Yes, I forgot about that,” Maggie admitted. “I did hear Kate say she’d kill him, but it really felt like a throwaway. A figure of speech. She’d found out Dyer had done a number on her by switching Phillippe Chanson’s ‘autobiography’ to a tell-all. She was justifiably angry.”
“Maggie’s right,” Becca said. “She was mad at him. We all were. But I can’t see Kate killing someone. No way.”
But would someone kill for her? Maggie thought of Trick, whom she’d come to see as the epitome of the old saying Still waters run deep.
Maggie’s interview with Holahan was mercifully brief. After establishing that she’d heard nothing of a struggle, the detective asked for her impression of the writer. “I got that he was humiliated by his fall from Pulitzer heights,” she said. “And struggling financially. He seemed miserable working on the Chanson autobiography and excited about the new direction. Excited to the point of arrogant. It represented a bigger payday, more career heat, and also … kind of a middle finger to Kate, who kept him on a tight writer leash.”
Holahan jotted notes, thanked Maggie, and released her. She held the door open for a nervous Becca. “I’ve never been interviewed by the police before in my life, and now twice in, like, weeks,” Becca said tearfully. “I hate this.”
Maggie, veteran of too many police interviews, sympathized with the young woman. “Stay calm, stay focused, stick to stating facts as simply as possible. You’ll be fine.”