Cajun Kiss of Death

by Ellen Byron

  She left for the gift shop, where Ione was finishing the sale of a needlepoint kit featuring an image of the Doucet wedding gown. “The craft souvenirs were a great idea,” she told Maggie after the customer departed. “It’s only our second day and I’ve already sold two needlepoint and three counted-cross-stitch kits. Oooh, croissants. Thanks.” Ione removed one from the platter.

  “Thanks for giving me the day off yesterday. Bo and I had a great time. Until Dyer Gossmer’s remains popped up.”

  “I can see how that might take the romance out of a night.” Ione wiped a crumb from her face. “No word from …?”

  Ione hesitated, but Maggie knew what she wanted to ask. “Nothing from the stalker.”

  “Good.”

  “How was the exhibit opening?” asked Maggie, eager to change the subject. She crossed her fingers on both hands and held them up. “A success, I hope, I hope.”

  “A big success. It drew twice the number of our usual visitors, and not one person squawked at being charged separately for a ‘special exhibit.’ ”

  “I’m so glad,” Maggie said, relieved. Her nerves were on edge with every exhibit she curated, but given Doucet’s dire financials at the moment, there was extra pressure on this one.

  “Still, it doesn’t replace the money that sorry piece of work Steve Collins stole.” Ione spoke in a grim tone.

  “Which reminds me,” Maggie said, “now that Valentine’s Day is over, it’s time for another gala committee meeting. We can hold it at Junie’s. Give JJ the business. I’ll call and tell him to hold us a table for tonight.”

  She tapped the number for Junie’s into her cell. JJ replied in a singsongy voice, “How-do, Miss Magnolia, or should I say Mrs. Magnolia now?”

  She reacted with amusement to her friend’s chipper tone. “Somebody’s in a good mood.”

  “Speak up, chère. It’s hard to hear you over the crowd in here.”

  “You’re crowded? JJ, that’s terrific.”

  “You know it. The locals are back and, hoo mama, they are hungry. Plus, Chanson’s is closed again, so I’m drawing their crowd.”

  Maggie’s brow creased. “Chanson’s closed, huh? I wonder why.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind,” she yelled. “I was gonna ask you to save a table for a Doucet gala committee meeting, but I think it’s gonna be too loud over there.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind!” Maggie practically screamed. Ione recoiled, covering her ears. “Have fun!” She ended the call. “New plan,” she said to Ione. “We’ll meet at Crozat, seven PM for anyone who can make it.”

  “What?” Ione yelled.

  She broke into a grin, and Maggie rolled her eyes. “Funny stuff. I hear the Ha Ha Comedy Club in Baton Rouge has an open-mic night.”

  Maggie brought the rest of the pastries back to the break room, then went to her office. After texting the gala committee to set up the evening’s meeting, she donned cotton museum-curator gloves and climbed to the attic up a set of stairs restricted to employees. Combing through Doucet’s treasure trove of antiques was one of her favorite tasks, particularly since the planation had belonged to her mother’s family until they donated it to be used as a historical site. She threaded her way through a sea of centuries-old furniture, trunks, knickknacks, and ephemera, finally landing on a collection of paintings that were the work of Carrie Jones, a once-enslaved woman who’d found fame and fortune as a folk artist in the early twentieth century. Doucet’s next exhibit would be a tribute to Jones’s work. Maggie checked her phone to make sure she hadn’t missed a response from Bo, then began searching through generations of arts and crafts.

  She emerged from the attic hours later carrying paintings, drawings, and a couple of Carrie’s small, rudimentary clay sculptures. She parked the items in her office and shook the attic dust out of her hair. Hungry, she trooped over to the break room, hoping to find a leftover pastry. She was semi in luck. Someone had split a Creole Cream Cheese Danish in two and left half on the plate. Maggie inhaled the pastry, finishing just as Bo returned her call. She detailed her exchange with Ash. “Something’s spooking him. And I’m sure it has to do with Dyer’s death.”

  “I’ll hunt him down and bring him in for questioning.”

  “I hope he hasn’t taken off. I got the feeling he might.”

  “Great, just what I need. Wait, Ru’s trying to get my attention. Hey, Ru …” Maggie heard an angry Rufus yelling in the background but couldn’t make out what he was saying. “What? Son of a—” Bo released a stream of epithets. “I gotta go, chère. Parish police are interviewing Luis Alvaro about the doctored eats at Chanson’s and we’re only learning about it now. This is what happens when you got a bunch of agencies working at cross-purposes.”

  “Did forensics figure out what made the staff sick?”

  “They found a trace of monkshood. The stuff is deadly but less so if used in a very minute amount. It was also diluted by being added to a dish meant to serve a crowd. Still, whoever did it is lucky no one died. I’ll see you at home. Whenever I get there.”

  “Love you. Be safe.”

  Maggie pocketed her phone. She wrapped her arms around herself for emotional as well as physical warmth. She’d noticed that Luis kept to himself. Maggie figured this had more to do with his immigration status than a nefarious plot to move up the culinary ladder at Chanson’s from sous-chef to executive chef, which she assumed would be the motivation for rendering coworkers out of commission.

  The day passed quickly, with Maggie immersed in Carrie Jones’s simple, powerful creations. Eventually the bells from a nearby church tolled five PM. She covered the folk artist’s drawings, sculptures, and paintings in acid-free tissue paper to protect them, then set off for home, using the short ride to the ferry landing to organize her thoughts. With Junie’s back in business, Maggie sensed JJ had shelved his fears about being a person of interest in Phillippe’s murder. Once word got out about Luis, that would cement her friend’s relief. If law enforcement—whichever department of the too many that were involved—found a link between the poisonings and Phillippe’s murder, the young chef would become the primary suspect.

  She was happy to see the ferry, engine humming, unloading westbound cars. Maggie got in line behind a half dozen other cars waiting to board for the boat ride east. She brooded while idling. Something about the Luis twist felt off to her. He’d seemed nothing but grateful for the opportunities Phillippe had given him. She wondered if it had all been an act.

  Maggie realized she possessed a way to prove or disprove this. She pulled her sketchbook from her tote bag. A drawing had exposed Scooter; maybe one would do the same with Luis. She skipped through the pages until she reached her renderings of him. There was Luis teasing Becca; another drawing showed him chopping onions with a skill that Maggie, who hated chopping the tear-inducing veggie, coveted; in a third sketch, Luis admired the results of his work after adding a decorative garnish to an avocado stuffed with shrimp remoulade. Maggie analyzed every drawing in the book, but nothing stood out for her. She gave a frustrated grunt and was about to toss the sketchbook aside when one particular sketch flashed in her mind. She zipped through the book until she found the drawing in question. I wonder, she thought. She took out her phone and typed in a word. An image came up. She matched it to the odd detail in her sketch.

  The car behind her honked. Maggie looked up to see a deckhand ushering eastbound vehicles onto the ferry. Captain DiVirgilio, who was strolling among the cars, waved to her. Maggie tore a page from her sketchbook and exited the car.

  “Ciao, mia amica.” The genial man doffed his captain’s hat to her.

  “Ciao.” Maggie handed him the sketch. “I thought you might like this.”

  DiVirgilio examined her drawing of him. “Eccellente. Thank you.” He placed the gift inside his jacket and studied Maggie. “If you don’t mind a little honesty from an old man, you look weary. Like something’s bothering you.”

  Ma
ggie quirked the corner of her mouth. “You’re pretty observant.”

  The captain gestured to the Mississippi. “Chalk it up to a life spent on the river. Gotta have all your senses on alert.” He tapped his eyelids. “Especially these.”

  “That’s like me. People joke that being an artist makes me see things other people miss because my visual sense is so acute.”

  “What do you see now?”

  “I’m not sure,” Maggie admitted. “It may be important. Or it may be me wishing it were important because I don’t want to see someone who may be innocent accused of murder. Like my friend JJ.” She gazed down at the muddy waters of the Mississippi slapping rhythmically against the side of the boat. “My husband once told me that the primary motivation for killing someone isn’t greed or even rage. It’s humiliation. I wonder if that’s the case here.”

  DiVirgilio pushed back his cap and scratched a spot on his forehead with a crepey, liver-spotted hand. “There’s an old Italian saying: Chi offende scrive sulla carta. Chi è offeso scrive sulla pietra. He who offends writes on paper. He who is offended writes on stone.” A deckhand shouted to the captain and gave him a thumbs-up. “Thank you for the drawing. It’s time for me to ferry you across the river.”

  Maggie shuddered. “No offense, but I just thought of the River Styx and souls being ferried across it to their doom in Greek myths.”

  DiVirgilio let out a roar of laughter. “I’ve been called a lotta things but not a god. I can’t wait to tell Mrs. DiVirgilio she’s married to Hercules.”

  “I’m pretty sure Charon was the ferryman and more of a spirit or demon. But you don’t have to mention that to your wife.”

  DiVirgilio headed up to the pilot’s deck. Moments later he sounded the ferry’s horn, and the boat crept away from the landing. A cold wind came with the ferry’s chug across the Mississippi, and Maggie decamped for the warmth of her car. She turned up the heat and reflected on the Italian saying the ferry captain had shared. “He who is offended writes on stone,” she said aloud.

  In the case of Phillippe Chanson, Maggie had an idea who might have carved his death warrant onto stone. But what she needed was proof.

  Chapter 24

  When she reached Crozat, Maggie stopped at the manor house to meet with her mother and grandmother to coordinate snacks and drinks for the gala committee meeting. “I’ll put out the china and flatware,” Gran said.

  “I can do it, Charlotte,” Ninette responded.

  “Please, you have to let me do something,” Gran pleaded, clasping her hands together to mime praying. “Lee’s at work, and Vanessa banished me from the cottage so she can surprise me with the design results, which quite frankly terrifies me. She’s a dear, but signing on for her design advice was a drunken impulse I fear I’ll live to regret.”

  Maggie exchanged a clandestine amused smile with her mother. “I’m sure we can make adjustments to Van’s choices that will make you happy and not hurt her feelings,” Ninette said.

  “Or we stage a ‘burglary,’ ” Maggie said, throwing air quotes around the word, “and hope Van doesn’t notice that the only stuff stolen is the stuff she picked out.”

  Maggie left the manor house for her apartment. On the way, she saw Kate striding toward her lodgings. She noticed Maggie. “Oh, hey. Would it be possible to buy a bottle of wine from the B and B? Any bottle. I’m not picky. I’ll take a belt of anything to wash down today.”

  “I’ll have my father bring over a bottle of Chardonnay and a bottle of Merlot. On the house.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I heard about Luis being interviewed by the parish police.”

  Kate slapped her hands against her forehead in a gesture of incredulity. “Can you believe it? I can’t. Phillippe was Luis’s biggest supporter. He thought he had a ton of promise.” This should have come as a revelation to Maggie, given what she’d once been told. Instead, it helped confirm what she suspected. “I don’t know,” Kate continued. “Maybe I’m too kumbaya, love your fellow man. Trick’s way more skeptical. He said there was a dark side to Luis. I thought he was jealous because Luis had a crush on me.” She took a tin of mints from her designer purse and popped one into her mouth. “I’m pretending these are Xanax, which I could really use right now, except my doctor wouldn’t refill the prescription. I need to have someone sneak me in a bottle of antianxiety meds from Canada.”

  “What’s your plan for the restaurant? Are people in shape to work?”

  “Yes, thank God. Jerome is back on his feet. Becca is better too. She’ll train under him and hopefully eventually take over. And Scooter is still Scooter, for better or worse. So, oysters will be shucked, and meals will be served.” She pointed to her smartwatch. “Ticktock on that wine.”

  Kate continued into the carriage house. Maggie made her way to the spa and traipsed upstairs. She texted Kate’s wine order to Tug, who replied with a thumbs-up and a string of wine bottle emojis. Rather than phone Bo, she decided to wait until he got home from work to run her theory by him. Overcome by an intense wave of exhaustion, she collapsed into bed for an hourlong nap. When she awoke, she showered and changed before returning to the manor house. The warm water was rejuvenating, and Maggie could have lingered under it forever. Instead, she switched off the hot water and endured a blast of cold that she hoped would give her the energy she’d need for the gala committee meeting.

  Maggie tried but found it impossible to focus on the meeting. Her mind kept straying to the events at Chanson. She fidgeted with a pencil, finally breaking it, which earned her a quizzical glance from Ninette. Finally, much to her relief, Ione snapped her laptop shut. “We’re in great shape, ladies. Meeting adjourned. Now, let’s adjourn to the bar.”

  “That will have to wait a few minutes.” Gran held up her phone. “Vanessa’s done with my cottage. She wants us to come over and see the results.”

  The women left the manor and trod the path to the Crozat-Bertrand home. Gran’s front door flew open and Vanessa stepped out to welcome them. She wore a bright-pink satin cocktail dress that hugged her baby bump. “Come on in, y’all. Take a look-see at Charlotte and Lee Bertrand’s abode, updates brought to you by Vanessa MacIlhoney’s Fine Interior Design.”

  Gran gripped Maggie’s hand. “Pray for me,” she said under her breath.

  Maggie followed her inside. She and the others gasped at what they saw. The living room walls were painted pale taupe. An elegant mix of antique and contemporary furniture upholstered in neutral shades filled the room, with tomato-red throw pillows adding a pop of color. A stunning bayou landscape painted by a beloved local artist—the one and only Maggie Crozat—hung over the couch. “Vanessa, I … I …” Gran stammered. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “I got the hint when you asked me to paint over the yellow in your bedroom,” Vanessa said. “And took it from there.”

  The women toured the now-lovely home, heaping compliments on the newly minted interior decorator. They finished in the sparkling, remodeled kitchen where Van poured each of them a glass of chilled champagne. Gran raised her glass. “To my brilliant designer and beautiful new home.” The women toasted Vanessa, who blushed. “Let’s take this party into the living room,” Gran said. “Very, very carefully. If a single drop spills anywhere on this gloriousness, I might sue.”

  “I know a lawyer,” Vanessa joked.

  The women moved en masse, but Vanessa held Maggie back. “Thanks for sharing your gran with me.” Emotional, her voice quavered. “It made me a little less sad about losing my mama.”

  “Of course.” Maggie, with newfound insight into Vanessa’s attachment to Grand-mère, hugged her. There was a crunch of gravel from the parking area outside. “I think Bo’s home. I’m gonna sneak out of here. The place is gorgeous, Van. I wish it looked this nice when I lived here.”

  Maggie hurried home. Bo was already in the apartment nursing a beer by the time she arrived. They shared a kiss. “It’s been a day,” he said, taking a seat in the living room
club chair and hefting his long legs onto the chair’s matching ottoman.

  He pulled Maggie onto his lap, and she curled up in his arms. “What happened with Luis?” she asked.

  “He’s released for now, due to a lack of evidence, but he’s still in the parish police cross hairs.”

  “I have a theory about the poisoning, and it ties into Phillippe’s murder.”

  “You have a theory, huh? Why am I not surprised?” Bo didn’t bother to hide his amusement. “You’ve got a dang good track record with your theories, so lay it on me.”

  Bo listened as Maggie mapped out a possible scenario. “Does that make any sense?” she asked when she was done, suddenly insecure.

  “Yes. But I need a whole lot more than a supposition to sell it.”

  Maggie, now animated and determined, jumped off her husband’s lap. “No worries. I don’t just have a theory. I have a plan.”

  Bo raised his eyebrows. “Uh-oh.”

  Chapter 25

  There was an excellent turnout at Chanson’s Cajun Kitchen that evening. Maggie’s offer to sketch patrons for free was eagerly welcomed and attracted a steady stream of diners. But the energy of the staff hummed with tension. Since no charges had been brought against Luis and he was vociferous in declaring his innocence, he was back working in the kitchen. Distracted, his ill-at-ease coworkers made more mistakes than usual filling orders, but customers were placated with a round of complimentary drinks.

  As the night wore on and the time to put her plan in place drew near, Maggie grew increasingly anxious. Perspiration, a by-product of nerves and the unseasonably muggy weather, dripped down her forehead, stinging her eyes. She felt the Chanson employees eyeing her suspiciously, then wondered if it was her imagination, made overactive by the circumstances. Her hand cramped up from drawing, but she soldiered on. Finally, around eleven PM, the restaurant emptied out. One lone patron remained at the bar, back to the dining room, hunched over his drink. Kate had instructed the staff to stick around for drinks after the restaurant closed, explaining that she had important news to share. But she herself was MIA. The waitstaff lined up at the bar. The kitchen staff sauntered out of the kitchen and joined them, with only executive chef Jerome begging off, citing his long drive home to Algiers, a historic enclave across the river from New Orleans proper. Maggie, heart pounding, began to fear her plan was going to fall through. Then Kate strode through the door.