by Ellen Byron
Maggie had accepted Kyle’s offer to lend her some members of his sales team, and high school students Clinton and Brianna Poche were now helping her man the Crozats’ booth. “These are good,” Clinton acknowledged as he snacked on a sweet potato praline. “But my grand-mère’s sweet potato pralines are better, no offense or anything. Her recipe’s super awesome. And they taste just as good when I make them.” Clinton, a budding confectioner, said this with pride.
“Why don’t you make a batch and sell them here?” Maggie said, seizing an opportunity to lighten her workload while encouraging a bit of entrepreneurship. “You can keep the proceeds from your sales.”
“Really? Sure.” Excited, Clinton took out his phone and started writing a list of ingredients he’d need.
“People’s coming,” his sister said, gesturing to the entrance gate.
As they waited for customers, Maggie unconsciously reached for her engagement ring. Then she remembered it wasn’t there. She’d developed a habit of playing with it, and not wearing the ring felt disconcerting.
“Where’s your ring?” Brianna said, noticing Maggie’s bare hand.
“Home. I just thought I’d leave it there today.” She lied as badly as possible, throwing in a sad face as a punctuation mark. Clinton and Brianna exchanged a knowing look. Then Brianna pulled out her phone and began texting, sending the rumor engine into first gear.
Maggie saw Xander and his friends strolling up the grass midway and waved. The “posse” steered itself in the praline booth’s direction, and soon she, Clinton, and Brianna were busy selling the group pralines. “Two, please,” Xander said, holding up two fingers.
“These are on the house,” Maggie said, handing them to him.
Xander thanked her, then turned to Esme, the girl Maggie had noticed before. “Here,” Xander said, offering her a praline.
Esme shook her head. “No thank you.”
She walked away, leaving a crestfallen Xander. Maggie’s heart broke for the boy. “Hey, buddy, it’s okay. Lots of kids don’t like nuts. No big deal. Now you get two pralines.” Xander didn’t respond. “Tell you what. For tomorrow, I’ll make my dad’s recipe for Chulanes. They’re chewy chocolate pralines. Kids love chocolate. How does that sound?”
Xander brightened and nodded, then ran to rejoin his friends.
“Bet she’d like my grand-mère’s sweet potato pralines,” Clinton said. “Just sayin’.”
This drew a groan from his sister and a laugh from Maggie. “I’m going to take a break,” she told her helpers. “If you need me, text me.”
Maggie left the booth and wandered around the festival grounds. With Pelican Pralines in the capable hands of the Poche teens, she debated her next move. She intended to use her newly “single” status as a way of cozying up to Tammy’s musicians. Maggie doubted they’d make an appearance at the festival this early in the afternoon, but on the off chance one of them was an early riser—meaning they got out of bed before four in the afternoon—she headed down to the performance area. As predicted, there wasn’t a musician to be found. Maggie was about to return to her booth when she saw Sara, Tammy’s ersatz manager, deep in conversation with a roadie, who was taking notes as she spoke. Maggie made her way toward them in time to hear the roadie say, “But—” and Sara respond, “I don’t care what Pony wanted. He was wrong and I’m right. If he was still with us, he would’ve eventually come around on this, trust me.”
“Fine, we’ll do it your way,” the roadie said, looking unhappy as he turned to go.
Sara noticed Maggie and pointed to the departing roadie. “You see what women in this business have to put up with? He’d do anything Pony asked without saying a word about it. But I tell him to set up the stage with Uffen on Tammy’s right instead of her left because they have great onstage chemistry—plus she’s a righty so she naturally gravitates in that direction—and I get pushback. It makes me furious.”
Maggie noted that Sara didn’t sound furious. She sounded downright exuberant. “You handled it really well. If Pony was still here, he would have been impressed.”
Sara made a wry face. She pulled off the shirt she’d wrapped around her waist and blotted the back of her neck with it. “I doubt it. I don’t know what would have impressed Pony. I tried pretty much everything and never got a single positive response from him.”
Maggie took a delicate approach to her next question. “Did he ever try to …?” She purposefully left the sentence unfinished.
“Hit on me?” Sara chortled. “Even me being gay didn’t put him off. I think it turned him on more. But I always circled back to business, and the thing with him was that he’d eventually get bored and move on.” Sara turned and gazed toward the stage. “He was a genius, you know. Like, no joke. A true legend. I learned a ton from him. But … what’s that old saying? When the student knows more than the master?”
“The student has become the master.”
“Pony was old. And this isn’t a business for old people. You’ve got to know when to get out or you wind up getting pushed out. Anyway, I’ve gotta run; I have to Skype with the Jazz Fest people in ten.”
The young manager took off for the VIP trailer, her strides long, her posture confident. “Get out or pushed out,” Maggie murmured. Pony hadn’t given off any sense of wanting to retire from his prominent position, leaving “pushed out” as the only option for someone with ambitions to replace him. Someone like Sara.
* * *
Maggie mulled this over on her walk back to Pelican Pralines. She spent the next few hours selling sweets and souvenirs, which proved to be a welcome respite from worrying about Gaynell facing a murder rap. A couple of twentysomething hippie wannabes approached the booth. One was short with a potbelly that stuck out from under his faded T-shirt, the other gangly and dreadlocked. Their glazed eyes indicated they’d been partying with more than liquor. They eyed the pralines with longing and a dose of suspicion. “These look good, but are they made from pelicans?”
“What? No.” Maggie made a discreet gesture to quiet Brianna and Clinton’s giggles. “They’re made in Pelican, not of pelicans.”
The ganglier of the two looked skeptical. “You sure?”
“So very, very sure.”
“Might I step in?” The British accent belonged to Uffen, Tammy’s bassist, who emerged between the stoners. “Allow me to be your taste tester.” He chose a praline piece from the sample bowl of broken bits, sniffed it, then ate it. “Oh my. An almond praline. Unique and absolutely delicious. I’ll take ten. No, make it twenty. And you know what? Make it an assortment, please.”
“Sure, of course.” Maggie handed Uffen a premade box of assorted pralines.
He pulled a twenty-dollar bill out of his pocket and exchanged it for the box. “Gentlemen, these are for you.”
Maggie hid her own giggles as Uffen passed the box of pralines to the stoners and was rewarded with a chorus of “Dude!” and “Awesome!”
“Thank you for that,” she said to the bassist as the men departed with their prize.
Uffen flashed a dimpled smile. He released his hair from its man bun prison. It hung past his shoulders, curly and golden. “My pleasure. I just dropped by the fair to pick up some barbecue for the group back at the B and B. Why don’t you stop by later?”
“Sure, if I’m free.”
“Oh, you’re free.”
The rumor engine had shifted from first gear straight into fifth. But Maggie played dumb. “How do you know?”
“A little birdie told me. A birdie who’s only sixteen, unfortunately.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t ask to see my license before inviting me over.”
The bassist favored Maggie with his most sultry look. “I don’t need to see your license to know you’re legal.”
“You do realize that’s not a compliment.”
For a moment, the musician looked flustered. “Oh. Right.” He quickly regrouped. “The invitation still stands.”
“And is a
ccepted.” Maggie hated her own flirty response. She could feel the disapproval as Clinton and Brianna whispered to each other. She knew her plan was a good one but hadn’t counted on how difficult it would be to execute.
“See you later, then,” Uffen said. “And feel free to bring some of those delicious sweets of yours.”
He crooked his lips in a half smile, added a dose of bedroom eyes, and departed for the barbecue booth. Maggie and the Poches watched him go. “He’s a lot,” Brianna said.
“Yes, he is,” Maggie responded. And I hope I can handle him.
* * *
By the time Maggie closed the praline booth, it was past ten PM and she was exhausted. She texted Uffen, hoping the musicians had called it a night while knowing in her heart they hadn’t. Uffen confirmed this and included an order for more barbecue. Maggie steeled herself for a round of flirting, then bought out the last of the Pigalicious BBQ booth’s chicken, ribs, and pulled pork. She drove up the River Road to Belle Vista, where she was hailed as a hero by the musicians, who descended upon the buckets of food she carried. “The ribs are mine,” Tammy said, snatching the container from Maggie.
“I thought you were a vegetarian,” Maggie said as she joined the others at a picnic table on BV’s wide green lawn.
“Pony had me on that stupid diet. He said it was better for my voice. And my weight. He was always on my case about that. Not anymore. May he rest in peace, amen.” Tammy added the last as an afterthought. “Ooh, Zapp’s Voodoo Chips. My favorite.” She tore open a bag of the spicy potato chips, then alternated between crunching chips and stuffing down ribs. Maggie noted this benefit of Pony’s death, although it was hard to envision freedom to eat ribs as a motive for murder, even for someone as self-involved as Tammy.
Gigi and Narcisse appeared on the lawn’s horizon. Gigi trudged up the slight incline, Narcisse loping behind her. “Hey, coz,” Gigi said, addressing Tammy. “I got everything done on your list. I was wondering if I could wash your delicates tomorrow? I’m kinda worn out.”
“I hear you.” Tammy licked each finger, then cleaned her hands with a wet wipe. “Except I really need that stuff washed. I don’t have to tell you how easy it’d be to find an assistant who don’t get wore out.”
Gigi tried and failed to turn a grimace into a smile. “Message received. Narcisse?”
“You take the car.” Narcisse said this with a mouth full of pulled-pork sandwich. “I’ll catch a ride back with Tammy later.”
Gigi stood immobile for a moment. “Okay then,” she finally said, as brightly as possible. “See y’all back at Crozat.”
Gigi left. Maggie was relieved to see Uffen had lost interest in hitting on her, instead choosing to recline on a chaise lounge and vape. The Sound and Valeria rose to take food back to their rooms. “I have to make some business calls to LA,” The Sound said.
“Piloga biz, huh?” Valeria jokingly bowed to him. “Mah-nasty, my friend.”
“It’s namaste and you know that,” The Sound responded, but he said it with a glimmer of amusement.
They took off, but the others stuck around. No one seemed to wonder why Maggie was there, which saved her from having to put on her rebound-romance act.
The musicians made small talk as they ate, referencing people and places that were alien to her. Although the general conversation was casual, she sensed an underlying tension. This was no surprise. The man who was the power behind the tour had been killed. Dispassionate as the performers appeared, the shocking death affected them, especially since the murderer was still at large and the police were targeting an unlikely suspect with the flimsiest of evidence.
“How’s Miss Gaynell doing?” Toulouse asked, as if reading her mind.
“She’s good,” Maggie lied. She was torn between pretending Gaynell was in the clear and ramping up the fact that her friend was under suspicion. The first choice might make the real killer nervous enough to make a mistake; the second might relax them enough to get sloppy and slip up. But Toulouse saved Maggie from having to pick a path.
“I can’t believe the police think she killed Pony.” Angry, Toulouse turned to Tammy. “How could you do that to her?”
The singer held up her hands. “Hey, I only shared what I saw. I’m on her side. It’s not my fault Pony messed with one woman too many.”
Toulouse pointed a finger at her. “See? Talk like that’s what got her into trouble.”
“I’m not the only one who heard Gaynell be all nasty with him.” Tammy turned to Maggie, who was hanging back, letting Toulouse fight the fight for her. “You heard her, too.”
Cornered, Maggie bit back the urge to attack the it-rhymes-with-witchy singer, instead opting for a passionate defense. “Gaynell is one of my closest friends in the world, and no matter what happened between her and Mr. Pickner, I can tell you that it would never drive her to violence.”
“Agree a million percent,” Toulouse said with a vigorous nod.
“Somebody’s crushing on Miss Gaynell.” Uffen called this in a singsongy voice from his chaise.
Toulouse’s face flamed. “It ain’t that. I just think she’s a good person.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Leave me alone.”
“Somebody’s also quite sensitive.”
Uffen’s taunts upped the level of tension, and the air crackled. “Get off his back, Uffen,” East said through gritted teeth. Uffen responded with a derisive laugh, and East clenched his fists. “I’m sick of you picking on people and thinking it’s funny.” Maggie held her breath.
“Whoa.” Bokie, the good-natured drummer, patted one of East’s fists. “Take a breath, dude. Let go, let God.”
Uffen groaned theatrically. “Oh please, spare me the twelve-step BS.”
“It’s not BS; it helps me.”
Bokie sounded wounded, and Maggie felt for him. “I think everyone’s a little touchy right now, which is totally understandable.”
“They’re always like this. Ignore them.” Tammy weighed in without looking up from her cell phone. Narcisse lolled next to her, headphones on, oblivious to the drama.
East released his fists, but his mood remained dark. “It would’ve been great if Pony had controlled himself for a change. What an idiot.”
Uffen snorted as he refilled his vape cartridge. “There’s gratitude for you. That ‘idiot’ saved your career and probably your life. If it weren’t for Pony, you’d be playing bar mitzvahs and weddings. Or dead.”
East slammed his fists on the table, startling the others and even rousing Narcisse from his stupor. “I know that, okay? Stop reminding me.”
The guitarist kicked over his chair, unleashed a flood of foul language, and stormed off. No one spoke for a moment.
“You shouldn’t upset him like that,” Toulouse said. “It’s not nice.”
Maggie coughed, fighting back hysterical giggles induced by the Cajun musician’s massive understatement. Pushing the volatile East’s buttons was more than “not nice.”
It was dangerous.
Chapter 11
East’s explosion ended the evening. Maggie was loopy with fatigue by the time she got home, but that didn’t stop her from powering on her laptop and searching for East MacLeod. Music magazine articles and blog posts detailed a past littered with drunken rants, missed tour dates, and a couple of arrests for disorderly conduct—then a long career lull until his name appeared in the lineup for Tammy’s band. Why would he resent Pony, the man who resuscitated his career? Had Pony insisted on something untenable in exchange for the job? Maggie pulled out a Post-it pad and wrote down, See if Pelican PD researched musicians’ contracts. Then she stumbled into bed and a dreamless sleep.
A morning shower followed by black coffee rejuvenated Maggie. She slid on jeans and her Cajun Country Live! T-shirt, then joined her grandmother in the living room, stepping around three piles of the older woman’s belongings that were taking up most of the floor. What little space remained had been commandeered by Gopher, who was spla
yed out to his full basset length and width. Jolie was on the couch, her little body tucked next to Gran’s side. “Do you want to come to the festival with me later?” Maggie asked.
“Do you need me to help out?”
“No, I’ve got the booth covered.”
“Then I’ll pass,” Gran said. “While I pat myself on the back for coming up with this idea, music festivals are a young person’s game. I’ll show up at some point, if they want me there, and wave like a royal …” She mimed the queen of England’s wave. “But I think today I’ll take Lee up on his offer of lunch in Breaux Bridge.”
“No worries, I get it.” Maggie motioned to the piles on the floor. “What are those for?”
“Keep, discard, maybe. Emphasis on the discard pile.”
Maggie picked up a worn cardboard frame decorated with elbow macaroni spray-painted gold. “I made this for you in kindergarten. Please tell me it’s in the keep pile.”
“I’m afraid not. It’s lost half its macaroni. But no worries, I’ve kept several of the treasures you made me over the years. Like this.” Gran held up a glazed clay alligator. “I’ve always loved this little fellow. If you don’t mind, I’d like to be buried with it.”
Maggie made a sour face. “Oh, dear Lord, let’s talk about anything else. Even murder.”
“Speaking of which, your mother told me about your faux breakup with Bo. She and your father aren’t too happy about it, but they know you see it as a way to help Gaynell.”
“What do you think?”
“I’m all in, as they say in the military. However, if my grief about the breakup is to be believable, I’ll have to dust off the old acting chops. I took an acting course at Newcomb back in the day.” Gran held a hand to her lightly wrinkled forehead, affected an anguished expression, and quintupled her Louisiana accent. “I’m bereft over the dissolution of my beloved granddaughter’s betrothal. Is she destined for life as an old maid? I cannot bear the thought.”