Fatal Cajun Festival

by Ellen Byron

  Maggie giggled at the image of Gran gracing festivalgoers with a pageant wave from her sedan chair, then grabbed her car keys and took off for the festival’s climax.

  * * *

  The minute Maggie parked and got out of her car, she sensed the evening had a different energy from past nights. It simmered with tension. The grounds were overcrowded, the green alley between the food booths crammed with cranky, hungry celebrants—“hangry,” as the Poche sibs would label them—who traded glares as they bumped up against each other while waiting in long lines. The general mood wasn’t helped by humidity topping one hundred percent. In some regions, a temperature drop followed rain. Not in Pelican—at least not on this night. Dry lightning flashed in the distance.

  A pickup truck pulled up next to her. Maggie recognized it as belonging to Chret Bertrand, Gaynell’s boyfriend. Sure enough, Chret hopped out of the driver’s side. “Hey, Maggie.”

  “Chret, you’re back from DC.”

  “Heard what all was going on with Gay and got here as fast as I could.” He opened the truck’s passenger door, and Gaynell hopped down from the cab.

  “Gay!” Maggie and her friend embraced. “I didn’t think you’d make it tonight. I figured you were recuperating.”

  Gaynell gave her boyfriend a warm smile, which he returned with a shy one. His fair skin turned red. “I felt better the minute Chret showed up,” Gaynell said. “She squeezed his hand. “We’ll see you later. We’re going to the front of the music stage. Who knows, we might even dance tonight.”

  The couple set off in one direction, Maggie in another. She squeezed through the crowd, navigating knots of festivalgoers. By the time she reached the Crozats’ booth, perspiration dripped from her brow and darkened her T-shirt with stains. “Wow, it’s brutal tonight,” she gasped. She pulled up the edge of her shirt and used it to wipe the sweat off her face. “As soon as you’re done selling, you’re free to head out.”

  “Oh, we sold out your stuff a while ago,” Clinton said, smiling at a customer as he made change. “Sold out of my sweet potato pralines, too.”

  “Now we’re selling my invention.” Brianna held up a neatly wrapped praline. “Bacon maple.”

  She handed one to Maggie, who bit into it. She faked a swoon, then genuflected to the Poches. “I bow to you both. Never tell my mother or anyone from Bon Bon Sweets I said this, but you make the best pralines in town.”

  “You know it,” Clinton said, as he sold six of them to a family.

  “We were wondering if you’d pay us to break down the booth tomorrow,” Brianna said. “We want to earn money for our new business.” She threw her hands in the air in a ta-da gesture. “Poch-tastic Pralines.”

  “I like it,” Maggie said. “And not only will I pay you to break down the booth, I’ll pay you to pack up whatever artwork I didn’t sell. You’d be doing me a big favor.” The kids hooted and high-fived each other.

  Maggie, who hadn’t eaten dinner, slapped a five-dollar bill on the counter, helped herself to a second praline, and went hunting for Rufus. She’d finished both pralines by the time she found him scolding a couple of sullen tween boys. “I’ll let you off this time,” he said as he confiscated vaping paraphernalia, “but if I catch you Juuling again, you’ll be all Orange Is the New Black–ing while you pick up roadkill on the side of I-10.” The boys skulked off. Rufus took off his police hat and rubbed the top of his head. His sandy hair was so wet with sweat it looked like he’d just gotten out of the shower. “Every time you think kids can’t come up with some stupid new thing to do, whaddya know, they do. I’m gonna have to raise my Charli in a tower like that Rapunzel chick.”

  “Ru, did Bo mention my idea to you?”

  “About Pickner hunting down his mystery spawn? Sounds like a road. Artie’s in the mobile unit drilling down into the guy’s past. He told me to thank you for getting him an inside detail. This weather ain’t pleasant for a man of his girth.” A large sweat globule dropped from Ru’s brow, splattering onto his shirt. “Or mine.” He squinted into the distance. Maggie followed his gaze and saw two teen boys exchanging angry words. One wore a green-and-gold jersey in Pelican’s team colors, the other Ville Blanc’s blue-and-white theme. “Great, that’s what this shindig needs,” Rufus said. “A good old-fashioned rumble. ’Scuse me.”

  He tromped off to separate the rivals. Maggie continued toward the VIP trailer by the stage, determined to make use of what little time she had left with Tammy’s entourage. She passed Lee and Grand-mère, who were wending their way through the crowds. Lee, although drenched himself, fanned Gran with a leftover I’M A FAN OF RUFUS DURAND swag fan as he walked alongside Pelican’s grande dame. “You got yourself a good man,” Maggie told her grandmother as they passed.

  “I’ll keep doing it till my arm gives out,” Lee said, rubbing said arm.

  “You’re welcome to take a break, cher,” the octogenarian responded, before stopping to accept a handshake from an appreciative local. “But a quick one.”

  Maggie kept going toward the VIP trailer. Her mission was interrupted by Vanessa calling to her from the Fais Dough Dough booth. “Maggie, I got a couple of crawfish pies left. You want one?”

  Maggie stopped. Delicious as Clinton’s bacon maple pralines were, her stomach was still rumbling. She checked her phone. There was plenty of time before Tammy’s last set to satiate her hunger, thus preventing it from being a distraction. She walked over to Van and accepted the offered hand pie. She took a large bite. “Delicious. Your recipe?”

  “Sandy’s.” Vanessa motioned behind her, where, to Maggie’s surprise, Sandy sat on a cooler tallying up receipts on a calculator. “We called a truce.”

  “I made a dozen of them pies as a peace offering,” Sandy shared from her perch on the cooler. “We felt bad about getting into it at the baby shower like we did. Gaynell’s kidnapping was a wake-up call for both of us. No more silly competition.”

  “It’s all good, except I’m stuck with two hundred of these potholders,” Vanessa said glumly. She held up a purple potholder decorated with the slogan MACILHONEY BRINGS THE HEAT in bold gold lettering.

  Sandy eyed the potholders. “They’re pretty. I’ll take one. And you know what, since you already had ’em before we declared our truce, why don’t you give them out? It’d be a shame if they went to waste.”

  Van brightened. “Really? You’re okay with that?”

  “Sure. Go. I’ll look after the booth.”

  Vanessa squealed and hugged Sandy. “You are the best. Back in a jiff.” She picked up the box of potholders and darted out from behind the booth into the crowd.

  “That was super nice of you, Sandy,” Maggie said.

  “There’s no race, so what does it matter? And honestly, she would’ve made a much better first lady of Pelican than me. It’s not who I am. I don’t know why I got so competitive. I think it’s because I know Vanessa hurt Ru when she dumped him, so I didn’t want her to get a win. But he doesn’t care about what happened anymore, so why should I?”

  Maggie smiled at the dance instructor. “I think I’m looking at the reason he doesn’t care anymore.”

  Sandy blushed. “That just earned you another crawfish pie.”

  “Thanks, but I’m okay.” It occurred to Maggie that Pony’s murderer was probably cooling his or her heels in Tammy’s trailer. Butterflies replaced hunger in her stomach. She took a breath to steady her nerves, then left the booth for the trailer.

  Tradition Jazz Band, a hometown favorite, had taken the stage. While Maggie waited for the private security guard overseeing the VIP area to vet her by contacting a member of the organizing committee—who happened to be Grand-mère—she listened to Tradition’s skilled trumpeter bring the Dixieland favorite “Tailgate Ramble” to life. The guard returned her driver’s license and nodded her past the ropes cordoning off the secured section of the festival.

  Maggie traipsed through damp grass to the trailer housing Tammy and her collection of musicians and toadies
. She was about to knock on the flimsy trailer door when Valeria emerged. The backup singer wore a tight black tank top, equally tight black jean shorts, and black high-heeled sandals whose ties crossed her calves gladiator-style. Her mass of black hair hung loose, reaching below her shoulder blades. She faced backward into the trailer as she walked down its two steps. “Let me know how Jazz Fest goes,” she called to someone inside. “Post lots of pictures.” She turned around and saw Maggie. “Oh, hi.”

  “Hi. I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

  “I wanted to say goodbye to everyone. When you tour, you develop a bond like nothing else. Hard to fight that.” Valeria sounded wistful.

  “How’s Bokie?”

  “Out of the coma but not talking yet. The doctors think he’ll be okay eventually, but he’s gonna need tons of rehab. His insurance’ll cover a big chunk; the rest’ll have to come out of pocket. But that won’t be a problem, because guess what?” Valeria crossed her arms in front of her chest, a sour look on her face. “I know Bokie’s computer password—”

  “Let me guess. It’s Valeria.”

  The sour look softened. “That man is nothing if not predictable. I was worried about what his copay would be for all the help he’s gonna need, so I got into his computer and checked out his online banking. Get this—I saw his direct deposit, and he was making way more than me. The bump was in separate payments from his contract salary. I thought we all were favored nations, but Bokie sure wasn’t. Which is good news for him, and I’m glad about that. But still, I am major-league ticked off at that Pony, sneaking someone extra money like that. It’s dirty pool.”

  “Bokie was secretly being paid more than the rest of you?” The revelation sent a jolt through Maggie. Valeria nodded, the sour look returning to her face. “Do you think that’s true of any of the other band members? Could one of them be making more than you thought?”

  Valeria shook her head. “Pretty much all of them complain all the time about the crappy pay. Wait, no—T.S. didn’t. At least not as much.”

  Maggie’s level of excitement surged.

  “But that could just be him. He’s got that Piloga exercise thing on the side. He probably complained less because he has more money.”

  “Probably,” Maggie said, deflated.

  “I gotta get going; I need to pack,” Valeria said. “I’m moving to a motel near the hospital until we can fly Bokie back to LA for treatment. It’s been nice getting to know you. Thanks for your support with everything. When I sell my book, I’ll send you a signed copy.”

  “I thought you were putting the book on hold.”

  “On hold don’t mean dead, honey.” Valeria accompanied this with a Nae Nae dance move, a hand on her hip and another in the air as she rocked her hips. She finished with a finger snap, then strutted off.

  Maggie thought about the info bomb Valeria had dropped. Was there a personal connection between Bokie and Pony that motivated the clandestine pay raise? Could the drummer be Pony’s son? She closed her eyes and tried to recall Pony’s features and then Bokie’s, searching for a resemblance between the two. Usually her artist’s eye embedded details like that in her brain. But she hadn’t spent enough one-on-one time with Bokie to take a mental photograph of his face. She had to acknowledge another possible reason for Bokie’s raise: blackmail. Maybe he’d stumbled across some secret Pony paid him to keep.

  “Thank you, Pelican, good night!”

  Tradition Jazz Band was signing off. Maggie glanced at a dry-erase board listing the evening’s order. There was only one more act before Tammy’s. She knocked on the trailer door.

  “Who is it?” a voice Maggie recognized as Sara’s called out.

  “Maggie Crozat.” There was a pause. Maggie swallowed her pride, then forced herself to add, “I came to apologize to Tammy.”

  The door flew open, and Sara, holding a phone to her ear, motioned for Maggie to come inside. Maggie did, and was immediately struck by the trailer’s slightly cooler but still fetid air. Tammy’s musicians were sprawled around in various states of undress. Even The Sound had shed his ubiquitous cotton tunic and gone with a bare chest. “I thought it would be cooler in here.”

  “Didn’t we all,” said Gigi, who was on her knees fixing the hem of an intricately beaded seafoam-green gown being modeled by Tammy.

  “No sweating on this thing,” Tammy said to her cousin. “I won’t be able to return it to the designer.”

  “Don’t worry; I’m being careful as can be.” Gigi wiped her brow with her forearm. “I can’t wait to move to Los Angeles with ya, cuz. I tell you, I am looking forward to that dry heat.”

  A look passed between Tammy and Narcisse. Gigi missed it, but Maggie didn’t. She forced herself to concentrate on the task at hand: selling a fake apology. “I wanted to stop by and say how sorry I am for blowing up the way I did, Tammy. It’s been a stressful week, what with my engagement breaking up and then coming back together. But that’s no excuse for my behavior.”

  “Apology accepted. In fact, let’s toast to it. Narcisse, pour me and Maggie here shots of the Macallan. It’s a twenty-one-year-old single malt that’s heaven in a glass.”

  Narcisse did as instructed, sneaking a pour for himself as well. While Maggie waited, she glanced around the room, using a bored attitude to mask her goal of scouring each musician for a resemblance to Pony. Narcisse delivered shot glasses to Maggie and Tammy, who raised hers in a toast. “Laissez les bon temps rouler!” Maggie seconded this, and the women toasted.

  “All right, everyone out, our star has to change,” Sara said.

  Gigi started for the door, but Tammy pulled her back. “Duh, not you, coz; you have to dress me. Everyone else, out, out, out.”

  The musicians roused themselves and shuffled toward the door. “Nice jeans,” East said to The Sound. “They new?”

  “Uh-huh. From All The Tribe. The only ones that fit me right.”

  In a flash, a revelation hit Maggie so hard it almost knocked her off balance. When she’d met Pony, the first thing her artist’s eye zeroed in on was his unusual build—short legs and an unusually long torso. He’d be hard to shop for, she’d thought. She’d never seen The Sound without his tunic. Now, as he stood in front of her shirtless, it was impossible to ignore the similarity. “You have the same build as Pony,” she blurted out. The Sound stared at her. She cursed herself, wishing she could suck the words back in. Instead, she lied. “He complained about that. How it was hard to find pants or anything that fit right.” She blathered on. “I can see where that would be a problem. It’s hard when you don’t have the usual body type. I’ve got a butt on me. I have trouble buying jeans, too. All The Tribe, huh? I’ll have to try them. Do they have a website? Of course they have a website. Everyone does now.”

  Sara opened the trailer door and began herding everyone out. “Move, people.”

  “Yeah, why are y’all still here?” Tammy snapped at them. “Get out. We go on in, like, ten. Narcisse, make yourself useful.”

  “What?” Tammy’s “security guard” pushed away the second shot of Macallan’s he’d helped himself to and waved his arms at the others. “You heard her. Go. Git.”

  They got. Maggie, at the end of the line, chafed at the slow exit. She was anxious to break away and find Bo to report her discovery about The Sound. They were all finally outside when she suddenly heard an odd rumbling noise.

  “What’s going on there?” Uffen asked.

  “Where?” Maggie strained to see around him.

  “There.”

  Uffen pointed to what looked like a giant ball of humanity. People screamed and tried to get out of the way, but the ball grew as boys and men piled on. “It’s a group fight,” Maggie said, “and it’s heading toward us!”

  “Back in the trailer, back in the trailer,” Sara yelled to musicians, pulling at them. The others stumbled back inside, but Maggie managed to extricate herself from the group. It was chaos on the field as Pelican and Ville Blanc fans fought each othe
r. Bottles and food flew through the air. Parents grabbed their children and ran. The VIP security guard helplessly pushed back against the warring factions, shouting out “Whoa!” as the melee knocked him down and the VIP ropes with him. Maggie gave up searching for Bo and ran onto the stage to escape harm. From her vantage point, she could see every Pelican police officer on hand trying to break up the brawl. Sirens blared as patrol cars from Ville Blanc raced onto the field, disgorging more officers into the fray.

  Maggie heard someone yelling a stream of foul language. Tammy stormed onto the stage, still wearing the green beaded dress she’d had on in the trailer. Gigi skittered behind her, holding up the gown’s train. Tammy yanked the stage mic out of its stand. She put two fingers in her mouth, emitting a shrill whistle that prompted deafening feedback. The sound literally brought Maggie to her knees. She covered her ringing ears.

  “Hey,” the country singer yelled into the mic. “Knock it off, all of you.” To Maggie’s surprise, the crowd, already discombobulated by Tammy’s whistle, broke apart. Yelling turned to confused muttering. “I planned my whole dang schedule around closing this dang festival so I could show y’all what it looks like when someone leaves this freaking cow town and gets a life,” Tammy yelled at them. “Stop fighting so I can start singing! You hear me? Now.”

  The combatants staggered to their feet and started to disperse. Maggie could make out Bo and Rufus, their uniforms askew from being caught up in the battle, pulling instigators from the crowd and cuffing them.

  “That’s better,” Tammy said. “Now I’m gonna change, get my band together, and be back in a few. Y’all better behave yourselves till then. Oh, and Pelican PD, don’t even think of shutting this shindig down. I came here as a star and I aim to leave as one.”