by Ellen Byron
Tammy stomped offstage, Gigi bringing up the rear as always. Maggie saw Bo load a couple of miscreants into the back of a squad car. Rufus was at the wheel. Bo got in on the passenger’s side and the car squealed off. She pulled out her cell phone, sat back on her haunches, and called Bo. The call went to voice mail, so she sent him a text: THE SOUND RELATED TO PONY. TRUST ME ON THIS. She thought for a moment, then added, MOVE FAST! Given the circumstances, she knew that was doubtful. Maggie cursed herself for her slip to the keyboardist and vowed to work on her internal editor.
Roadies and technicians appeared on the stage. They fiddled with equipment, setting up for Tammy and her band. Maggie got off the stage and stood to one side. A minute later, East meandered onto it, followed by Uffen, and then Pixie, the Gator Girls’ drummer. “Tammy hired me to fill in for that Bokie guy; can you believe the luck?” she called to Maggie as she hurried over to the drum kit.
“Not sure luck is the operative word here,” Maggie muttered to herself.
A musician Maggie didn’t know passed by. The accordion strapped to him marked the man as Toulouse’s replacement. Sara, trying not to look frazzled, clambered up the steps. She made a show of checking the speakers. “Are we good to go?”
“Almost,” East said, his focus on tuning his guitar. “All we need is a keyboard player.”
“I saw him leave the trailer,” Sara said. “He’s not here?” East shook his head. Sara released a frustrated groan. She spoke into her headset. “Narcisse, find The Sound.”
Maggie tried to tamp down a growing sense of foreboding. ‘I’ll help look for him,” she told Sara. She didn’t wait for a response. Instead she did a sweep of the VIP area, then searched behind the stage. There was no sign of the keyboardist.
Sara’s voice came over the festival’s loudspeaker system. “The Sound, please report to the stage. Please report to the stage immediately.”
The lack of response confirmed what Maggie suspected.
The Sound was gone.
Chapter 24
“What do you mean, he’s gone?”
Tammy’s shriek when she found out her keyboard player was missing out-decibeled the sound system’s feedback squeals. Maggie wasn’t the only person who covered her ears. Tammy had changed into her “country girl” show outfit. Her custom-made high-heeled boots kept sinking into the wet soil, and she fought to keep her balance. “This is like one of those horror movies where people keep disappearing and winding up dead. Only it’s my people.”
She burst into tears backed up by genuine emotion, exposing a vulnerability Maggie had no idea existed. Maggie wanted to race over to Pelican PD and see if they’d tracked down The Sound, but instead she rested a comforting hand on Tammy’s shoulder. “The police have been notified. I’m sure he’ll be found.”
“I really wanted to close the festival,” Tammy said, still weeping. “I know I said mean things about the town, but I was angry. It’s still my home. A little. Kind of.”
“I’ll fill in for him.” Gaynell stepped through the huddle and stood in front of Tammy.
“You play keyboards too?” Tammy asked. Maggie noted that the singer said this without her usual snarkiness.
“What doesn’t she play.” Chret appeared behind his girlfriend. He put a protective arm around her waist.
“Here’s an idea.” This came from Sara. “Tammy, you’ll invite the Gator Girls to join you onstage. The rest of you’ll whoop and holler.” She gestured to the other musicians. “You’ll earn back points with the crowd for showcasing local talent, plus we’ll fill the empty slots in the band. It’s win-win.”
“That’s a good idea, but do you think they’d do it?” Tammy asked Gaynell. Maggie was surprised by the touch of insecurity in her tone.
Gaynell snorted. “Play with the most famous act outta Pelican? Are you kidding? I’m surprised they didn’t hear that idea the way dogs hear a sound we can’t, and rush over already.”
Sara and Gaynell sprinted to the stage to summon the other Gator Girls. Maggie hastened to her car, positioning her Bluetooth over her ear as she ran. She hopped in and gunned the engine, then drove out of the grassy parking area, clinging to the steering wheel as each grassy bump threatened her control of the car. She finally got out of the lot and onto the side street, which she followed until she made it to the River Road. Her cell rang. She pressed the Bluetooth button to answer the call. “I got your message,” Bo said. “I put out an APB about The Sound to everyone, including the state troopers. As soon as I finish processing the numbnuts who started the fight at the festival, I’m on it. Does the guy know you suspect him?”
“Yes,” Maggie said, again regretting her slip of the tongue.
Bo sucked in his breath. Then he mustered an even tone and responded, “Drive straight home. Don’t stop for a light; just drive. As soon as you get to Crozat, get whatever you need for protection and lock your whole family inside. Don’t do anything else until you hear from me. Got that?”
Maggie nodded, then realizing that nerves had made her nod to the air instead of an actual human being, said, “Got it.”
“I’ll call or text you updates.”
The call ended. Maggie gripped the wheel. She stared straight at the road ahead, following Bo’s instructions, merely glancing both ways at stop signs and traffic lights before ignoring them. As she drew closer to home, she allowed herself to relax a little. That’s when she saw a truck parked on top of the levee—a tricked-out black pickup truck with gold spinners.
Maggie, eager to alert Bo to the sighting, pressed the button on her Bluetooth. No response. “Great, now you choose to die on me?” She pulled it off her ear and threw it on the passenger’s side of the bench seat, then pulled off to the side of the road. She texted Bo. A few seconds later, her cell sent an alert that the message hadn’t gone through. Certain stretches of the road between cell towers offered spotty service, and Maggie had somehow parked in one of those stretches. She started her engine and pressed the accelerator. The wheels of the Falcon spun, but the car didn’t move. She got out to see what was causing the problem and gave another groan when she saw that where she’d parked had been turned into a virtual swamp by the day’s earlier rains. Only a tow truck would be able to extricate the old convertible. Maggie tried resending her text and got the same annoying red exclamation mark, plus the words NOT DELIVERED.
Despite the cover of night, Maggie felt exposed. The full moon cast a light on her that she ducked as she crept along the side of the road looking for a cell signal. She heard a car door slam and hid behind bushes. She peeked between branches of dense foliage and saw The Sound had gotten out of the truck. Maggie turned off the ringer on her phone, not wanting to risk a sudden call revealing where she was.
The keyboard player began walking down the river side of the levee toward the batture. The location suddenly looked familiar. On the other side of the levee lay the Harmonie Plantation ruins, the final stop on the “My Memories of Pelican” tour Tammy had forced upon her retinue.
Despite the recent rain, snowfall in the northern reaches of the Mississippi had been light the previous winter, meaning less melt-off flowed into the river. The trip with Tammy had revealed that while part of the batture was underwater, a good chunk of it dodged flooding. Why is he going there? Maggie wondered. She recalled the old plantation’s disintegrating dock. Could he have arranged to be picked up by boat?
Maggie tapped another text to Bo on her cell, this time with the specifics about Harmonie to help him pinpoint the location. She pocketed the phone, praying there’d be a signal between the road and the ruins, and the message would send. Then she darted across the empty street and climbed up the levee. If The Sound was escaping by boat, at least she’d be able to tell the police which way he’d headed.
At the top of the levee, she hid behind the pickup truck, then peeked around it. There was no sign of the keyboard player. She began the trek down the river side of the levee, moving slowly and carefully, avoiding dead leave
s or branches whose crunch might give her away. It grew darker inside the tangle of wild brush, and Maggie longed for the moonlight she’d resented moments earlier. An errant branch caught her hair, yanking her back. She managed to free herself but almost lost her balance. Maggie had serious second thoughts about her plan as she grabbed the branch’s tree trunk and righted herself.
For a moment, she debated turning back. Then she heard a splash. Maggie hastened as fast as she could through the plant detritus until she found a viable vantage point. She positioned herself behind a scrubby tree. The view between its branches gave her a clear visual line to the abandoned, rotting dock. But no motorboat sat at its end waiting for The Sound. Instead he was pushing the pirogue, which didn’t appear to be in much better shape than the dock, into the water. The musician grabbed a piece of driftwood and jumped into the canoe. He used the driftwood to row, battling against the river’s current. Maggie inched closer. The pirogue was taking on water. It was slowly sinking. The Sound was in danger of drowning.
Maggie couldn’t watch the man die before her eyes. In the distance was the faint sound of a river patrol boat’s siren. She checked her phone. The text had gone through. “The Sound, help’s coming,” she yelled, remaining behind the tree for security. “Paddle back to shore.”
The musician turned at the sound of her voice. “Oh, hey there, Maggie.” His tone was bizarrely upbeat. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised you found me. You’re a big step above the other yokels around here.” He began humming a song. Then he sang a verse: “When the night comes crashing down, when the darkness is your soul, when there’s no one else around, I dream of you to make me whole. Pretty good, huh? I wrote that.”
“I don’t know what happened between you and Pony—”
He ignored her. “It’s how I felt my whole life. A hole needing to be made whole.”
“The Sound, listen to me—”
“You don’t have to call me that anymore. Use my real name. Paul. Boring old Paul. You know who else was really named Paul? Pony Pickner.”
The police boat siren grew louder, but it was still out of sight. Paul, aka The Sound, stopped rowing. The pirogue continued to sink while being pulled downriver by the Mississippi’s current. Maggie hated feeling helpless, but she knew if she waded into the water and tried to pull the boat to safety, Paul would fight her in a battle that could take them both down. Suddenly she saw the police boat round a bend in the river. “Hold on, Paul,” she called to him. “Help’s almost here.”
He cocked his head to one side, an amused look on his face. “You’re assuming I want help.”
“You don’t want the river to take you; it’s a terrible way to go,” Maggie said. Please let the police boat get to him, please let it get to him.
The pirogue picked up speed as it drifted downriver. Maggie noticed the old rope swing suspended from a tree branch by only a few threads. She gave up her hiding place and ran to the tree. “Oh, I see you now,” Paul said from his sinking vessel. “Much better.”
Maggie yanked on the rope. There was a loud snap and it came down, bringing the branch with it, toppling her to the ground. She clambered to her feet and ran to the shoreline, dragging the branch and rope with her. “You don’t want to drown.” She was out of breath as she tried to keep pace with the pirogue. She threw the rope into the water, holding tight to the branch at its other end. “Grab the rope. I can help pull you to shore.”
Paul ignored her plea and the rope slowly sank, disappearing into the murky water. “You’re right,” he said. “Drowning would suck. There has to be a different way to end this. Hey, I just came up with a great song title—‘It’s You or Me.’ ”
He pulled a semiautomatic pistol out of his back jeans pocket. Maggie dropped to the ground. She didn’t see the keyboard player aim the gun at his head.
But she heard him pull the trigger.
Chapter 25
Maggie sat on Crozat’s porch swing, still wrapped in the emergency blanket provided by the first responders at the site of Paul’s death. She stared into the pitch-black, toward the levee across the River Road from her family’s home. The sound of the police boat’s siren had faded long ago. It was four in the morning now, but she was too wired from the evening’s dramatic events to go to bed. She’d given her statement to a state trooper who’d shown up moments after the keyboard player took his own life. She’d left as soon as she could after that, unnoticed by the law enforcement official’s fellow troopers who’d quickly swarmed the scene, along with Bo, Rufus, and other Pelican PD officers.
The air was warm, but with an edge of dampness that added a chill to it. The only sound came from mourning doves nesting in the veranda’s rafters. Maggie found their sad coos weirdly comforting. She knew instinctively that Paul, aka The Sound, was Pony’s son. She also knew, as a therapist in New York once told her, that feelings weren’t facts, although in Pelican intuition was respected enough to be fact-adjacent. What she still couldn’t figure out was the circumstances that had driven the musician to murder and attempted murder.
She pulled the blanket tighter and slowly rocked back and forth in the swing, searching for answers. They didn’t come. Lulled by the swing’s gentle motion and the doves’ soft warbling, exhaustion overwhelmed her. The emergency blanket slipped to the ground. She never heard her father, who came out when dawn broke, discovered his sleeping daughter, and covered her with a warm quilt handed down through generations of Crozats.
* * *
Sunday morning, Maggie was back on the veranda, rested and rejuvenated, waiting for the friends who would join her for a trip down to the New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival. The Gator Girls were performing with Tammy Barker during her set—sans Gaynell. After the brief display of vulnerability during the last night of Cajun Country Live!, the singing star had reverted to her old ways. “If we’re both onstage, people would get confused,” Tammy had told Gaynell. The nonsensical statement was a head-scratcher. Maggie came up with an acidic explanation: “People will get confused because you have more talent than she does, and they’ll wonder why she’s the headliner.” But Gaynell was so relieved to be un-kidnapped and cleared of all criminal charges that she didn’t care about Tammy’s petty jealousy. Eager to support her bandmates, she was already at Jazz Fest.
Ione pulled up to the front of the manor house in an ancient, battered Honda Civic. She got out and held up the hem of her dashiki-inspired sundress as she climbed Crozat’s five front steps. Maggie reached out her arms, and the women hugged. “I haven’t seen you since that man shot himself,” Ione said.
“It’s only been two days. Although it feels much longer.”
“Seeing what you saw can do that to a person. Did you ever find out what happened? He’s the one who killed the manager, isn’t he?”
Bo’s SUV turned into the plantation’s long, decomposed granite driveway and headed to the manor house, staggering over each bump in the irregular drive like a drunken sailor. “Let’s wait until Bo gets here. He knows way more than I do.”
Bo parked and hopped out of the truck’s cab. He wore his usual jeans, but instead of a button-down shirt and jacket, his torso was clad in a white T-shirt that highlighted a muscular set of abs. He’d picked up a tan while working security at Cajun Country Live!. Combined with chiseled features and dark coloring, it enhanced the Native American genes in his bloodline. Maggie was overwhelmed with a sudden desire to grab his hand and yank him into the bushes for a steamy rendezvous. She calmed herself down by imagining a bucket of cold water being dumped on her head.
Bo bounded up the steps and gave Maggie a quick kiss. Then he stepped back and surveyed her with an admiring glance. “You look pretty.” Knowing the Jazz Fest fairgrounds could be blistering hot, Maggie had opted for a short, form-fitting romper that offered the added advantage of showcasing her shapely legs. The outfit’s olive color brought out the green in her hazel eyes.
Ione mock-fanned herself. “A little hot here. Maybe I should find my own
ride to Jazz Fest.”
“No worries, we’ll control ourselves,” Bo said with a grin. “Besides, we’re all going with Vanessa and Quentin, who probably wouldn’t appreciate us canoodling in his Bentley.”
“Although I wouldn’t mind throwing our reconciliation in Van’s face a bit,” added Maggie, who was still smarting from Vanessa’s lack of faith in her and Bo’s relationship going the distance.
“If you’re open to a change of subject, I’ve got some updates.” Bo leaned against one of Crozat’s wide pillars. The women both clamored “Yes” and sat opposite him on the B and B’s glistening white Adirondack chairs. “Pony’s lawyer, Jim Newman, finally finished rehab and got back to me. Since his client is deceased, Newman’s allowed to disclose information to me for the purposes of probate.”
Ione made a hurry it along gesture with her hand. “Okay, disclaimer over, get to the dirt.”
“Yes, ma’am. My brilliant and talented fiancée here gets points for her hunch that Pony was looking for offspring, not harassment claims. He did have prostate cancer, which had progressed to stage three by the time it was diagnosed. It was local stage, which means it hadn’t spread, so the survival rate is excellent. Still, according to Newman, the scare got Pony thinking about the future and his legacy. His private eye winnowed down the guy’s field of conquests over the years and discovered some possible contacts. He posted Pony’s DNA to a bunch of genealogy websites, using an alias that disguised the manager’s identity. He found four people who might be Pony’s birth kids. Two were ruled out. Pony hired the other two, who were musicians, for this tour so he could secretly collect their DNA and confirm the relationships. He’d had affairs with the mothers of the other musicians he hired for the tour, but their families hadn’t signed up for any ancestry sites, so he got DNA samples through bottles or cups they drank from and his PI took it from there.”