by Ellen Byron
“I’d be happy to. I’ll bring it by in about an hour.”
Maggie headed into the manor house, where she found Gran’ in the B and B office staring at the computer screen. “Your father should be home in the morning.”
“That’s a relief. Finally, some good news.”
“Yes. But this isn’t.” Gran’ motioned to the screen. “We got a bad review on Trippee.com. More than one, I’m afraid.”
“What?” Maggie leaned in and read over her grandmother’s shoulder. “‘Poor service, charmless rooms, mediocre food.’ These are all lies! Trolls hit a bunch of Tig’s properties. They must have finally found us.”
“I don’t believe these are trolls,” Gran’ said. “In order to post a review on Trippee, there has to be evidence through credit card activity that you’ve actually been to the establishment. These reviews must be from guests, past or present. But the fact that there are several of them and they seem purposely vindictive is certainly a cause for concern. I tried to find a human contact at Trippee but had no luck, so I sent an e-mail alerting them to the problem.”
“I’ll let Uncle Tig know so his people can get on it too. But we can’t tell Dad. Hopefully we can fix it before he ever finds out.” Maggie collapsed into a damask-covered antique wingback chair. “If this day gets any more stressful, I may wind up in the hospital bed next to Dad’s.”
Gran’ glanced out one of the floor-to-ceiling windows to the parking area behind the office. “I believe you’re about to receive a stress reprieve. Bo and Xander are walking toward the house.”
Maggie jumped up and ran out of the room to the back door. She opened it to see Bo and his son heading toward her. Early evening had brought a chill to the air, and both Durands wore leather jackets, Bo’s older and more worn than his son’s. “Xander didn’t want to miss his daily visit with Jasmine,” he said. The Crozats were caring for a brood of puppies and kittens until they were old enough to be placed with their adoptive families. Xander had bonded with Jasmine, the smallest pup. The relationship was helping pull the boy out of the shell created by his Asperger’s syndrome.
“I think Jasmine would be very upset if Xander didn’t show up,” Maggie said.
Bo and Xander followed her to a small den the Crozats had turned into home base for the menagerie, which included the mothers of the pups and kitties. A chorus of yips and meows greeted their arrival. Gopher, the family basset hound, added his basso profundo barks to the mix. Xander sat on the floor, and Jasmine leaped into his lap, covering the seven-year-old’s small, delicate face with kisses. “We’ll leave you two alone,” Bo joked.
He and Maggie retreated to the kitchen, where they each downed a beer as she filled him in on the day’s unpleasant events. “What can I do to help?” he asked. “With your dad, with the B and B—with anything?”
“The most important thing right now is my dad’s health. I want things to stay as normal as possible. I’m thinking we should keep him focused on finishing the bonfire. Maybe you could help with that.”
“You got it.”
“Thank you.” Maggie smiled for what felt like the first time that day.
Bo leaned in toward her, but as they were about to kiss, the kitchen door swung open, revealing Don Baxter. “Just letting you know I won’t be here for dinner,” he said. “I’m checking out a place in Vacherie that serves real Cajun food.”
As opposed to the delicious and totally authentic food my mother serves and you’ll be missing, you nimrod, Maggie thought but refrained from saying. Instead she went with, “Thank you for letting me know. Enjoy your dinner.”
“Yeah, thanks.” Don examined Bo with interest. “You must be the boyfriend.”
Maggie sensed Bo tensing up, but he responded politely. “Yes. Bo Durand.”
“Don Baxter.” Don extended his hand, and Bo shook it. Both men winced slightly as they competed for strongest grip. “Your son’s the artist, right? I’m a collector. Not to brag, but I’ve got an eye for talent, and your son is gifted.”
“Thank you.”
“I also have a lot of connections in the art world. There hasn’t been a prodigy for a while. Your son could generate a lot of heat. You should let me show him around New York.”
Maggie could see Bo clenching and unclenching his jaw. “I appreciate the offer, but we’ll pass on that,” he said, keeping his voice as even as possible.
Don shrugged. “Your call. But you should think about it. By the looks of that jacket you’re wearing, money’s tight. I get it. Can’t be easy supporting a kid with issues on a small-town detective’s salary.”
Maggie covered her mouth to prevent a gasp from escaping. For a panicked moment, she thought Bo might explode in anger, but he managed to restrain himself. Don left, and the kitchen door swung behind him. As soon as he was gone, Maggie turned to Bo. “I never told him any of that, I swear. You have to believe me.”
“I do.” Bo frowned. “So the question is, how did he know? And why does he care?”
Maggie had no answer to either question.
Since Xander had school the next day, Bo declined Maggie’s invitation to stay for dinner. “Are we good?” she asked, fearing fallout from the encounter with Don Baxter.
Bo responded with a reassuring kiss. “Something’s not right with that guy. I’m going to do a little research on him. In the meantime, be careful.”
“I will.”
Bo and Xander headed out, and Maggie retreated to the office, where Gran’ still sat at the computer. “Any more bad reviews?”
“No, but we did get a cancellation.”
“Oh, no. I was afraid that would happen.”
“At least it’s only one. Let’s hope it doesn’t become a virus that spreads. You got a message from Tig, and it has some attachments.”
“Finally.”
Gran’ stood up, and Maggie replaced her at the computer. She opened Tig’s e-mail and downloaded the attachments. One was the promised list of his general managers. The other was a newspaper article.
Gran’ peered over Maggie’s shoulder. “What’s that?”
“A profile of Steve Harmon, the investor who’s trying to run Uncle Tig out of his own company. There’s a picture of him.”
Maggie enlarged the photo, and both she and Gran’ stared at the image in disbelief.
“It can’t be,” Gran’ said. “It just can’t.”
But it was.
Staring back at them with an arrogant, almost mocking grin was B and B guest Don Baxter.
Chapter Four
The two women, both in shock, couldn’t take their eyes off the photo. Gran’ spoke first. “Why, the miserable son of a—” And Gran’, who considered profanity vulgar, used the actual cuss word.
Maggie leapt out of her office chair with such force that it rolled across the room and crashed into a wall. She ran out the back door to where the guests parked their cars. “Hey! Hey!” she shouted at Don/Steve, who was about to get into his midsize rental sedan. “Hey, Steve Harmon!”
Steve laughed and threw up his hands. “Busted.”
“How dare you—”
“I’ll finish the sentence for you. How dare I check in under an assumed identity? Simple explanation: it’s business. I’m a money guy, and right now, my particular passion is for destination properties. I need to scout them before I invest, and if I check in under my real name, I don’t get the same service the average guest would, which skews my impression of a property.”
“Your tactics are despicable. Trying to put my uncle out of business, trolling on travel websites to slam his properties. And how dare you—and I’m going to finish this sentence myself—how dare you slam Crozat on Trippee when we’ve done everything we can to make you happy here?”
“Whoa. First of all, any review I write is a truthful representation of my guest experience. Second, sorry, but it wasn’t me who slammed Crozat on Trippee. But if you continue to harass me, I sure will. Remember, I’m still a guest.”
�
��I don’t believe you. And while we’re on the subject of harassment, stop trying to destroy my uncle. You want to talk about passion? Without him, who knows how many amazing historical structures would have been demolished. He’s a hero.”
“He may be a hero, but he’s not a businessman. He should stick to preservation and leave running his business to people who know how to do it. Your uncle has parked his butt on a potential gold mine, and if he won’t step aside, he needs to be forcibly removed.”
Before Maggie could respond, Harmon got in his car and gunned it out of the lot, spraying her with dust from the decomposed granite. Maggie kicked a rock and sent it flying. She paced back and forth, trying to calm herself. Harmon’s harsh take on Tig infuriated her. He was the epitome of a heartless businessman, who couldn’t comprehend how for her uncle, making money was a bonus and not a goal. Tig’s investment group had never complained until the financier insinuated his way into Preferred Properties and upended the status quo.
Gran’ appeared in the back doorway. “I heard everything,” she said. “Any chance there was an oil tanker spill on the road today? He’s going fast enough to lose control in a very bad way.”
“Afraid not,” Maggie said. “I promised the O’Days I’d bring dinner to their room. After that, I’m going to contact all the PPC general managers and tell them it’s time to fight for Tig.”
“I’ll bring the O’Days their dinner,” Gran’ said. “You save my boy.”
*
Maggie spent the rest of the evening composing a call to arms and e-mailing it to everyone on Tig’s list. Responses were quick and supportive. It was midnight when Maggie finally tore herself away from the computer. She took a quick shower and fell into bed, only to be haunted by a nightmare where she and her family were paddling up Bayou Beurre in a pirogue canoe packed with all their belongings, searching for a place to live. Her great-great-great-grandmother, Magnolia Marie Doucet Cabot, waved to them from the edge of the bayou, but the Crozats rowed past her.
The morning brought some good news. Maggie made her way into the manor house kitchen and found her father sitting at the kitchen table. “What a relief,” she said as she hugged him. “How are you feeling?”
“Depressed.”
“I’m sorry, Dad. But you’ll get used to taking whatever medication Dr. Jen prescribed, and it’ll become routine.”
“It’s not that.” Tug motioned to the stove, where Ninette was making eggs. “Your mother is making me eat healthy.”
“That’s right,” Ninette said. She massaged a handful of kale and tossed it into the pan. “Egg whites with kale, no salt, no cheese.” She emptied the eggs onto a dish that she placed in front of her husband. He reached for a bottle of Tabasco sauce, but Ninette pulled it away. “And no hot sauce. Sodium, chère.”
Tug reluctantly began eating his eggs, each bite accompanied by a grumble. A timer went off, and Ninette pulled a large baking pan from the oven. The kitchen filled with the scent of butter, brown sugar, and brandy. “Your holiday baked brandy pain perdu?” Tug groaned. “Chère, you’re killing me.”
“Au contraire, my darlin’. I’m trying to keep you alive.”
“We’ve got to wow our guests, Dad,” Maggie said. “And Mom’s pain perdu is a wow.” She grabbed a biscuit from the bread basket on the kitchen table and headed back to the shotgun cottage, where she finally took a look at the script Tannis had given her the day before. “Oh, dear Lord,” she muttered. It was everything she dreaded: stilted, sappy, and downright embarrassing. This was going to be a very long day.
*
“Oh, my, how will I ever go on without my husband, who is still at war?”
Tannis, who was directing a run-through of all the guides, frowned at Maggie. “Where’s your accent?”
“I lived in New York for fourteen years before coming back to Pelican. I lost it.”
“Well, find it again. Can you cry on cue?”
“I can’t and I won’t,” Maggie said. She’d barely been at work for an hour, but it felt like ten. Her new lime-green ball gown costume was too tight around her ribs and exposed far more cleavage than she was comfortable with. “You know, Tannis, my ancestor, Magnolia Marie, was a smart, strong woman who freed the Doucet slaves before the war even started, ran the entire operation on her own after her husband died, and then outraged the locals by getting remarried to a Union general. That would be a much more interesting character to play.”
“I think I need to remind you that your family doesn’t own this place anymore, Margaret—”
“Again, it’s Magnolia, just like my ancestor.”
“Which makes you an employee,” Tannis said, ignoring Maggie. She pursed her perfectly lipsticked lips. “Who should be listening to her boss. Let go of all this family history stuff and stick to the lines as written.” Tannis checked the time on her phone. “First tour starts in ten. Places, please.” The guides began shuffling out. “Oh, Ione, I almost forgot. I have your costume.”
Ione stopped, as did Maggie and Gaynell, who looked miserable in her nineteenth-century pantaloons and suspenders. “It has to be better than mine,” Gaynell said under her breath.
Tannis handed Ione what looked like a bundle of rags. Puzzled, Ione unfolded the bundle, which turned out to be a sack of a dress made out of burlap and fabric scraps. Ione turned a cold eye to Tannis. “Tell me this costume isn’t what I think it is.”
For once, Tannis’s omnipresent arrogance faltered. “It’s not. You’re an indentured servant.”
“You mean a slave.”
“No, they’re different.”
“Yeah, one is a word long, and the other is two words long.”
“I can trade with her,” Maggie piped in, eager to help her friend while at the same time divesting herself of the polyester nightmare she was trapped in.
Tannis shook her head. “Nuh-uh. I need you to play off your connection to Doucet. Visitors eat that up.”
“I thought I was supposed to ‘let go of the family history stuff,’” Maggie said, relishing the chance to throw Tannis’s own words back at her.
Tannis glared at Maggie, and then she turned to Ione. “If you refuse to wear this, I’m afraid I have to terminate your employment. As of right this instant.”
“Do that, and I quit,” Maggie declared. She was sick of Tannis’s mean-girl tactics and contempt for her employees.
“Me too,” Gaynell said. She whipped off her newsboy cap, and her blonde curls fell to her shoulders.
“And we’re just the beginning, Tannis,” Maggie said, furious. “You won’t have an employee left at Doucet if you fire Ione.”
A sheen of perspiration appeared on Tannis’s forehead. There was a murmur of voices. Through the bubbled glass of the room’s old window, Maggie could see groups of visitors forming. Tannis snatched the dress from Ione. “Fine, we’ll keep you in the gift shop . . . until I find someone who doesn’t have your attitude. Now places.”
Tannis glowered at them and then strode off to browbeat other employees.
“Thank you both. You’re good friends,” Ione said. “It’s bad enough I was demoted to make room for that woman, but to have to wear that horrible costume . . .” Her voice was husky, and Maggie knew her friend was trying to control her emotions. “I think it’s time I looked for a new job.”
“I think it’s time we all did,” Maggie said. Her emotional connection to Ninette’s ancestral home might be strong, but her loyalty to her friends was far stronger.
*
Maggie managed to slog through a raft of embarrassing tours. She didn’t know which was more humiliating: the snickers of some visitors or the faked compliments of others. The one bright spot in her day was a text from Uncle Tig letting her know that the onslaught of positive feedback from PPC employees had had the desired effect on his investors. They were waffling in their support of Harmon’s ruthless game plan.
She took comfort in this promising attitude shift as she locked up the manor house. Then s
he made her way to the overseer’s cottage that housed the employee facilities, changed out of the lime monstrosity and back into her street clothes, and headed for her car. Darkness had fallen early due to the short winter days, but Doucet was bathed in the glow of bright holiday decorations. Her mood took a downturn when she saw Steve Harmon leaning against a round Doucet pillar festooned with a swath of red-and-white lights that made it look like a fat candy cane. He had a smug grin on his face as he listened to Tannis Greer, who appeared to be in the middle of an animated monologue. Now what could bring those two together? Maggie wondered. Tannis stopped talking, and Harmon responded with a shrug and a quick comment. Maggie’s young boss burst into giggles, then flicked her ponytail back and struck a flirtatious pose. Much as Maggie wanted to avoid all contact with the loathsome duo, curiosity won out. She sauntered over to them.
“’Night, Tannis. See you in the morning.” She feigned surprise at seeing Steve Harmon. “Hello, Mr. Harmon. I hope you’re not here for a tour. We just finished for the day.”
“I’ve already gotten a couple of private ones,” he said, leering at Maggie’s boss.
Tannis blushed and then put on a more professional face. “Mr. Harmon is discussing a large donation to Doucet. In exchange, we’re trying out a few of his suggestions.”
“Like living tours?” Maggie said.
“That’s just the beginning,” Tannis said, gazing at the hedge fund manager with an adoration that trumped professionalism. “There could be restaurants and luxury accommodations and maybe even a little train running around the property.”
“Sort of like a plantation Disneyland,” Maggie said.
“Exactly,” Tannis responded, missing the cutting undertone of Maggie’s remark. “But much higher-end. The board of directors is even considering Mr. Harmon’s proposal to buy Doucet and privatize it. Ooo, Stevie, we could put in a spa like at Belle Vista and market the place to rich people who need to recuperate after plastic surgery.”