by Ellen Byron
“Yes. Thank you.”
Maggie drained her coffee cup and disposed of it in a wicker trash bin. Sandy and King Cake walked her to the studio’s front door. “Could you do me a favor and not tell my story to anyone unless you have to?” Sandy asked as Maggie hovered in the open doorway.
“I promise.” Maggie appreciated that Sandy had tacked on the “unless you have to.” If pressed by Pelican PD, she would have to reveal Sandy’s traumatic confrontation with Harmon. But until then, she would safeguard the story.
Maggie stepped outside and heard Sandy lock the door and throw a dead bolt behind her. She had a feeling a lot of Pelicaners would be throwing their dead bolts that evening. She crossed the village green to her car and then stopped short. Leaning against the car was Chris. He was engrossed in checking his phone and didn’t see her. Maggie debated her next move. Should she walk home? A brisk several-mile evening stroll would be good for her. She could pick up her car in the morning. Coward, she scolded herself and made her way to the convertible.
“Hello,” she greeted Chris coolly.
“Oh, hey,” he said, looking up from his cell.
“How did you know where to find me?”
He held up his phone. “The Find Me app. I never deleted you, and apparently you never deleted me either.”
Maggie fumed. She’d meant to delete the entire app, but once she’d settled into Pelican, she had forgotten about it. With everyone in the small village about an arm’s length away, finding each other generally proved easy.
“The app’s wonky, so I didn’t know exactly where you were,” Chris continued. “I figured I was safe waiting by your car. It’s not like you were gonna walk home, right?”
“Right,” Maggie said, wishing she had. Something about Chris, in addition to his general presence, was bothering her, but she couldn’t land on what it was.
“I wanted to tell you I’ll be sticking around the area for a while. I’m helping Steve’s wife, Emme, handle the details of his death. I’ll be appraising the artwork in their New Orleans place as well as Belle Vista.”
“Thank you for letting me know.” Maggie made a move toward her car door, hoping Chris would get the hint, but he didn’t move.
“Look,” he said, “I know you’re angry at me. I did a crappy thing, and there aren’t enough ways to say I’m sorry. But I think I’ve become a better person since then. I hope someday you’ll stop hating me and maybe even let me be your friend.”
Chris repeated his nervous habit of running his hands through his hair, and Maggie suddenly realized what was bothering her. “Your wedding ring,” she said. “You’re not wearing it.”
“No.” Chris looked down at his bare finger. “That’s the first thing to go when your wife files for divorce.”
Stunned, Maggie didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing.
“The second thing to go is your business, if your wife comes from money and can afford a way better lawyer than you can. Samantha got the gallery. And I scrounged around, broke and unemployed, until I got a job as Steve Harmon’s art adviser.”
“Oh. I thought maybe you were freelancing with him on top of running the gallery. I’m sorry. About everything.”
“Yeah, I’m guessing you’re probably not. And that’s okay. I get it. But I hope you’ll think about being my friend. I could use one.”
Chris turned and walked across the green, head down and shoulders slumped—a man defeated. Maggie got into her car but didn’t start the engine. She processed what Chris had shared with her. He was wrong. She did feel sorry for him. But it was mixed with sorrow for her own loss. She had loved their life together in New York, every high and low of it. When Maggie thought Chris had thrown her over for the love of his life, it was brutally painful, but she forced herself to accept it. But to learn that everything they had built together—their relationship, the art gallery, a home—had been cast aside for an impulsive failed marriage? Maggie’s mood swung from sad to angry.
A gentle rap on the car window snapped Maggie back to the present. She looked up to see Bo and rolled down the window. “Hope I didn’t scare you,” he said. “I was going to send a text, but then I saw you in your car and had make sure you were all right. I don’t want you hanging around in the dark with a murderer out there.”
“So it’s confirmed,” Maggie said. “Someone killed Steve Harmon.”
Bo nodded. “There’s other news too,” he said, his tone grim. “As predicted, Perske took me off the case.”
“No.” Maggie opened the Falcon’s door and got out. She put her arms around Bo and held him tight. “I’m so sorry. Cal and Artie are great officers, but they can’t do the job that you do.”
“They’re not replacing me.”
“Then who is?”
Bo didn’t respond, and she knew he was about to utter the one name she dreaded hearing. “Rufus,” he finally said. “Perske’s bringing him back as lead detective on the case.”
Maggie’s stomach churned. In a case where every member of her family was a potential suspect, the lead investigator was a man whose own family had hated hers for one hundred and fifty years. Rufus Durand’s holiday gift was a chance to live his dream of making the Crozats’ lives miserable.
“Oh, no,” she said. “I think we’d better get a lawyer.”
Chapter Nine
Bo did his best to allay Maggie’s fears. “Give Rufus a chance, chère. Please. The mayor won’t reinstate him as police chief yet, so this is his chance to prove himself. And I don’t think he’s blowing smoke when he says he’s changed because of Charli. If he starts to mess with any of you, I swear on the Durand family Bible that I’ll take care of him myself.”
Spurred by her affection for Bo, she finally agreed to his plea. And she respected his loyalty to his cousin. As her late Grand-père Crozat used to say, “The ties that bind family are tied tightest of all.” This was as true of Bo, Rufus, and the rest of the Durands as it was of the Crozats. So she would honor Bo by trusting him when he said Rufus was no longer a conniving, lowlife bully.
Rain started to send a rat-a-tat-tat on the canvas roof of her old convertible as she drove home, so Maggie parked her car inside the family garage at the far end of the Crozat property. She pulled her jacket over her head and dashed from the garage into the manor house kitchen, where Ninette was arranging an appetizer of shrimp remoulade on top of avocado halves. “Sorry I’m late,” Maggie said as she replaced the jacket with an apron. “I had to talk to Bo about some things.”
“Involving Mr. Harmon’s death, I’m assuming.” Ninette pulled a foil-wrapped loaf of French bread out of the kitchen’s industrial oven. Maggie unwrapped the loaf and sliced it into thick hunks. She plated the shrimp remoulade and garnished each dish with a slice of bread. She then dampened paper towels and placed one on each plate to keep the bread moist. “Cal and Artie stopped by,” Ninette said, as if the officers had paid a casual social call. “They searched Mr. Harmon’s room and chatted with us.”
“You mean interviewed you, Mom.”
“Yes.” Ninette turned on the rice cooker and then stirred a cast-iron pot filled with shrimp étouffée. With crawfish out of season, shrimp was her crustacean of choice for the evening meal. “They spoke to our guests first, and at least one of them mentioned overhearing me banish Mr. Harmon from the premises.”
“I wonder who ratted you out.”
Ninette managed a wan smile. “This isn’t a 1930s gangster movie. I was pretty vocal when I evicted him. By law, people have to share what they see or hear or know regarding a questionable death.”
“Unfortunately, it’s not questionable anymore.”
“Oh.”
“I should have warned you that we were possible suspects. I didn’t want to stress Dad. Or you. Because of the Hodgkin’s.” Ninette was a non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma survivor, and as much as she pooh-poohed any possible return of her cancer, Maggie always feared a recurrence.
“Oh, chère.” Ninette put dow
n the wooden spoon she was using to stir the étouffée and went to her daughter. She stroked Maggie’s hair. “I’ve been cancer-free for years. You need to stop worrying about that.”
“I don’t know how to do that. I love you too much. Anyway, we need to let Uncle Tig know about Harmon.”
“He already knows that he passed away.”
“Dad called him?”
“No,” Ninette said. She washed her hands and took a buche de Noel out of the refrigerator. “Marco did.”
Maggie was surprised to hear the tour guide’s name. “I thought that he and Tig broke up again.”
“They did. But apparently they’re still good friends.”
This was less of a surprise. Her uncle’s infectious charm lured many a suitor, but he was upfront with them about his priorities. Some people rescued animals; Tig rescued decrepit buildings. He was devoted to rehabilitating these strays of the architectural world and giving them a second chance. Even the most besotted boyfriends eventually wearied of playing second fiddle to old edifices and moved on.
Except for Marco.
Marco and Tig had been off and on for years, but Maggie knew the relationship was always on in Marco’s heart. He was too civil to stalk her uncle, but Maggie guessed it was a bit of a battle for Marco not to give in to the urge.
“It’s getting late,” Ninette said. She placed some leaves and berries made of colored marzipan on top of the buche de Noel, adding a festive touch to the sponge cake faux Yule log. “You need to put out the appetizer.”
“Right. Will do.” Maggie noted the dark shadows under her mother’s eyes. While monitoring her father’s stress level was critical, she reminded herself to also keep an eye on her mother. She gave her a gentle kiss on the cheek, then loaded a tray with the plates of shrimp remoulade and pushed through a swinging door into the manor house dining room. She laid an appetizer at each table setting and walked into the front parlor. Gran’ was conversing with the O’Day family while Marco’s Japanese tour group huddled together, taking turns showing each other photos on their phones. As soon as the tour guide saw Maggie, he hurried over to her.
“Can you believe it about that Harmon guy?” he said after a quick air kiss. “Everyone knows he was a first-class you-know-what, but still, to get murdered like that . . .”
“How did you know he was murdered?”
“Mags, it’s Pelican. Everyone knows everything. But I’ll be honest, I am glad that guy is dead. He was a depraved mofo who didn’t deserve to share the same earth as our boy Tig.” Marco spat out the words with hatred but then quickly reverted to his usual sunny self. “Thank goodness Tig is in Italy, or he’d be suspect numero uno. He found a tiny, almost abandoned village he thinks can be rehabbed as a destination hotel and spa. Look, he sent pictures.”
As Marco swiped through the pictures on his phone, pride etched on his face, Maggie suddenly wondered if unrequited love might drive someone to prove themselves by committing a desperate act like murder. Then she recalled with relief that the night of Steve Harmon’s murder, Marco was at the hospital caring for a sick tourist. He had an alibi and so did Tig, as Marco had just reminded her.
Her attention drifted from the photo stream to the O’Days. While their daughters futzed with their cell phones, Lindy O’Day and her husband, Tom, a man in his early forties of average height and weight with nondescript features, were engaged in a conversation with Gran’. But Maggie noticed that Lindy seemed preoccupied. Her gaze wandered, and her lips pursed in a frown. Maggie tried to shake off her distraction and focus on Tom and Gran’, but her artist’s eye, attuned to the slightest change in features, could tell Lindy was struggling.
Maggie made a decision. “Dinner’s ready, y’all,” she announced. She walked to the dining room door and held it open for the guests. When they were all through, Maggie made sure to grab a seat next to Lindy. Gran’ looked at her, surprised. The Crozats held to a rotating schedule that ensured one family member dined with the guests while the others served and helped in the kitchen. It was Gran’s turn to socialize, but when Maggie telegraphed a warning glance, Gran’ took the hint and retreated to the kitchen. Maggie focused on Lindy. “It’s so terrible about Mr. Harmon, isn’t it? I hope it hasn’t distressed you too much.”
Lindy dropped her fork on her plate and didn’t bother to pick it up. She looked down at the table. “No,” she said, her voice barely audible. “He was just another guest.”
Maggie’s intuitive sense set off alarm bells. She’s lying, she thought. Big time. “Are you sure you’re not upset?” she pressed.
Lindy O’Day raised her head, and her eyes met Maggie’s. She was about to speak when her husband touched her arm. “Honey, the girls have downloaded some fashion game app that I can’t make sense of. Maggie, do you mind if Lindy and I switch seats so she can take a look at it?”
“No problem,” Maggie said politely.
Lindy turned away from Maggie and rose to change places with Tom. “Sorry about that,” he said to Maggie with a sheepish grin. “But we’d risk a major meltdown if I messed up a game on my girls’ phones.”
“I hear you,” Maggie said, flashing her sunny cruise-director smile. “Now tell me all about your day.”
She pretended to listen as Tom shared the details of the O’Days’ day. But she was sure his fear wasn’t of risking diva drama from his daughters, who seemed perfectly happy playing on their phones and ignoring their mother. He didn’t want to risk his wife opening up to Maggie. Maggie had the unnerving feeling that Tom O’Day wasn’t the milquetoast he appeared to be. And that the secret the O’Days were harboring might be dangerous.
Perhaps even deadly.
Chapter Ten
In the morning, Maggie helped her mother serve Marco and his tour group breakfast. The O’Days had texted that they were skipping breakfast to get an early start, and Maggie was convinced Tom had manufactured this excuse to keep Lindy away from her. She assumed the family would be checking out ahead of schedule and was surprised they hadn’t bolted already.
After breakfast, Maggie filled two carafes with coffee and packed a basket full of baked treats to sell by the bonfires. Ninette had made a variety of pralines in addition to traditional brownies and blondies. She’d also baked a large pan of her popular coconut pecan bars. Maggie pulled a windbreaker over her black hoodie. The rain had passed, but the sky was heavy with clouds. She put on rubber boots to protect her feet from the soggy grass, then placed the coffee carafes into a cooler and added some water bottles. She used a bungee cord to strap the basket of baked goods to the top of the cooler and hauled her load across the road to the Crozat roadside stand by the levee. Gopher, the family basset hound, tagged along, hoping for errant crumbs dropped by customers.
Maggie set out the coffee, water, and treats and then glanced up to the top of the levee. Plantation handyman Bud Shexnayder and Lee Bertrand’s great-nephew, Chret, were stacking logs on the Crozat pyramid. Tug was with them. She saw her father reach for a log, but Bud stopped him, and Tug backed off. He was still not operating at full capacity and was being forced to take it easy until the doctors landed on the right blend of medications to stabilize his blood pressure and stress level.
“Good morning, Miss Magnolia.”
Maggie recognized Rufus’s voice and turned to find herself face-to-face with the officer. A doughy man in his late thirties with thinning blond hair, he was easy to write off as a good ol’ boy. But Maggie had learned he was more like an alligator. Rufus might appear to be hibernating when he was actually calculating the perfect time to launch an attack. “Morning,” she said. She gestured to the spread in front of her. “Help yourself to whatever you want. My treat.”
“Well, that could be classified as bribing an officer, but given how tasty your mama’s baked goods are, I will look the other way.” Rufus scanned the array and settled on a rum praline. He took a seat at the card table and folding chairs that Maggie had set up for customers and motioned for Maggie to join him. �
�So,” he said, “tell me the tale of how you found Mr. Harmon.”
Maggie once again detailed the circumstances leading up to her discovery of the late financier. When she was done, Rufus nodded. “That lines up with what you told Artie.”
“Of course it does, because it’s the truth.”
“Whoa, watch the attitude. I’m just doing my job, which is to interview suspects. Which right now appears to be a boatload of Crozats.”
Maggie seethed. As she expected, Rufus was milking an opportunity to stick it to her family. “If you’re serious about talking to suspects, I recommend taking a hard look at Tannis Greer. She had a thing for Harmon and got vicious when she saw the dirtbag, may he rest in peace, flirt with me.”
“Yeah, well, Ferdie Chauvin established a time of death, and Miss Greer has an alibi. She was with Little Earlie. He corroborated her statement.”
“What? What were those two doing together? And what time frame are we talking about? I may also have an alibi.”
“Ferdie says Harmon went to his heavenly maker somewhere between two and five AM. Where were you during those hours?”
“Sleeping,” Maggie muttered.
“Alone?”
Maggie opened her mouth to protest his insinuation and then realized it was a good question, one that could establish her own alibi. Unfortunately, the answer was, “Yes. Alone.”
Rufus nodded and then looked up at the top of the levee. “I think your dad’s trying to get your attention.”
Maggie followed his glance and saw Tug waving to her. “Did we get some logs delivered?” he called.
Maggie glanced behind to the right of the stand and saw a large bundle of them. “Yes,” she called back.