by Ellen Byron
Maggie caved and popped one in her mouth, where it released its juicy, slightly spicy flavor as soon as she bit into it. “That is so good. Thank you.”
Bo reached into the bowl and helped himself to a handful of the popcorn. “I asked Ru to join us because he just spent some quality time with Emme Harmon.”
“Ah,” Maggie said. “And . . . ?”
“Well, I wouldn’t exactly call her a Merry Widow, but she sure ain’t a grieving one. I half-expected her to hold a mirror under Harmon’s mouth to make sure he wasn’t breathing.” Rufus took a big swig of beer. “Now the chauffeur guy on the other hand seemed real sad. I’d say it’s cuz he’s out of a job, but the way Harmon’s widder woman was clinging to him, looks like he’s got a new job, if you know what I mean.”
“I know what you mean, Ru, no need to raise your eyebrows up and down like an old-timey comedian,” Maggie said, trying to suppress an amused smile. “I picked up on that too. I’m not sure how he feels about her, but she’s definitely into him.”
“I’m gonna take a hard look at where both of them were during the time of the murder,” Rufus said. “Especially her. Mrs. H better have herself a good, strong alibi.”
Bo frowned. “I hate that I’m sidelined here. I’d like to poke around the Charbonnet-Harmon dynamic.”
“Gran’ and I are already on it,” Maggie said. She shared the plan to ferret out more information on the family under the guise of a condolence call.
“Nice,” Bo said with a sly smile. “You know, I haven’t been to the Big Easy in a while. I think I’ll take a couple of vacation days and meet up with you there. Get your reactions to the family fresh from meeting them. And if there is anything suspicious going on, well . . . not a bad idea for me to be there and keep an eye on you and your Gran’.”
Maggie’s phone pinged an alert. “Oh, this is perfect! An old friend of mine manages Reveille Orleans, and she got back to me that she’s comping us a room. I’ll see if she can comp two and tell her I’ll return the favor with a free stay at Crozat.”
“So one room for Gran’ and one room for . . .” Rufus winked and raised his eyebrows up and down again.
“Knock it off, Rufus,” Bo said, giving his cousin a dirty look.
“Yes, enough with the eyebrows,” Maggie added, glad that thanks to Junie’s barely there lighting, neither man could see her blushing. She and Bo, both skittish from prior failed relationships, had yet to consummate their romance. Bo’s ex-wife, Whitney, moving to Pelican had complicated things for Maggie. Although Whitney and her second husband, Zach, seemed to have worked through a rough patch in their marriage, Maggie still felt insecure compared to the statuesque beauty that was the former Mrs. Bo Durand. And now with her ex, Chris, wandering around town, she had a feeling Bo was experiencing his own trepidations.
“Hey, Maggie, my friend, speaking of favors . . .” Rufus nudged her and pointed toward Junie’s front door, which Sandy Sechrest was closing behind her.
Maggie rose and walked over to the dance instructor. The two exchanged hellos, and then Maggie, mindful of the promise she’d made Rufus to check out Sandy’s relationship status, asked, “So . . . are you meeting someone here tonight?”
“No,” Sandy responded. “Just getting takeout.”
“Dinner for one, huh?”
“For two, actually,” Sandy said. “Me and King Cake. JJ always gives me some bones for the little guy.”
“Well, why don’t you join me, Bo, and Ru? We’ve got space at the table.”
Sandy smiled. “Thank you, I’d love that. Let me just put in my order with JJ.”
Sandy headed to the bar, and Maggie returned to her table. “Good news, Ru. Seems your only competition is her pup.”
Rufus nodded. “I can work with that.”
Bo shook his head. “I don’t know, Ru. I’ve seen that dog. He’s a hotty.”
He gave his cousin a wicked grin, and Rufus elbowed him. “Shut up, you. Hey, she’s coming.”
Rufus jumped up and pulled out a chair for Sandy. “If you did stuff like that for Vanessa, you might still be together,” Maggie teased sotto voce.
“Ignoring you,” he whispered back.
The foursome made small talk while waiting for JJ to bring over Sandy’s food, and Maggie was happy to see that Sandy seemed to enjoy Rufus’s company. The pungent aroma of JJ’s jambalaya preceded its arrival at the table. “Here you go, darlin’,” JJ said as he placed it in front of Sandy. “Stop by the bar when you’re leaving for King Cake’s bones.”
“Thanks so much.” Sandy inhaled the dish’s scent. “This smells unbelievable. I’ve been waiting for it all day.”
Sandy began to eat. Bo’s phone alerted him to a text, and he checked it. “We’re set for tomorrow,” he told Maggie. “Perske approved my vacation days. He’s only too happy to off-load me for a bit.”
“Where are you going?” Sandy asked.
Maggie jumped in before Bo could answer. “New Orleans. Just overnight. My grand-mère wants to visit an old friend.” Bo gave Maggie a puzzled look but said nothing.
“Yeah,” Rufus said. “An old friend who happens to be the mother-in-law of our recent murder victim.”
Sandy, who was about to take another bite, put her fork down. “Mr. Harmon, right?” She was trying to keep her voice normal, but Maggie noticed the dancer’s hand was shaking.
“Yeah, and what a tool he was,” Rufus said. “I don’t think his widow was too sorry to see him lying on a morgue table.”
Sandy stood up. “I totally forgot, I’m supposed to walk King Cake twice tonight. Thanks so much for letting me join you. I better go or who knows what surprises I’ll find in the studio later.” Sandy gave a small laugh at her attempt at a joke.
“Oh,” Rufus said, disappointed. “I’ll get JJ to pack up your dinner.”
“No, that’s okay. I’ll see y’all again soon.”
Sandy hurried out the door, and Rufus slapped himself on the forehead. “Stupid, stupid, stupid. She’s eating dinner, and I’m talking about murder. Wait, she forgot the bones for King Cake. I’ll grab them for her.”
Rufus pulled out his wallet, threw down money for his meal, and then took off. Maggie watched him get the bones from JJ and leave. She turned back to the table and found Bo staring at her. “What?” she asked, keeping her tone as innocent as possible.
“You know something,” Bo said. “About Sandy. And Harmon.”
Maggie searched for an excuse and then gave up. “Ugh, sometimes I hate dating a detective. Yes, Sandy told me about an ugly run-in she once had with him. But it was in confidence, and I promised I wouldn’t share it unless I had to.”
“Maggie, chère, this is a murder investigation, not a gal-pal sleepover. The sooner we solve it, the sooner everyone who’s under suspicion isn’t anymore. Don’t you want that?”
“Yes.” Maggie sighed. “When Sandy was working as an exotic dancer at the Cajun Classy Lady, Harmon developed a thing for her. He assaulted her in the parking lot, but she managed to get away from him.” Maggie felt terrible for betraying her friend. “But it happened a year ago, and I’m sure it’s not related to his death. She seems so fragile. I can’t imagine her resorting to murder.” Maggie paused. “What are you going to do?”
“What I have to do. Tell the lead investigator on the case: Rufus.”
It dawned on Maggie what Bo was saying. “Who will do absolutely nothing with the information unless he’s forced to because he’s sweet on Sandy.”
Bo smiled. “Exactly.” He leaned over and kissed Maggie. “I’ll get us another round. I think we could both use it.”
Bo made his way to the bar, and Maggie felt a sense of relief. But she knew they were merely stalling the inevitable. The assault on Sandy would have to come out, making her a prime suspect. Maggie hoped that for the dance instructor’s sake, the question of who killed Steve Harmon would be answered in New Orleans.
Chapter Twelve
Maggie got up early to prepar
e for her overnight stay. The Charbonnets were conservative old money, and Gran’ had instructed her to dress accordingly. Maggie only owned one suit, a black skirt and jacket set bought ten years earlier to wear at Grand-père Crozat’s funeral. She put it on, pulled her hair back with an old headband left over from a brief preppy phase in high school, and applied a subtle shading of makeup. She then rolled her overnight suitcase into the living room of the cottage. Gran’, who was already there, gave her an approving once-over. “Well done,” she said.
“I look like someone on trial whose lawyer made her dress to impress the jury.”
“Well, then it should impress Adelaide. Wait—” Gran’ scrutinized Maggie’s legs. “No pantyhose?”
“Ugh, I hate them,” Maggie whined. “Don’t make me.”
“I’m sorry, but this is a pantyhose crowd,” Gran’ said. “If you go bare-legged, Adelaide will immediately dismiss you as some kind of hippie.” She pointed toward Maggie’s room. “Back you go.”
Maggie dragged herself to her room, kicked off her black pumps, and forced on a pair of pantyhose. She returned to the living room. “There,” she told her grand-mère. “Happy?”
“It’s not about being happy, chère. If it were, we wouldn’t be going at all. The cloistered world of New Orleans privilege is not my favorite.”
Gran’ pulled on a navy jacket over her pale-blue silk blouse. “You’re wearing your sorority colors,” Maggie said. “Was Adelaide a Kappa with you?”
“Oh, no.” Gran’ flashed a devilish smile. “Adelaide was a Chi O.”
“I have to wear pantyhose, but you get to stick it to her with rival sorority colors?” Maggie crossed her arms and faked a pout. “That is so not fair.”
“One of the few benefits of aging is you pretty much get to do whatever the h-e-double-hockey-sticks you want.” A car horn toot came from outside. “Our carriage awaits.”
Gran’ left the shotgun cottage, and Maggie followed, pulling both her and Gran’s suitcases. Bo, who had parked in front of the house, retrieved the luggage from Maggie and put it in the back of his SUV. “Xander wanted to see Jasmine, so he’s in the house with your parents.”
“And he’s okay just being with Mom and Dad? That’s wonderful.” Maggie knew this marked more socialization progress for Xander.
“I know. Whitney will pick him up in half an hour, but that’s half an hour more than he would have spent on his own with anyone a few months ago. And I have to show you this. He’s doing a portrait of Jasmine with the paints you gave him. I took a picture of it.”
Bo took out his phone and showed Maggie a photo of a painting in progress. A rudimentary sketch covered most of the canvas. But Xander had painted Jasmine’s tiny face. The artwork went beyond mere rendering, somehow managing to convey the pup’s happy energy. “Wow,” Maggie said. “I think I’ve run out of words to say how talented he is. The student may soon surpass his teacher.”
“No way,” Bo scoffed. He closed the app and stuck his phone in the back pocket of his jeans. “I know squat about art but enough to know how good you are. Xander may be exceptional for his age, but who knows what it’ll be in ten or twenty or even thirty years? That’s why I fought so hard to keep Harmon away from him. Maybe hard enough to murder, according to Perske.” Before Maggie could respond, Bo jumped into the driver’s seat. “We better get going.”
*
The drive to New Orleans was uneventful, and they got to the city in under an hour. Bo transitioned from the interstate to US 90 and got off at the Carondelet exit. He navigated his way to St. Charles Avenue, where he made a right onto the famed street. After Jackson Avenue, he waited for a streetcar to pass and then made a left across the tracks, followed by a right onto Prytania Street into the heart of the Garden District. They drove by block after block of beautifully restored historical homes, each one more impressive than the next. All of them glowed with holiday decorations. From one balcony hung a purple fleur-de-lis with the words “Joyeux Noel” illuminated by tracer lights. A large display suspended from another balcony announced, “Merry Christmas, Y’all.”
Bo finally stopped the car in front of a mansion so elegant it shamed all the others. Three stories high on a wide green lot, the house was painted a sedate taupe. Forest-green shutters adorned its many windows, and a lacey wrought-iron balcony wrapped around the second story, supported by filigreed iron columns. Tiny white lights were threaded through meticulously pruned topiaries that stood sentinel on both sides of the black front door, which sported an elegant wreath. The property was enclosed by an elaborate wrought-iron fence, and each fence post was topped by a sturdy iron fruit. “Pineapples,” Maggie said.
“Yes,” Gran’ replied. “The archetypal symbol of welcome. But also a symbol of wealth. For those who recognize it as such.”
“Yowza,” was all Bo could come up with. He got out of the SUV, opened the back passenger’s door, and helped Gran’ out. “Rufus asked me to see what I can find out about this clan while I’m down here, so I’m gonna do that while you two are paying your social call. Maggie, text me when you’re done, and I’ll come get y’all.”
Maggie nodded. She hopped out of the car, and her heels immediately sunk into the mossy grass between the car and the sidewalk. She extricated herself and knocked the sides of her shoes against the sidewalk curb to get rid of the mud and grass clinging to her shoes. “I am so not cut out for this world.”
“You’re visiting, not moving in, so I trust you can pull it off,” Gran’ said. “Come, dear. And be sure to put a smile on. A small one, with a mild hint of superiority. Like this.” Gran’ formed a smile that managed to convey both warmth and high status, and Maggie tried to mirror her. “Oh, dear. Well, do your best.”
Bo jumped back in his SUV, waved, and roared off as if he couldn’t get away from the fancy neighborhood fast enough. Maggie pressed a discreet button next to the front gate, and it silently swung back as if by magic. The front door opened as they approached it, and an African American woman dressed in a starched maid’s uniform appeared. “I think we entered a time tunnel and emerged in the 1950s,” Maggie muttered to Gran’, who gave her a warning poke in the ribs.
“Hello,” the maid greeted them. Maggie noted her voice was deep and mellifluous. “You must be Mrs. and Miss Crozat. Mrs. Charbonnet is expecting you.”
Maggie and Gran’ followed the woman into a two-story entrance hall that featured an ornate staircase laced with holiday pine garlands and Palladian windows dressed with gold velvet curtains. A large crystal chandelier shot small rainbows onto the hallway’s wallpaper, which carried the pineapple theme into the home’s interior. They were led through a small parlor into a larger one. Ornate crown molding encircled the room, which was anchored by a carved marble fireplace. A tall, impeccably decorated Christmas tree dominated one corner of the room. Something was missing from the holiday decor, and it took Maggie a moment to realize what it was. The air was devoid of the pine scent that infused Crozat during the holiday season. The Charbonnet decorations were in perfect taste but artificial.
The maid motioned for them to take a seat on a centuries-old settee upholstered in gold and green brocade. A woman who had been sitting in a wingback chair upholstered in the same fabric stood up to greet them. She was Gran’s contemporary and dressed with equal elegance in a pale-yellow silk shantung skirt and a patterned red-and-pale-yellow silk top. The room’s crystal chandelier, much larger than the one in the hallway, occasionally flashed a rainbow onto the woman’s white hair. She held out her arms to Gran’. “Charlotte,” she said with a smile that had the high status of Gran’s but lacked its warmth.
“Adelaide,” Gran’ responded. The two women shared an air kiss. “This is my granddaughter, Magnolia Marie.” Maggie was surprised for a moment by her grandmother using her full name.
“Such a pleasure to meet you, my dear,” Adelaide said. Maggie responded in kind, resisting a sudden urge to curtsy.
Adelaide motioned for Gran’ and Mag
gie to take a seat. “Mahalia, you can bring the coffee,” she instructed her servant, who nodded and disappeared. Maggie sat with her legs crossed at the ankles like the Catholic schoolgirl she once was while the octogenarians shared a few minutes of small talk. Then Gran’ deftly segued to the subject of the late Steve Harmon.
“Adelaide, we are so sorry for your loss,” Gran’ said.
“Yes, well . . .” Adelaide left the sentence unfinished.
“Since we were close to the tragedy, I wanted to express my condolences in person and answer any questions you might have. Especially since Magnolia discovered the bod . . . your son-in-law.”
Adelaide’s face creased in horror. “Oh, dear, no thank you.”
“Well, if you change your mind, feel free let me know,” Maggie said, jumping into the conversation, which she regretted when Adelaide looked at her as if she’d expelled gas. Desperate for a change of subject, Maggie glanced around the room and landed on a photo of Adelaide’s daughter and Steve Harmon’s widow, Emme Charbonnet Harmon. Emme appeared to be in her early twenties in the picture and was clad in a heavily beaded white gown with a matching cape whose train was arranged around her feet. She wore a crown and held a scepter, looking straight into the camera with a grim, defiant expression. “What a nice picture of Emme,” Maggie lied.
Adelaide immediately took the bait. “Oh, thank you. That’s from her debutante season. She was queen of Rex.” Adelaide couldn’t have sounded more proud if her daughter had discovered the Ark of the Covenant.
“Rex?” Gran’ responded. “How outstanding.”
“Yes,” Adelaide said, warming to her subject. “She was also a maid in Proteus and had so many parties offered up in her honor, I wouldn’t be surprised if she broke a record.” Adelaide gave a sad sigh. “I always expected she would marry one of the established families in the city. A Poche or a LaPeyre. Instead . . .” She left another sentence dangling and then turned to Maggie. “When did you come out, dear?”