A Cajun Christmas Killing

by Ellen Byron

  Someone was trying to burn down Maggie’s art studio—and take her down with it.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Help!” Maggie cried out as she struggled in vain to open the door.

  She could feel heat radiating through the windows. Suddenly the glass blew out of the second window, and Maggie ducked as shards and splinters shot all over the room. Flames outside the studio licked at the window ledge. Maggie grabbed the fire extinguisher that she had on hand for emergencies and doused them before they could find their way inside and ignite any of the studio’s many highly flammable contents. She continued to yell for help as she sprayed. She heard a cacophony of voices outside. With a bang, someone kicked the front door open. Marco stumbled inside. “Wow,” he gasped. “I had no idea I could do that.” He grabbed Maggie’s hand and pulled her out of the studio. Tug had a hose trained on one window while the O’Days and the Japanese tourists threw buckets of water on the other. Within minutes, both fires were reduced to smoldering ashes.

  Maggie leaned over, placing her hands on her knees as she gulped in fresh air. Ninette and Gran’ rushed to her side, each woman taking a turn to hug her. “Here, drink this,” her mother said, offering a bottle of water that Maggie gratefully chugged down.

  “Y’all saved me,” Maggie said to the group, coughing between words. “Thank you, thank you. Arigato.”

  “Arigato is right,” Tug said, spraying water on the fires’ embers. “Lucky for us Marco’s group was out for a morning power walk. I now know the Japanese word for ‘fire!’”

  “I told everyone you were in there, and you’ve never seen people move so fast,” Gran’ said. She placed her hands on her heart. “Mercy, what a scare. It’s going to take a morning gin fizz to snap my nerves back in place.”

  “You and me both,” Marco said.

  “I’ll make a pitcher,” Gran’s said. “Guests, venez avec moi.” She started back to the manor house with the O’Days, Marco, and his tour group close behind her. Maggie heard the whine of fire engines. A tanker truck from the Pelican Volunteer Fire Department mowed down foliage as it carved a path through the brush to the studio. Behind it was a police car. Chret Bertrand and Little Earlie Waddell, both dressed in firefighting gear, jumped off the fire truck as Cal Vichet and Bo leapt out of the squad car. All four men ran toward Maggie’s studio. Chret, Earlie, and Cal slowed down when they saw the fire was out, but Bo continued on to Maggie.

  “Are you okay?” he asked. She nodded. He wrapped her in a hug and then released her. “What the hell happened?”

  “No idea. I was getting ready to paint, and then the fire broke out. I couldn’t open either door. I couldn’t get out.”

  “That’s because someone didn’t want you to,” Cal, who had joined them, said. He motioned to Bo and Maggie to follow him, which they did. Cal stopped at the studio’s front door and pointed at the bent door handle. “This was messed with until it was broken. Same with the back door.”

  “Someone tried to kill me,” Maggie said. She spoke slowly, unable to believe what she was saying.

  “This is a crime scene now.” Bo’s tone was terse.

  Cal gave a grim nod and then headed to the patrol car to fetch police tape.

  Bo took Maggie’s hand and led her to where Chret and Earlie were training water on the fire’s embers. “Lucky we had fog this morning,” Chret said. “There was enough dampness in the air to prevent this from turning into an inferno.”

  Little Earlie’s attention was focused on Cal, who was wrapping yellow police tape around the studio. “What’s going on?” the Penny Clipper editor asked.

  “Nothing that you’re gonna be writing about,” Bo said.

  “So it wasn’t an accident.” Little Earlie pondered this thought. “Well . . . maybe I should write about it. Not the details, but say that due to suspicious activity, Maggie is being guarded twenty-four-seven. Whether it’s true or not, at least it might make whoever’s trying to take her out think twice about it.”

  “It’s not a bad idea, Bo,” Maggie said.

  Bo hesitated. “All right. But you better stick to that ‘no details’ promise, or the next thing on fire will be your printing plant. Meanwhile, you and Chret gather some ash and dirt samples. I want to test them and see if an accelerant was used.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll see you later at Doucet, Maggie.”

  “Not today. I think I’ve earned the right to call in sick.”

  “Ha,” Earlie said. “Are you breathing? Are you walking? Then good luck with Tannis.”

  *

  Earlie’s skepticism was well founded. “Sorry, but no can do,” was Tannis’s instant response to Maggie’s request. “It’s too difficult to replace you on short notice.”

  “I’m sorry for inconveniencing you, but being the victim of an attempted murder can be a bit traumatizing.”

  Maggie’s sarcasm was wasted on her boss. “Are you injured?” Tannis asked.

  “No, but—”

  “If you can get to the phone, you can get to work.”

  Maggie gave up. “Fine,” she said with a sigh. “I’ll be there.”

  “There’s that can-Doucet spirit! Your first tour is at ten. I’ll see you at nine thirty.”

  On the drive to work, Maggie brooded about which of the many suspects in the case of Steve Harmon’s murder might be ruthless enough to incinerate her. She had no trouble fingering anyone in the Harmon-Charbonnet clan, as well as nonfamily member Bea Boxler. But now that she’d gotten to know the O’Days and Sandy Sechrest better, it was harder for Maggie to picture them as would-be assassins, especially since the O’Days had helped save her life. Tannis, however, was another story. Maggie could see the obnoxious general manager doing whatever it took to rid herself of an amateur sleuth with a pretty decent track record of catching killers. Or maybe I want it to be Tannis so I can be rid of her, Maggie had to admit to herself.

  Fortunately for the Doucet guides, local officials, fearing the site of Harmon’s death would become a ghoulish tourist attraction, deemed the parlor off limits. Since Tannis had no time to adjust her scripts to this new development, the guides happily returned to their original tour spiels. Between curiosity seekers, vacationers, and families enjoying the holiday break, Maggie’s tours were packed, and the day flew by. She bid her last group good-bye at five o’clock. As soon as they were out of sight, she made a furtive beeline to the parlor.

  Maggie glanced around the room. She hadn’t been inside since Harmon was killed, and while his grisly death lent it a creepy vibe, nothing else seemed amiss. Her gaze landed on a portrait above the room’s pink marble fireplace. Her great-great-great-grandmother, Magnolia Marie Doucet, stood next to her second husband, Jeremiah, a Union general that she had married after the Civil War amid great scandal. Two adolescent boys stood in front of the couple. The older of the two, Denis Doucet Junior—known as “TiDenis”—radiated the intelligence of his late father, who died weeks after the war broke out after a bad fall from a horse. TiDenis’s young brother, Georges, who was rumored to be slow, had a dull look in his eyes, which stared past the portrait artist. Jeremiah’s hands rested protectively on his challenged stepson’s shoulders, which never failed to move Maggie. She considered the parlor a shrine to her ancestors and hated that it would forever be marred by Harmon’s murder.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said out loud to the portrait. It occurred to her that Magnolia Marie and her family were the only witnesses to his death. “If only you could talk,” Maggie murmured, focusing on Magnolia Marie’s eyes, which were hazel like her own.

  Suddenly, for a split second, her ancestor’s eyes seemed to come to life. Maggie froze. And then, just as quickly, the sensation was gone.

  Maggie shuddered. I’m starting to lose it, she thought.

  She took one last look around the room and exited, making sure to lock the door before heading to her car. As she drove home, she began to relax. Still, Maggie couldn’t shake the feeling that the parlor—and possibly even
the Doucet family portrait—held an important clue that might pinpoint a killer.

  Chapter Nineteen

  As soon as Maggie got home, she was set upon by her basset, Gopher, and Jolie, the mother of the pups the Crozats were fostering. The pooches jostled each other in their efforts to lick and nuzzle her. “You really know when a human needs some love, don’t you?” she said, taking turns massaging the pups’ ears. “How about a walk?” At the sound of their favorite word, both dogs barked and leaped into the air.

  Maggie retrieved their leashes from the shotgun cottage and led them down the dirt path to her studio. The trio reached the old schoolhouse-turned-art studio, and Maggie circled it, evaluating the damage. The windows, broken and charred, would have to be replaced, as well as the burnt wood frames surrounding them. The one-room interior bore the scars of the fire that Maggie had managed to put out before it turned into a conflagration. The acrid smell of smoke still clung to the air and stung her nostrils.

  Maggie’s eyes watered, as much from the realization that her refuge was temporarily gone as from the fire residue. She mourned the works-in-progress that had been damaged beyond repair by smoke and water and wondered how she’d come up with the money to replace ruined supplies. Tug had contacted local contractors, searching for someone who could rebuild the studio as soon as possible, but all were either taking the holidays off or building a bonfire. “I promise we’ll fix it up better than new,” he’d told Maggie when he called with a progress report, “but I won’t even be able to get an estimate until the New Year.”

  She heard leaves crunch under footsteps and tensed. Gopher and Jolie assumed alert positions. When Bo emerged from the brush, the basset hound and mutt barked joyous greetings. “I saw your car, but you weren’t at either house, so I thought you might be here,” he said. She bit her lip and nodded. Bo came to Maggie and held her in his arms while she allowed herself a good cry. “Thanks,” she said after a few minutes. “I needed that.”

  Bo used his thumb to wipe away the tear stains under her eyes. “Let’s go back to the shotgun cottage. It stinks here.”

  Maggie scrunched up her nose. “I know, right?”

  The two strolled back toward the plantation’s main grounds, stopping to let the dogs sniff and out-pee each other. “I need to tell you something,” Bo said. He paused and watched Jolie tussle with a pinecone as if it were an enemy rodent and then continued. “I saw you at the bar with Chris.”

  Maggie stopped walking and put her hand on Bo’s arm. “Bo, that was nothing. Chris was pushing me to meet, so I forced myself to see him and shoot down any fantasy he had about us getting back together.”

  “Good. But, Maggie . . . if you need to go back to New York, I would never stop you. I’d miss you like crazy. But I wouldn’t hold you back. Frankly, you might be safer there.”

  “Spoken by someone who’s never ridden the subway at four in the morning.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “I know. You’re the kindest and the most generous boyfriend ever. And you don’t have to worry. I’m not going anywhere right now.”

  “You said ‘right now.’ Not ‘never.’”

  “I did, didn’t I?” Maggie pondered her slip. “I feel zero pull back to Chris. Less than zero. But his being here reminds me of my life in the city. And sometimes I do feel a pull back to that. A small one. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that.”

  “I get it. Thank you for being honest.” Bo leaned down and kissed Maggie, his lips lingering on hers.

  “And that,” Maggie said when they finally separated, “is a very good reason to never, ever leave Pelican.”

  *

  Bo walked Maggie and the pooches back to the cottage and, after a few more swoon-inducing kisses, left to pick up Xander. Maggie was daydreaming about the romantic interlude when her cell rang. She pulled the phone out of her jeans pocket and saw the caller was Vanessa. “Hey, Nessa, what’s up?”

  “You gotta come over right away—the dead guy’s wife is here, and she’s all into your paintings, the ones Lia’s been trying to help you sell.” The words tumbled out of an excited Vanessa.

  “On my way.”

  Maggie made it to Bon Bon in five minutes. Vanessa subtly pointed to Emme Charbonnet, who was studying a painting that depicted Bayou Beurre making its lazy way behind Crozat Plantation. It was one of Maggie’s favorites. She was relieved at least some of her artwork had been safely ensconced at Bon Bon, thus avoiding damage from her studio fire.

  She approached Steve Harmon’s widow. “Hi, Emme.” Maggie kept her greeting simple and generic. No sense referencing the family debacle she had witnessed at their Belle Vista encounter.

  Emme turned around and smiled. “Hello. I hear these are your paintings. I love them.”

  “Thank you. That means a lot to me.”

  “Your style is fascinating. Realistic, but with a slight undercurrent of the surreal. And the occasional surprise if you look at a painting very closely. Like how there’s the silhouette of a man hidden in this one.” Emme pointed to a painting where Maggie had indeed sneaked in Bo’s silhouette.

  Maggie was about to respond when Vanessa, who had joined them, jumped in. “That’s our Maggie; she’s full of surprises.” She took a closer look at the painting. “And I’m afraid I got a bad surprise for you, ma’am. This painting is mismarked. There’s a zero missing.”

  Maggie clapped a hand over her mouth to suppress a gasp. “What are you doing?!” she mimed to Vanessa behind Emme’s back. Nessa ignored her. “The store owner’s expecting, so I’m sure it’s one of those mistakes due to pregnancy brain,” Nessa said.

  “It wasn’t a mistake, Emme,” Maggie said. “Vanessa doesn’t know; she’s only been working here a day.” And may not survive to work a second one.

  Emme pondered the painting. “No, I think she’s right. Your work does seem underpriced.”

  Maggie’s jaw dropped. Before she could say a word, Vanessa once again jumped in. “Poor Lia. She’s expecting triplets and had complications. She had to be put on bed rest.”

  “That must be hard on her,” Emme responded. “You know what? I’ll take both these paintings at the adjusted price. And since I’m not paying an art adviser’s commission, I’d like to add the amount of it to the sale as a baby gift to the owner.”

  “Well, isn’t that the most generous thing.” Vanessa flashed Maggie a triumphant grin. “I’ll wrap them for you. Maggie, you mind watching the front of store for me?”

  “You sold two of my paintings. I’ll do anything for you.”

  The three women laughed, and Vanessa disappeared into the workroom with the paintings, leaving Maggie and Emme alone. “Thank you so much,” Maggie said.

  “No thanks necessary. I’m thrilled to support a talented local artist. Unlike my late husband, I don’t need an ‘expert’ to tell me what I like.”

  “Good for you,” Maggie said. But she wondered if Chris had any idea that his days on the Charbonnet-Harmon payroll were numbered.

  Vanessa returned with the paintings and finished the sale. Emme’s phone pinged, and she checked it. “That’s Dan. He’s outside. I had him drop me in town so he could go back to Belle Vista and talk to his son. He never stops trying to make that relationship work.”

  “I hope it went well,” Maggie said.

  “I doubt it,” Emme responded with a wry smile. She took her paintings, nodded to both women, and left the store.

  As soon as they were sure Emme was gone, Maggie and Vanessa shared a gleeful hug. “Nessa, you’re the one who deserves commission,” Maggie said. “And I owe you a big old apology for doubting you.”

  “That’s okay. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from hanging out with Quentin’s richy rich friends, it’s that the more expensive a thing is, the more valuable they think it is.”

  “I’m going to celebrate the sale with a class at DanceBod. How about you close up the shop and come with me? It’s quitting time, anyway.”

  Vanessa, wh
o had yet to shed much baby weight from her already zaftig figure, was skeptical. “Thanks, but since Ru’s got the baby, Quentie’s taking me out to dinner. Besides, who celebrates with exercise? That’s more like punishing yourself.” She popped a dark chocolate caramel in her mouth for emphasis.

  “All right, but I’m going to find another way to thank you.”

  “Your friendship is thanks enough, Maggie. And I feel like we are friends now.”

  “We are, Nessa,” said Maggie, whose past relationship with her ex-coworker had been contentious. “We definitely are.”

  After picking out a few chocolates to bring home to her parents and Gran’, Maggie walked over to DanceBod. When she entered the dance studio, she found Sandy setting up for the next class. “You missed LatinBod,” the instructor said.

  “That wasn’t an accident. I’m terrible at Latin dance. I look like I’m elbowing people out of the way at a Black Friday sale.”

  “Well, I think you’ll like BalletBod. It’s geared more toward toning than dancing.”

  “Perfect.”

  “I’m glad you came by. I wanted to talk to you.” Sandy glanced around the room and then moved closer to Maggie. “That officer, Ru Durand, told me he knew about my past relationship with Steve Harmon. But he said he’d keep it between us for as long as he can.”

  “Really?” Good call, Bo. You know your cousin Rufus.

  “I’d heard some bad things about him, but I think he’s really nice.”

  “Sometimes people change,” was Maggie’s diplomatic answer. But she had to admit that in Ru’s case, this seemed true.

  The studio door opened, and half a dozen people came in. Among them was Bea Boxler. Maggie and Bea exchanged smiles of acknowledgment, and Maggie saw an opportunity to maneuver Belle Vista’s manager into a situation where she might reveal a little more about the complicated life of her late boss. “Are you busy after class?” she asked. “If not, do you want to go over to Junie’s and grab a bite?”