A Cajun Christmas Killing

by Ellen Byron

  “Making it more of a message than a weapon,” Rufus mused.

  “Could be another bonfire builder,” Perske said. “I hear you locals get pretty competitive about these things.”

  “No way,” Rufus instantly responded. Maggie could tell he didn’t appreciate Perske’s patronizing tone. “Any competition is pure fun and good natured. There’s no prize except a feeling of pride when you have the biggest or loudest bonfire. The kids go nuts with excitement. I can’t wait until I build my first bonfire with my little Charli.”

  Maggie was touched by the emotion in Rufus’s voice. She was ashamed of herself for ever doubting fatherhood would change the man for the better. “Would you mind interviewing me now?” she asked Chief Perske. “I’d like to get to the hospital and make sure Bo’s all right.”

  “Who was here first, you or your father?”

  “My father,” Maggie said with reluctance, knowing the contrary police chief would use this as an excuse for not honoring her request. But once again, Rufus leapt in.

  “Chief, why don’t you interview the dad, and I’ll take the daughter? Kill two birds at the same time.”

  “Fine. It’ll give us more time to check the base of every Pelican bonfire on the river. I don’t trust the craftsmanship of these structures.”

  Rufus and Tug shared an eyeroll behind Perske’s back, and then Rufus led Maggie back to the street, cussing out his temporary boss the whole way down the levee. He pulled out a small pad to take notes. “Okay, so walk me through your morning as it pertains to the bonfire.”

  “Honestly, there’s not much to tell. I came out with my supplies around eight AM. My dad, Bo, and Chret Bertrand were already working on the bonfire. I sold coffee and pastries to a couple of regulars: Eula Banks, who works at the Hall of Records, and Lee Bertrand, who stopped by to say hi to Chret but I think was really hoping that Gran’ was working the stand because they’ve been dating.”

  “Okay, more than I need to know yet nothing useful. Let’s check into your famous instincts and ability to see stuff others miss. Anything?”

  Maggie thought hard and then shook her head. “Sorry, Ru.”

  “Unless your father drops some kinda clue, we’ll have to assume someone paid the bonfire a visit in the middle of the night.” Rufus closed his notebook. “All righty, we’re done. Go visit my cousin. And tell him to get his butt back here as soon as he’s on his feet—I’m not doing some lame-o bonfire-building patrol on my own.”

  *

  Bo smiled as soon as he saw Maggie peering into his hospital room. She came to his side and kissed him lightly on the lips. “This is the third time I’ve visited a loved one here this week,” she said. “The head nurse greeted me by my first name.”

  “I like hearing I’m a ‘loved one.’”

  “Very loved.” Maggie kissed him again, this time a little less gently. “How do you feel, chère?”

  “Like I have a hangover from a bangin’ frat party.”

  Maggie laughed. “Did the CT scan show any damage?”

  “No fractures. I have a mild concussion. They’re keeping me overnight, but I can go home in the morning. I’m supposed to have Xander tomorrow for Christmas Eve, but Whitney and I are going to switch things around so I have him Christmas Day instead. That way I can rest some and still come to the bonfires but not have to keep an eye on him the whole time.”

  “There’s going to be one less bonfire on the levee. Ours was totaled. All that hard work . . . gone.”

  “Makes me furious. Any update on what happened?”

  “Someone moved a log and compromised the structural integrity.”

  “Quick sidebar to say you sound sexy when you talk like an engineer.”

  “Thank you. I wish I could do it more often, but that’s all I’ve got. Anyway, I saw nothing, I’m sure my dad saw nothing . . .”

  “Neither did I.”

  “And the end result so far is that Perske’s now making Ru and probably a few other officers check out every single bonfire to ensure they’re safe. So if your doctor brings up the possibility of releasing you early, you might want to pretend your head still hurts.”

  “Hearing about that makes it hurt, so I won’t be lying.”

  Maggie checked the time on her phone. “I need to get to work. Three for luck,” she said and bent down to kiss him one last time. Bo pulled her toward him, and they became entwined in a heated embrace. “We have to stop,” he murmured in her ear. “It can’t be in a hospital room after an attempted murder.”

  “Or when you’re nursing a couple of nasty lumps,” They forced themselves to separate. “We’ll wait,” Maggie gently stroked Bo’s thick, black hair. “I love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  Maggie took leave of Bo and headed for the elevator. The doors opened, and Whitney got out. As usual, her red-gold hair glimmered as if sprinkled with fairy dust. Whitney was one of the few human beings whose beauty could survive the unforgiving glare of fluorescent lighting. Under other circumstances, Maggie would have loved to paint the stunning woman’s portrait. But given Whitney’s status as Bo’s ex-wife, it would be a bridge to a relationship neither woman was ready for.

  “Hi, Whitney,” Maggie said. Mindful that their last interaction had turned into a bitter fight, she kept her tone neutral.

  “Hi,” Whitney responded. “I talked to Bo on the phone but wanted to stop by and see him in person. I’m glad I ran into you.” Maggie didn’t respond, wary of what might come next. “Maggie, I’m so sorry for how nasty I was the last time I saw you. I’ve been obsessing about why you feel so strongly that Chris promoting Xander as an artist is a bad idea. And then Bo got injured, and I thought, what if it had been more serious and we were in New York or some other art place and couldn’t get to him? What would that do to Xander?” Tears began to roll down Whitney’s cheeks. “I could never, ever separate him from his daddy. I worry so much about what will happen to him when we’re gone. I can’t bear to think of him alone someday without love or family.”

  “Oh, Whitney.” Maggie wrapped the woman in a warm hug. “That won’t happen because my family will always be here for him and so will everyone else in Pelican. If he even chooses to stay here. And his talent won’t desert him, it will only develop. I think he’ll have a wonderful career when he’s ready to handle it. Right now, Xander would be a flavor of the month, and he’d spend the rest of his life as an artist living that down. If you let him wait and grow personally and professionally, he’ll have a happy, successful life. With lots and lots of love.”

  Whitney stepped out of Maggie’s arms and wiped her eyes. “You’re totally right. Zach and I both get it now. I told Chris under no circumstances is Xander going to New York or having his work shown there. We’re going to let him be a kid.”

  “I’m so glad. When you think about it, we only spend this long as a kid”—Maggie held her hands about six inches apart—“and this long as adults”—she threw her arms wide open. “We should hold on to the short part as long as possible.”

  “Yes, I agree one hundred percent. After the holidays, let’s make sure to get you and Xander together for an art class.”

  “I’d love that.”

  The women hugged again. And Maggie had a feeling she might be painting Whitney’s portrait sooner than she expected.

  *

  Maggie was about to head to Doucet when she remembered she’d brought her costume home and would have to stop by the shotgun cottage to retrieve it. She texted Tannis that she was running ten minutes late and deleted the scolding message her boss texted back. Maggie got into the driver’s seat but didn’t move. She felt beaten down by the week. Dealing with murders, kidnappings, the attack on her studio, and on a lesser note, a boss she loathed—it was all too much.

  On a whim, Maggie lowered the top on the car and then peeled out of the parking lot. She was whipped by the chilly December wind as she drove but found it bracing. Her head, which had felt like it was stuffed with soggy
cotton, began to clear. She rounded the bend toward Crozat and slowed down. On top of the levee across from the plantation, a small army of people were hauling logs and stacking them carefully in the shape of a pyramid. Maggie parked the car, overwhelmed by what she saw.

  Neighbors and guests had come together to help Tug rebuild the family’s bonfire. She jumped out and hurried up the hillside. Marco Cornetta and Akira, a man from his tour group, were carrying logs to the site. “Hey, sweetie,” he greeted her. “Look at me—I’m doing something physical for a change!”

  “Marco, I don’t know what to say.”

  “Please, you’re doing me a favor. I’m so tired of the same old, same old on these tours. My ‘groupies,’ as I’m fond of calling them, are loving this. It’s like a farm-stay holiday. Come on, Akira, let’s get steppin’.”

  Marco and Akira marched off. A persistent yapping stole Maggie’s attention. She walked around to another side of the bonfire and saw King Cake’s head sticking out of his doggy carrier. She turned and found Ione and Sandy Sechrest hard at work. Both women waved away her appreciation for their efforts. “Stop it,” Ione said while Sandy gave a vigorous nod. “You nagged Pelican PD so much that they had to admit there was zero evidence linking me to Steve Harmon’s murder. If it wasn’t for you, I’d probably be in jail right now, not getting paid at Fais Dough Dough to sell and eat delicious pastries.”

  “And you didn’t judge me by my past, Maggie,” Sandy said. “You supported me and brought friends to my studio. Friends who were there for me the minute King Cake went missing. I’ll never forget that.”

  Maggie bit her lip. “If I stay another minute, I’ll cry a flood, so I’m going now. Again, thank—”

  “Don’t thank us!” her friends and guests chorused. “Go!”

  Which Maggie did.

  *

  The workday at Doucet proved to be unexpectedly pleasant. With Christmas Eve only twenty-four hours away, guests and coworkers were filled with the holiday spirit. Since Tannis had canceled the annual staff party due to her draconian fiscal restraints, Maggie and her friends threw their own potluck lunch celebration, complete with Secret Santas. No one had to fear pulling Tannis’s name from the bag because it wasn’t included. Ione’s was, however, and Maggie had been thrilled to see her close friend’s name on the slip of paper she pulled. Maggie received a small rectangular box from her Secret Santa, who serendipitously turned out to be Ione. Inside was a gift card from New Orleans’s best art supply store.

  The workday ended with a surprise appearance by the Peli-Carolers, a group of locals who came together once a year to sing a mix of traditional and quirky Cajun Christmas carols like “’Zat you, Santa Claus?” and “Santa’s Second Line.” They sang with the Doucet manor house as their backdrop, the elegant estate decked out in all its Christmas finery. After they completed their set to enthusiastic applause, Maggie wished her last tour group a happy holiday and retreated to the staff lounge to call Rufus and get an update on the investigations into Bea’s murder and the bonfire collapse.

  “New Orleans was a busy place last night because most of our suspects seem to have been there,” he said when she reached him by cell phone. “Your ex, Chris, went down last night to meet with a lawyer first thing this morning because the widow Charbonnet’s contesting some clause in his contract that would pay him out. Harrison took a break from BV to shack up with the Charbonnets, none of whom are answering my calls. Any one of those doofs could’ve zipped back up here in the middle of the night and messed with the bonfire. And then there are the locals, like your O’Day folks and that boss of yours if she got a body-moving assist from Little Earlie. I wouldn’t mind putting that nosy reporter away for a while.”

  “I don’t get that Earlie is so into Tannis that he’d help kill for her.”

  “Yeah, it’s a reach. But it’d be fun to pick him up on suspicion just to put a scare in him. Anyway, the good news is that Perske finally gave up on trying to make a case against Bo. Try as he might, he couldn’t find a way to justify Bo’s messing with the bonfire and then being there to get conked out when it came down.”

  “So bottom line, no closer. Argh, this is so frustrating. Whoever killed Harmon and almost killed Bo can’t get away with it.”

  “They won’t. FYI, I paid a visit to our boy, and by the time I left, he was snoozing. You might want to wait until morning to check in with him.”

  “Will do. Thanks.”

  Maggie ended the call, took her purse, and stepped outside. She realized she was the only person left at the plantation. All guests and employees were gone. She had an idea.

  She moved her car to a remote spot on the road that ran behind Doucet and then walked back to the plantation. She pulled the manor house key out of her purse and traipsed along the path to the front door, her way lit by the plantation’s holiday lights. Tannis had wanted to turn them off at night as a cost-cutting measure but relented after local schoolchildren circulated a petition to keep the place glowing through New Year’s Eve. Maggie let herself into the house, locked the door behind her for safety, and then entered the parlor, where she’d found Steve Harmon’s body. She sat on the antique fainting couch that faced the family portrait she loved so much and stared into Magnolia Marie Doucet’s eyes. “Talk to me, Magnolia,” she said out loud. “Help me.”

  The son is not the father. The son is not the father . . .

  Maggie woke up several hours later with this mantra running through her mind. It seemed to be the only message her ancestor wanted to send, and Maggie thought she knew why. Stiff from falling asleep on a one-hundred-and-fifty-year-old piece of furniture, she stretched and gave herself a shake to fully wake up. She peered at a carved black walnut Victorian clock on a side table that still worked after a century and a half and saw it was four AM.

  The room was lit only by moonlight and the diffused glow from the outdoor holiday lights. Maggie waited a minute for her eyes to adjust. Then she stood up and was about to walk to the door when she heard a floorboard squeak in the bedroom above her. She froze in place. The sound came again, and this time she could identify it as footsteps.

  Maggie was no longer alone in the house. And judging by what she was hearing, whoever else was in the house might not be alone either.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Maggie never understood why people in horror movies ignored common sense and put themselves in ridiculously dangerous situations. She had no intention of doing this herself, so her goal was to make it out of the Doucet manor house without being caught by the unwelcome visitors. She tiptoed out of the parlor and down the hallway. Months as a tour guide had taught her which of the home’s old floorboards creaked, and she maneuvered around them. She heard giggling coming from upstairs, followed by what sounded like seductive murmuring. Whatever was going on sounded more like a hookup than a robbery. At least they’re busy getting busy, Maggie thought as she opened the front door.

  She passed the parking lot on the way to her car and noticed Little Earlie’s PT Cruiser next to Tannis’s BMW Coupe, outing the two as the couple trysting in a Doucet bedroom. “Consorting with the enemy, huh, Little E?” she muttered, furious at the low-rent journalist. Much as she wanted to bust him, Maggie forced herself to focus on a much more important task. She was convinced she knew who had murdered Bea and tampered with the bonfire. Now it was a matter of convincing Pelican PD that her instincts were right.

  Maggie slowly made her way down the old road. Dawn had yet to break, so it was still dark when she reached home, and she fumbled in her purse for her house key. She let herself into the cottage, careful not to wake her grand-mère, and sat down at the petite antique desk in the living room, taking a moment to turn on her laptop. An Internet search yielded nothing useful. There was so little, in fact, that she wondered if the lack of information was intentional.

  Maggie checked the computer clock. It was five AM, too early to call Rufus. Her body tingled with fatigue. Figuring she’d be useless exhausted, she re
treated to her room and slipped under the covers. As Maggie drifted off, it occurred to her that it was Christmas Eve.

  *

  Maggie’s alarm clock went off two hours later, and she reached for her cell phone. She called Bo, but it went straight to voice mail. She left him a message to call her and texted the same request as insurance. Then she called Rufus, who answered on the first ring. “Happy, happy,” he greeted her jovially. “I just put Charli in her ‘Baby’s First Christmas’ onesie, and she’s totally rockin’ it. What’s up?”

  “I have a theory.”

  “Well, mercy me, you do?” Rufus feigned shock. “I used to find your theories superannoying, but they’ve grown on me. So shoot.” Maggie shared her conjecture with him. She knew it was inspired by guesswork, not fact, so she was relieved when he responded, “I never thought I’d say this to a Crozat-slash-Doucet, but we are on the same page. We’ve already discovered some very interesting facts about said suspect that I’ll share when Charli isn’t fussing for a feeding. The coroner’s report states that Bea’s wound could only have been made by someone holding a knife in their left hand, and Bea was a righty, which pretty much proves our assumption that her death was no suicide. This dang case gripes me. For every murder we solve, another pops up. It’s like whack-a-mole but with bodies. Anyhoo, I think it’s safe to say that we have a person of interest. I’ll let you know when we bring them in for questioning.”

  Maggie thanked Ru, and he signed off. For the first time since Steve Harmon arrived, bringing drama and death with him, Maggie felt a sense of relief. The case was in the hands of law enforcement. She could finally focus on the holiday.

  She showered and put on jeans and a long-sleeved green T-shirt, topping off her look with a kitschy Christmas sweater that she’d found at a garage sale. The design was a riot of candy canes, kittens, and Christmas trees with little bells that jingled when she walked. Maggie hummed “Deck the Halls” as she headed over to the manor house, where she helped Gran’ and her mother serve their guests a holiday breakfast. Ninette surprised no one by coming up with her own recipe for muffaletta frittata, which was accompanied by fresh biscuits, andouille sausage, and bananas foster coffee cake.