Mardi Gras Murder_A Cajun Country Mystery

by Ellen Byron

  “So I hear from all your exes,” Maggie said. Rufus gave her a good-natured light punch in the arm. Their relationship had improved to the point where the two former enemies could kid with each other. “But really, thank you. Although I don’t think perfection is the issue anymore. The problem is much bigger than that.”

  Rufus gave her a quizzical look, but any further conversation was cut short when Bo returned to the room. “NYPD is in, and Perske okayed both of us going. We’ve got some planning to do, coz.”

  “I’m on it.”

  Ru took off down the hall. Bo turned to Maggie. “This could be a game changer, chére.” He gave her a quick kiss on the lips. “I’ll talk to you before I go.”

  Maggie nodded and then left the trailer so Bo and Rufus could focus on trip preparations. She began the drive toward Crozat, stopping for a red light where the River Road intersected with the road leading to I-10. She saw Lee Bertrand’s pickup truck waiting at the light, pointed in the opposite direction. She waved, but he was deep in conversation with a passenger. The light changed, and as the two vehicles passed each other, Maggie glanced at the passenger side of Lee’s car and caught a glimpse of silver-white hair. She almost lost control of her car before pulling to the side of the road. Was that Gran?

  She executed a U-turn and followed Lee’s truck, keeping as much distance as she could without losing him. Driving a beautifully detailed vintage convertible made undercover work tricky. Lee traveled down the River Road for another fifteen minutes, then crossed the Mississippi and headed west. Ten minutes later, he pulled into the parking lot of the Three Bird Café and Dance Hall. Locals loved “The Bird” because it served a reasonably priced breakfast buffet all day and offered dancing in morning, afternoon, and evening slots. Maggie checked the time on her phone. The Bird’s morning dance hour had just begun.

  Maggie parked and went inside the café. Tables were filled with patrons enjoying the buffet while a few couples danced to a local zydeco band playing “Louisiana Two-Step.” Lee was already on the dance floor. He nimbly executed a turn with his dance partner—Gran. Maggie approached the twirling couple and tapped Lee on the shoulder. “Mind if I cut in?”

  Lee, looking like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, slunk away. Gran’ stood frozen. Maggie took one of Gran’s hands in hers, put her other hand around her grand-mère’s waist, and continued the dance. “Hello.”

  “Hello.”

  Maggie twirled her grand-mère. “Anything you want to tell me?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Oh, I think there is.”

  “Fine.”

  The song ended. Gran’ marched to a nearby table, head held high, and took a seat. Maggie followed her. Lee hovered over the buffet, making a show of filling his plate while stealing glances at the women. “All right, I’ll come clean,” Gran’ said. “I began feeling better after a day or two of the antibiotics. But every time I considered resuming judging, I began to relapse. That’s when I realized it took becoming ill to get me out of that infernal pageant judging. It’s a miserable business, and I simply don’t want to do it. At least not this year.”

  “Believe me, I get that. But you could have been honest with me instead of sneaking out like a teenager.”

  “I have to admit, the sneaking out part was fun,” Gran’ said with an impish grin. “I’m sorry I didn’t share this with you sooner, Magnolia. I’ve been properly chastised and will resume my judging duties.”

  “Apology accepted. But I don’t want you to be a judge. For one thing, you probably need more rest, which is why Lee is to bring you home as soon as you finish brunch.” Maggie ignored her grand-mère’s pout. “Also, it’s too dangerous. Gerard dead, Constance attacked … if Little Earlie hadn’t published the story about the orphan train exhibit being on hold like I asked him to, anyone who supported it could have been next, including you. Judging gives you too high a profile. It’s better to keep you out of it.”

  “Honestly, people in a small town have way too much time on their hands if a tiny exhibit at a podunk historical society can trigger such mayhem.”

  “It can and it has. So no judging this year.” Maggie wagged a finger at her grand-mère. “And no dancing either until you’re completely better.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Maggie stood up. “I have to go to work. I’ll see you later.”

  Gran took Maggie’s hands and held them to her heart. Her pale blue eyes were clouded with worry. “Promise me you’ll be careful, chére. Much as you worry about me, I worry about you.”

  “I promise.” Maggie kissed her grand-mère on the cheek and then left the couple to their meal.

  On her way to Doucet, Maggie got a call from Whitney. “Xander wanted to work on the masks so much, he made me take him over to Doucet early. I checked with your boss, and she said it was okay if I stayed with him until you got here. I haven’t let him touch anything.”

  “I’m almost there. And tell him if he wants to start without me, he can. He knows what to do.”

  Moments later, Maggie pulled into the Doucet employee parking lot and found a spot next to the ever-present HomeNHearth truck. On the way to her workspace, she passed Mike Randall, who waved to her. She stopped to greet him. “Hi, Mike. Are you part of the HomeNHearth security crew?”

  “Yup. I go where they send me. Hey, thanks for throwing that essay contest Allie’s way.”

  “I didn’t ‘throw’ anything anywhere. She did a great job on it. Your daughter’s a talented writer.”

  “She is?” Maggie wasn’t shocked this came as a surprise to Mike. She had a feeling there was a lot he didn’t know about Allie. He struck her as the kind of man who’d always dreamed of having a son and didn’t quite know what to do with a daughter. “I wasn’t much for school. I check out Allie’s report cards and I’m like, holy moly. But anyway, thanks.”

  Mike returned to work, and Maggie followed the path to her Doucet studio. Xander was in the middle of assembling a new mask while his mother looked on, a bemused expression on her face. “Is it me, or are these masks a little macabre?” Whitney whispered to Maggie.

  Maggie chuckled. “They are. They’re meant to disguise the wearer’s identity and maybe scare people a little, but in a fun way.”

  Whitney wrinkled her nose. “I guess it’s not my idea of fun.”

  After giving her son a kiss goodbye, Whitney took off. Maggie filled a bowl with water and warmed it on the hot plate she’d asked Ione to install in the room for her. She dipped a rag in the water. With the rag in one hand and her scalpel in the other, she set to work on the painting. Having grown more comfortable with the restoration process, she moved quickly. Tour guides continued to stop by with their groups of plantation visitors. One guest, an art historian, shared how using a canvas twice was not uncommon among artists. “The term ‘starving artist’ isn’t just a trope,” he said. “Financially, if an artist doesn’t mind sacrificing one work, it saves the cost buying a new canvas to paint over it.” Having been a starving artist herself, Maggie seconded his comment.

  Younger tourists gravitated toward Xander’s masks. One teen, a sullen-looking boy clearly dragged on the tour by his parents, fixated on a mask that looked like a rudimentary skull. “That would make an awesome tattoo,” the teen said.

  “Not happening,” came the instant response from his mother. She rolled her eyes and pulled him away to continue the tour.

  By the time Maggie and Xander broke for lunch, she’d exposed more than a third of the hidden work of art. “We’re both making good progress today, buddy,” she told Xander as she pulled his Star Wars–themed lunch bag from the room’s mini fridge. Xander didn’t respond. She saw he was staring at the painting. “What?” Xander pointed at a rectangle above the end of the path Maggie’s efforts had revealed. “You think that’s important?” Xander nodded. She put down the lunch bag, picked a rag, and dipped it in the bowl of lukewarm water.

  A half hour later, she and Xander step
ped back to analyze what she’d uncovered. “Those are the front steps of the manor house,” Maggie said. “That’s where the path stops. You see that pattern of X’s on the top step? Those aren’t there on the real front steps.”

  A thought occurred to Maggie. She searched the photos she’d taped around the room of the original painting until she found the one she wanted. “‘Grata sit calidum, et de fisco,’” she read. “I need to look that up.”

  She pulled out her cell phone and found a translation app, which she quickly downloaded. She then typed in the Latin phrase and pressed “Translate.”

  “‘A warm and welcome treasure,’” she read. “You were right, buddy. This is a treasure map. And I think we just discovered where that treasure might be buried.”

  Chapter 18

  Ione came to the studio as soon as Maggie alerted her to the possibility of treasure on the premises. She studied the painting thoughtfully. “So, you think this indicates your ancestors buried something important under the manor house front steps?” Ione asked.

  “Yes. Of course I need to keep going and see what else my restoration reveals. It may mark the port of entry or the location. I won’t know for sure until I reveal more of the underlying painting, but the X’s are telling.”

  “Who knows about this?”

  “Just Xander and me.”

  “Don’t tell anyone else. Last thing we need is for word to get out. Every treasure hunter in the state will be digging up this pea patch. We’re taking you off the tour. From now on, keep the door closed when you’re working.” Ione bent down to be eye level with Xander. “Son, you can keep a secret, can’t you?” Xander gave a solemn nod, and she smiled. “I figured as much, but I wanted to be sure. No telling anyone about what all’s going on here. Promise?” Xander gave another nod and crossed his heart to confirm. Ione turned to Maggie. “The timing couldn’t be better regarding security. Since HomeNHearth is already here, I’ll have them install extra alerts on the windows and doors of this room.”

  “Good idea.”

  Ione left to track down the HomeNHearth security team. Maggie took a rag and handed it to Xander. “This would go faster if I had some help. You’ve been watching me since the beginning. But it’s an important job, Xander. Tell me the truth—do you think you can do it?”

  Xander’s eyes lit up. “Yes,” he said with authority.

  He took the rag, dipped it in water, and carefully began removing the old watercolor painting with great precision, exposing more of what lay underneath. Maggie watched with affection. Naysayers might scoff at entrusting the task to a child, but she knew Xander’s ability to hyper-focus made him the perfect candidate for the job.

  The two worked side by side for the rest of the afternoon, stopping only for snacks. By the end of the day, they’d begun to uncover a rendering of the Doucet Manor house. Maggie intertwined her fingers and stretched her arms above her head. They ached from hours of repetitive motion. She rung out the rags and hung them over a laundry rack to dry. “Alrighty, buddy, let’s get you over to your dad’s. He has to go to New York for a case tonight and wants to see you before he leaves.”

  Maggie drove Xander over to Rufus’s double-wide. When they stepped inside, the difference was astounding. Gone was all evidence of partying. The place was meticulous. Three-month-old Charlotte Elizabeth Diana Durand slept peacefully in a bassinet that rocked automatically. A lullaby tinkled from a mobile of tiny, happy wooden animals.

  Bo came down the hallway from his temporary bedroom. He broke into a wide grin when he saw his son. “Hey, little buddy.” Xander allowed himself to be scooped up in a hug. Bo kissed Maggie on the cheek while still holding on to his son. “Thanks for bringing him by. And yourself as well.”

  Maggie had to smile at this, despite the questionable state of their relationship. “How long do you think you’ll be gone?”

  Bo let go of Xander and gave a “you got me” shrug. “NYPD spoke to Max, the guy who called you. He warned them Stein’s apartment is a hoarder’s paradise. No idea how long it’ll take to go through everything until we find any clue as to who killed him.”

  The front door opened, and Rufus came in carrying one small and one large shopping bag. “Hey there, hi there, ho there,” he greeted them. “Thanks for watching Charli, coz. I did a little last-minute shopping for our trip.” Rufus reached into the bigger bag and pulled out a brown leather jacket, which he put on and modeled. “Do I look like a New York hipster?”

  “Think you’d have to do some searching in New York to find a hipster with a jambalaya gut,” Bo said.

  “You’ll be sorry for that comment when I don’t share these guidebooks with you.” Rufus pulled two books out of the second bag. “Especially this—Best of the City. Best pizza, best Chinese food, best clubs. And there are so many good museums they can’t pick a ‘best of.’ I’ve never been to a museum before. I’m thinking I might go to this MOMA. Although that’s a little sexist if you ask me. Where’s the DADA museum?” Rufus reached into the bassinet and stroked his sleeping daughter’s tiny head. “Ain’t that right, princess?”

  “Rufus, MOMA stands for Museum of Modern Art,” Maggie said, suppressing a laugh. “And there was an avant-garde movement called Dada—or Dadaism—in the early twentieth century. It rejected the increasing growth of capitalist society.”

  Rufus made a face. “Modern art? Forget it. That stuff’s a scam. Looks like a five-year-old’s finger paintings. And I’d be happy to see a little capitalist growth in my paycheck.”

  “This isn’t a vacation,” Bo admonished his cousin. “We’re trying to nail a murderer.”

  “Yeah, well, we still gotta eat. And no more scolding me, or I won’t share where the best Chinese food is.”

  Rufus wheeled the bassinet down the hall to his bedroom. “I better finish packing,” Bo said. He leaned toward Maggie and paused. Then he gently kissed her on the lips. “I’ll let you know as soon as I learn anything.”

  Maggie nodded, and Bo headed down the hall, holding Xander’s small hand. Maggie watched until they disappeared into Bo’s room, and then left the trailer. The night was dark, with the moon blacked out by clouds. She walked to her car, pulled open the Falcon’s heavy door, and got in. She put the key in the ignition and began driving. But not toward home; instead, she drove to the Historical Society.

  The parking lot in front of the old factory was empty and silent. Maggie quelled her nerves as she fished the spare key from Constance out of her purse. She slipped it into the door’s lock and stepped inside the dark building. She flipped a switch, and a bank of fluorescent lights sputtered on, offering an unflattering glow, more interrogation room than hallowed hall.

  Maggie walked toward the back office, glancing at display cases filled with Pelican ephemera. Photos, maps, and descriptions of the photos and maps hung on cushioned room dividers doing their best to separate exhibits. Despite the Society’s makeshift nature, Maggie felt a surge of pride in her hometown’s past, especially when she passed a display case featuring items her family had donated from Crozat and Doucet. But Mo was right. No items anywhere paid homage to the underbelly of Pelican’s history. And Gerard had kept to his stubborn promise that there be no evidence of the controversial orphan train.

  Maggie located the Society’s office and found her key also opened its door. She stepped inside. Two old, battered desks sat facing each other in the middle of the room. Each was piled with folders. Tall file cabinets lined every wall, and on top of each was a stack of memorabilia. Maggie wilted at the thought of wading through the endless array of material.

  A thought occurred to her. One of these desks must belong to Constance Damboise. Identifying the desk that didn’t belong to the widow was easy. On the one facing the door, Maggie noticed a nameplate reading “Gerard Damboise, President.” Maggie immediately sat down at the opposite desk, which proved to be Constance’s, and began sorting through files. She found nothing. But Gerard was against the orphan train exhibit, so maybe Constan
ce would have kept any material on it in a less obvious place, she mused. Maggie pulled out a bottom drawer and thumbed through alphabetically organized hanging files. She found nothing under “O,” and began to think she was on a fool’s errand. Then she spotted one marked “Miscellaneous.” She reached into it and extracted a fat, unmarked folder. She opened the folder and smiled. Inside was a typed manuscript titled “New Beginnings: A History of the Cajun Country Orphan Train.” The author was Constance Damboise. Maggie glanced at a few of the pages. Not only had Constance supported the idea of the exhibit, she’d researched the lives of the trains’ young passengers. Maggie began to read.

  An hour later, she was still absorbed in the foundlings’ stories. Most had come from an orphanage in New York to a strange rural land where French, not their native English, was the dominant language. Many adapted and thrived. Others never made the transition and died prematurely from disease or drink. Some returned to the orphanage, eventually finding homes in the New York area. Constance had detailed the lives of most of the foundlings—marriages and divorces; spinsterhood or bachelorhood; infertility or scores of children and grandchildren, great-, and great-great-grandchildren. But a few children seemed to have arrived and disappeared, their fate a mystery. Maggie’s instincts told her the clue to Gerard’s death lay with the missing children. If she or Pelican PD managed to track down what happened to them, they might find the link to his killer.

  She leaned back in the old rolling desk chair and wiped perspiration from her brow with the back of her hand. The office air was stultifying. Maggie thought about Ira Stein. Could he be one of the lost orphans? Then she remembered a snippet from her conversation with his neighbor Max that had slipped by her in the excitement of the moment. Ira had recently celebrated his eightieth birthday with a few of his apartment mates, who were bonded in the odd way apartment living in New York City brought strangers together. The last orphan train had rolled into St. Pierre Parish in 1929. The youngest infant foundling, should he or she still be alive, would be in the neighborhood of ninety years old. At eighty, Ira was too young to be one of the orphans.