Mardi Gras Murder_A Cajun Country Mystery

by Ellen Byron

  Maggie noticed a copy machine in the far corner of the office and decided to copy the short list of children no one had traced. She turned on the ancient machine, which wheezed to life after a long wait, and began copying. The copier was so loud she didn’t hear the office door open and close behind her. Maggie finished her task. She then turned around and screamed.

  She was face-to-face with Constance Damboise. And Constance had a gun trained on her—one noticeably larger than a purse pistol.

  Chapter 19

  “C-C-Constance,” Maggie stammered. “I-I—”

  “Oh my goodness, it’s just you, Maggie.” Constance uncocked the gun and stuck it in her purse. “This gun was Gerard’s. It’s much bulkier than my purse pistol. The police are still holding onto that one as evidence, but with what all’s been going on, I wasn’t going to be without protection. Forewarned is forearmed as they say. And I will be armed. Now why exactly are you here?”

  Maggie collapsed into a chair, her heart thumping. “I thought you were still in the hospital.”

  “I despise hospitals. They’re like roach motels. Seniors check in, but they don’t check out. I managed to convince my medical team I was doing so much better they could release me. I wanted to stop by and check on the Society, and when I found the door unlocked, I feared we had an intruder. You still haven’t told me why you’re skulking around the Society office.”

  “I was looking for information about the orphan train.” Maggie, skittish about trusting Constance, kept her explanation as vague as possible.

  “Have you discovered anything?”

  Maggie debated her next move. She stood up again and leaned against the desk, her pose expressing a relaxed manner diametrically opposed to what she felt. But it positioned her to knock Constance off balance should the woman try to pull the gun out of her purse. Then Maggie took a chance. “I discovered your manuscript. And I can see why you and Robbie are so committed to the exhibit. The children’s stories are fascinating.”

  Constance smiled. “Thank you. And I’m glad you’ve come on board, train pun intended.” The seventy-something winked, and Maggie relaxed a bit. “What were you looking for specifically? I don’t buy for a minute this was some casual, spur-of-the-moment visit to the Society.”

  “I think there’s a connection between the children who came to Pelican on the train, Gerard’s death, and the attempt on your life. My gut is telling me the past is affecting the present.” It dawned on Maggie she was paraphrasing Allie’s essay. “I’m particularly interested in the lost children. At least that’s what I’m calling them. You did a wonderful job documenting the lives of the rest of them. But what happened to the ones that seem to have disappeared?”

  “I’ve always wondered that myself. It’s rather haunted me. I was going to research those children; then Gerard put the kibosh on the whole exhibit. It was originally his idea, you know. But one day, he did a complete reversal and became the exhibit’s biggest adversary.”

  A spasm of grief crossed Constance’s face. It was the first time Maggie had seen the widow express the emotion since she’d lost her husband. Maggie hated to press her, but she had to ask one more, very important question. “Constance, do you happen to remember exactly when Gerard changed his mind? It could be a clue. The police might be able to match the date with an event in his schedule that ties in to his mur—death.”

  Constance shook her head. “I meant ‘one day’ as a figure of speech. It was more insidious than specific. You know, dismissing my plans, finding other tasks to distract me. Then a final veto.”

  “If you could come up with even a general time frame, it would give the police something to work with. I’ve found trying to recall the weather around the time of a certain event helps me remember when it happened.”

  Constance gave a rueful smile. “It’s Louisiana. The weather’s either humid or less humid, rainy or less rainy. But I’ll try. Anything to stop the madness.” She rubbed her forehead and winced. “I’m still a bit short on energy thanks to whatever evil brew I ingested. I always planned to visit the Hall of Records and do some research on the missing children. Why don’t you hold on to my manuscript? Take it with you to the H of R and see if you can drum up anything about those wee ones based on their birth names.”

  Maggie clasped the manuscript folder to her chest. “Thank you. I’ll do that.”

  “Good.” Constance held the office door open for Maggie. “I’ll walk out with you. Oh, and Maggie? I highly recommend getting yourself a purse pistol. You never know what might happen, do you?”

  * * *

  By the time Maggie got home, she was starving. She was relieved to see her family about to tuck into a late dinner. The evening air was cooled with a slight breeze off the river. On a whim, Maggie decided they should dine al fresco. She set up a folding table and chairs on the manor home’s wide veranda, using an heirloom silver candelabra as the centerpiece. She, her parents, and Grand-mère dined on salad, Ninette’s oyster soup, and Fais Dough Dough French bread by the light of flickering candles. For the first time since the Great Flood, the Crozats were able to unwind. But the respite was interrupted by an unmarked police sedan making the turn into the plantation driveway and pulling up in front of the house. Bo got out of the driver’s side and then extricated a large shopping bag from the back seat. “I won’t be long,” he told Rufus, who was sitting in the passenger seat. Bo loped up the front steps. “Evening, all.”

  The Crozats returned his greeting. “I thought you were flying out tonight,” Maggie said.

  “We are. We’re on the way to the airport. But I wanted to drop something off for your dad.” Bo pulled a cast iron pot out of the bag. “We’ll be back for Mardi Gras, but there’s no way I’m gonna have time to make gumbo and enter the cook-off. This black pot’s been in my family for who knows how long. I thought it could replace the one you lost, sir. At least for this year.”

  Bo handed the pot to Tug, who examined it with awe. He held it up and inhaled a scent ingrained in the iron by years of seasoning. “It’s a beauty,” he said, his nose still in the pot. “I’ll take it for a test drive with my gumbo recipe tomorrow, but I think I found a new friend. Thank you.” Tug turned to Maggie but pointed at Bo. “Never let this man go,” he said, his voice husky.

  Maggie managed a smile. “I’ll walk you to the car,” she said to Bo. She and the detective stepped away from her family and down the steps for privacy. “I had an interesting meetup with Constance Damboise tonight,” Maggie said.

  Bo raised an eyebrow, curious. She shared her conversation with the widow. “We have Gerard’s datebook,” he said once she finished. “If we had an approximate date of when his attitude reversed toward the exhibit, it would be a big help.”

  “I’ll work on it with her while you’re gone.”

  Bo furrowed his brow and thought for a moment. “Those orphan trains left out of New York. I’m convinced there’s a link between them and our Mr. Stein, and I mean to find it.”

  “Be careful, Bo.”

  “I always am. Anyway, if there’s still any work to be done on the Mardi Gras masks, Whitney can bring Xander by after school.”

  “I’ll call her.”

  “Good. She could use a distraction. She got some bad news. Her doctor said he doesn’t think she can get pregnant. Something about her hormone levels.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear that. I know how much she wanted another baby.” There was a brief, awkward pause. Maggie made an impulsive decision. “Bo … do you want more children?”

  “Whoa,” Bo said, taken aback. “We’re having this conversation now?”

  “Yes, because there’s never a good time lately, and this is as not-a-good time as any. I want children. I do. If I ever had any doubt, the time I’ve spent with Xander erased it. To see him blossom, to be part of that”—Maggie’s eyes welled with tears—“it means more to me than anything. I want two children, so they’ll always have each other. I know I may have a romanticized vers
ion of siblings, being that I was an only child, but I’m willing to take the chance. And if you’re not, I need to know that.”

  Bo pressed his lips together until they formed a thin line. When he spoke, he chose his words carefully. “It’s easy to have a romantic vision of parenthood. The reality can be very different, especially if your child has issues. I’m not saying that would happen—or that I’d love my child any less. I’d die for Xander. He’s my heart and soul. But starting again? I have to say, it gives me great pause.”

  It broke Maggie’s heart to articulate her next thought, but she had to. “If we’re in different places and there’s no room for negotiation, we both need to move on.”

  Bo gave a frustrated grunt and ran a hand through his thick black hair, mussing it up in a way that only made him sexier, much to Maggie’s own frustration. “It’s a bad time for me to be making huge decisions. It feels like my life has been spiraling ever since the flood. Work is insane, my living situation is worse—although Ru did stop partying. I don’t know why, but I’m grateful for that. But I can’t think about the past or future right now. I can only be in the moment. I know that’s a non-answer, but it’s all I got.”

  “Okay. We can put it on hold for a little bit. But it’s the elephant in the room of our relationship.” Maggie shuddered. “Ugh, that sounded like it was from some book of terrible poetry.”

  Bo broke the tension with a small laugh. “Yeah, it kinda did.” There was a pleading look in his eyes. “I do love you, Maggie. Very much.”

  “I know.” Her voice cracked. “And I love you too. Just as muchly.”

  “More bad poetry.”

  Bo bent down to kiss Maggie but was thwarted by a car horn blast. “Hey, coz,” Ru called from the car. He held up his phone. “I checked the route, and the road’s down to one lane in some spots, thanks to flood repairs, so we gotta get going. I need to buy food before we board. I’m guessing they don’t sell fine Cajun eats on the airplane.”

  “Coming.” The moment with Maggie interrupted, Bo strode back to the car. He got in, gunned the engine, and drove off at a fast clip. Maggie watched them go.

  “Chére,” Ninette called to her from the veranda, “your dinner’s getting cold.”

  Maggie hurried up the steps and sat down between her parents. She stared at her oyster soup, appetite gone. Ninette took one of Maggie’s hands into her own and gave it a light, comforting squeeze. Tug did the same with her other hand. Gran’ got up, walked behind Maggie, and embraced her. “Tout sera comme il se doit. Everything will be as it should.”

  * * *

  In the morning, after a quick shower and a comfort food breakfast of Ninette’s banana pecan pancakes, Maggie decided to visit the Hall of Records, an officious name for a few rooms lodged behind the town’s senior center. She received an effusive greeting from village clerk Eula Banks, who was always thrilled for company at the rarely visited civil service office. After the requisite oohing and aahing over photos of Eula’s latest grandbaby—“Little Felice makes an even dozen of ’em”—the clerk disappeared into a back room and reappeared with a manila folder she handed to Maggie. “Here you go, darlin’. It’s a right thin one.”

  “Thanks, Eula.” Maggie opened the file on Hans Herbig, one of the orphans listed as missing. It contained two pages, yellowed and disintegrating with age, that revealed six-year-old Hans had run away from his adoptive Cajun parents. The resourceful child made it all the way to the Mississippi border before he was recovered and returned to the foundling hospital. An addendum indicated he was subsequently adopted by a family in upstate New York. There was no indication he ever made another run for it. She used her phone camera to photograph the pages, and then handed the file back to the clerk. “Thanks, Eula. Now I need”—Maggie checked her list—“Jacob Seideman and Bridget Colleary.”

  “You got it.”

  Eula once again disappeared into the back room. While she was gone, Maggie took a seat at the Hall of Record’s ancient computer, logged on to its Wi-Fi, and typed in Hans Herbig, Amsterdam, New York. She was rewarded with a search yielding multiple links to Herbig-related activities in the area. Buried among them was a fifty-year-old obit for the elder Herbig himself, who had gone from runaway orphan to pillar of the Amsterdam community. “Good for you, Hans,” Maggie said to the computer. She hoped, for their sakes, Jacob’s and Bridget’s lives had had similar happy endings.

  Eula returned from the back room. But instead of folders, she held two slips of paper. “I’m afraid you’re out of luck on these two, Maggie. Both files were checked out to Gerard Damboise.”

  “I didn’t know you could do that.”

  Eula frowned and pursed her lips. “You can’t. He must’ve sweet-talked Delia Dulac, who filled in for me while I was in Alexandria for Little Felice’s christening.” Maggie had trouble imagining Gerard sweet-talking anyone. A more likely scenario was the bribe of a generous donation to Kitten and Kaboodle, Delia Dulac’s feral cat rescue group. “I guess poor Gerard expired before he had a chance to return the files,” Eula continued. “They’re probably somewhere in his home or office.”

  “They may be. I’ll get in touch with Constance and see if she can find them. Thanks so much, Eula.”

  “Just doing my job, dear. Oh, and I don’t know where you and that detective stand these days, but my son Wiley is still available.” Eula gave Maggie an exaggerated wink. Maggie, who had learned through mutual friends that Wiley and his live-in boyfriend were engaged, choked back a snort and politely thanked Eula.

  Maggie left the Hall of Records and wandered over to the bench that sat under the ancient, massive oak tree gracing the Pelican village square. She took out her cell and called Constance. The widow wasn’t home, so Maggie left a message regarding the missing files. She then texted Bo to see if the files might be in police custody for some reason. A moment later, she received a response from him: “File names not familiar. Will touch base later.” Maggie leaned back against the bench and crossed her arms over her chest. What happened to you, Jacob and Bridget? Why did you disappear? She thought of Gerard. What were your secrets? No answers came to her.

  Maggie’s musing was disrupted by the Trombone Shorty ringtone, indicating an incoming call. She checked her phone and saw the caller was Ione. “Hi. What’s up?”

  “I know you’re off today, but I need you to come by.” Ione sounded upset. “As soon as possible.”

  Maggie sat up. “Something’s wrong, I can hear it in your voice.”

  “Everyone’s okay, but there’s been an incident. I don’t want to talk about it over the phone.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Maggie ended the call and ran to her car. Five minutes later, she pulled into the Doucet parking lot behind the manor house. A Pelican PD police car straddled two parking spaces. Maggie got out of the Falcon and flagged down Rochelle Abady, one of the plantation’s longtime guides, who was leading a group of visitors toward the manor house’s back entrance. “Rochelle, have you seen Ione?”

  “She’s by the front steps,” Rochelle said, then added in a whisper, “or what’s left of them.”

  Rochelle herded her group away before Maggie, confused, could press her for more information. Maggie dashed to the front of the manor house and stopped short. Someone had taken an ax to the plantation home’s front steps, turning them into a shattered, splintered pile of wood. Ione was in the middle of an animated conversation with Officers Artie Belloise and Cal Vichet, who were taking notes. She saw Maggie and waved her over. “You don’t have to ask what happened, do you?” It was a rhetorical question asked in a sober tone.

  Maggie, sickened by what she saw, shook her head. “Somebody saw the painting of the map,” she said, “and then went on a treasure hunt.”

  Chapter 20

  Cal Vichet was on his hands and knees, examining a deep hole where the steps once were. “I’ve done some treasure hunting as a hobby.” Cal lifted a handful of dirt to his nose and sniffed it. “I’ve found a
few things, mostly stuff from the War Between the States. Pirate treasure’s kept itself safe from me, sad to say. Anyway, I know enough to say nothing’s been buried here. If anything was, there’d be elements of it, however tiny. And the soil here would be different because something rested in it for over a hundred and fifty years. Which makes this more a case of vandalism than theft.”

  “I guess X didn’t mark the spot,” Maggie said. “Which is relatively good news. Whatever’s buried is still here somewhere.”

  “We’re assuming the painting’s a map,” Ione pointed out.

  “It is. Don’t ask me why, but I know that in my heart.”

  “I’m with Maggie,” Cal said, adding, “Ione showed us what you’ve been working on. You keep chipping away at that thing, and you’ll find whatever it’s hiding.”

  “In the meantime,” Artie said, “we need a list of everyone who’s been here the last few days. Employees, visitors, workers—every last person. And perhaps a snack. Physical labor gives me an appetite.”

  Cal snorted. “Hah. You’ve been standing there like a lawn jockey. Only labor you’ll see today is lifting a fork to your mouth.”

  “Fais Dough Dough delivered fresh pastries for the café.” Ione jumped in to disrupt the sniping. “I’ll have them set up a table for both of you. With coffee.” Both officers brightened and murmured thanks. “If you need me, I’ll be in the gift shop office. Technically, it’s Maggie’s day off—”

  “I’ll be here in my studio, continuing the restoration.” The destruction of Doucet property by a greedy potential thief made Maggie more determined than ever to uncover the painting’s secret, and as quickly as possible.

  Ione went off to compile the list requested by the officers. Maggie headed for her makeshift studio. As she unlocked the door, she made a mental note to get the lock changed. Then she had an idea. She sprinted over to Ione’s office. “I’d like to bring the painting home and work on it there,” she told her boss. “Can you approve that?”