by Ellen Byron
“That was me,” Bo said. “Grove Hall belonged to my family, the Durands, for over a hundred and fifty years until we sold it to Kyle and Lia. We cleaned the place out, and my cousins all wanted to toss those old papers, but I thought the Historical Society might get some use out of them.”
“Well, I sure did.” Allie’s excitement was building. “I found a floor plan from when the house was built, and that room was labeled ‘la chamber pour Etienne.’ ‘Etienne’s room.’ And I was like, who’s Etienne? So I looked through everything, and I found a diary kept by Etienne’s mom.”
“My dear, I couldn’t be more on the edge of my seat if this was an action movie,” Gran’ said. “Tell us what you learned.”
“Okay, so from what I read, Etienne was mentally challenged and maybe autistic. His grandparents built Grove Hall for their son, who was Etienne’s father, and included a secret room so Etienne could be hidden away and not bring shame on the family. It turns out some houses had rooms like that back in the olden days. Anyway, Etienne’s parents hated the idea, but the grandparents were rich and they weren’t, so they were being forced into it. But then the Civil War happened, and Etienne’s mom and dad used that as an excuse to leave for ‘a safer place’ and start their own life without the mean grandparents. They moved up north. To around Shreveport. That’s where Etienne’s mom’s diary ends.”
There was silence as everyone took in the story. Then Bo spoke. “Those were my ancestors,” he said. “The beginning of the Shreveport Durand clan. I always wondered how my part of the family ended up there. Now I know. They did it to protect a child with issues.” Bo’s voice was thick with emotion. “A hundred and fifty years ago, Etienne’s room could have been Xander’s room.”
“But it wouldn’t have been, because you and Whitney would have done exactly what your ancestors did,” Maggie said.
“That’s all I have for now, but I can’t wait to look at more diaries and stuff at the Society,” Allie said. “Ms. Damboise said I could volunteer there. It’s weird. I’m always saying how I can’t wait to get out of here. Now I can’t wait to find out more about here. I’m going to apply to Louisiana State University and Tulane next year. That way I’d be away from home, but not too far away. Besides, with what all’s happened to my family … well, they might need me. Especially Belle. She’s having a hard time, between her mom and … everything else. She’s good at making it look like she’s okay, but inside she isn’t.”
“Poor thing,” Maggie said. “I feel for her. We all do.”
“I’m hoping when everything is over and settled, she can come to school with me. I know she wants that too, so … Anyway, I better get going. I just wanted to tell you about what I found out.”
“You’re amazing, Allie,” Maggie said. The others nodded in agreement, and Allie simultaneously blushed and beamed. “I’ll tell Lia and Kyle what you uncovered. They’ll be fascinated. And let your family know if they need anything, we’re here for them.”
“I will.”
Allie scampered down the stairs and, with a wave, took off in her truck. The others watched her go. “We shouldn’t ignore the past. We should study it and use what we learn to build a better future,” Maggie said.
“What’s that?” Tug asked.
“I’m paraphrasing a line from Allie’s contest essay. The sentiment really stayed with me. And with her too, obviously.” Maggie’s phone vibrated with a text alert. She looked down and read it. “Speaking of the past, Ione got permission from the Doucet Board to excavate under the nursery hearth. Anyone up for some treasure hunting in the morning?”
Yes,” everyone chorused.
Maggie laughed. “I thought so.”
Chapter 27
At seven AM the next day, Ione shepherded Maggie and her family into the nursery at Doucet, along with Bo and Gaynell. Maggie snapped photos of the hearth. Then she, Bo, and Tug began the painstaking task of chiseling around the hearth’s centuries-old bricks. As a brick was removed, Maggie numbered it. That plus the photos would ensure the hearth was accurately restored post–treasure hunt.
For forty-five minutes, Maggie, Bo, and Tug dug out one brick after another. The group was beginning to lose hope when Tug took his chisel to a chunk of mortar and they heard the unmistakable sound of metal on metal. “I hit something that’s not dirt,” he said.
Maggie shone a flashlight into the area where her father was working. The others peered over her shoulder and saw the corner of an old metal box. Tug lifted loosened bricks off the hearth, revealing the whole of the box, which was a deep green, pocked with rust, and about two feet long, a foot wide, and a foot deep. Bo and Tug extricated the container from where it had been hiding for over a hundred and fifty years. “There’s no lock,” Bo said.
“Denis Doucet must have thought hiding it here was protection enough,” Ninette said. “He didn’t want his family to worry about finding a key too.” Maggie heard the catch in her mother’s voice as she spoke of her ancestor, and put an arm around Ninette’s shoulder.
“Oh my goodness, I can’t stand the suspense.” Gran’ nudged Maggie. “You found the treasure—you get to open it.”
“Okay,” Maggie said. Bo handed her the box. “Here goes.”
Everyone held their breath as Maggie lifted the lid. A parchment envelope lay on top of stacks of currency. Maggie handed the letter to Gran’ and picked up one of the stacks, which were in remarkably good shape. “These are from the New Orleans Canal and Banking Company.” She perused the top layer of bills. They were larger than current money. Each denomination featured intricate lettering and designs, black on one side, a faded red on the other. A distinguished gentleman with a serious expression stared out from the center of the twenty-dollar bills; once important, his identity was now lost to time. “They’re dated 1860. Before Louisiana joined the Confederacy. What does the letter say?”
Gran gently broke the envelope’s wax seal and removed the letter inside. The brittle edges of the paper crumbled. “It’s in Latin … Give me a minute.” She furrowed her brow as she examined the letter. Then she read, “‘The war is here. Nothing and no one is safe. If you have found this, I have met my fate. Care for my beloved family. Denis Doucet. January 1861.’”
The room was silent, absorbed in the history of that moment. “Denis died in February of 1861,” Maggie said. “He was mortally injured in a fall from a horse spooked by gunfire. He must have buried this just a few weeks before he passed away.”
Gaynell held up her cell phone. “I just looked up that bank. It changed its name a bunch of times and closed in the 1930s.”
“These bills went out of circulation long before that,” Tug said.
Gaynell looked disappointed. “So they’re worthless.”
Maggie shook her head. “Not to collectors. They love this stuff. I’ll research some online sites where the bills could be put up for auction or sale. It would be a great way to raise money that would help preserve Doucet.”
Ione picked up a stack and examined it. “Any money raised by the sale of this currency would be divided between Doucet and the surviving descendants of the original family.”
She smiled at Ninette, who seemed nonplussed. “Me? Really? Oh my.”
“You don’t need to think about that right now, cheré,” Tug reassured his wife. “First order of business is putting this hearth back together.”
“Yes, thank you.” Ione took the box from Maggie and closed it. “Our tours start in an hour. I’ll lock up the box in the Doucet safe.”
“And I’ll mix cement for resetting the bricks.” Bo picked up a small bag of cement he’d brought with him to the nursery. He addressed Grand-mère. “By the way, Charlotte, nice job on that Latin translation. I’m impressed.”
“The nuns at the all-girls Immaculate Heart Academy assumed if they kept our heads in the books, we wouldn’t think about boys,” Gran’ said. “They were wrong.”
* * *
Two weeks later, on a brisk winter day, lo
cals celebrated Second Mardi Gras in a big way, which was no surprise to anyone who knew Pelican’s propensity for partying. For the second time, gaily decorated floats rolled up the village main street, its masked krewe members rewarding the young and young-at-heart with beads, doubloons, and the occasional small plush alligator. “It’s amazing how fast you move when there’s a free anything in your sights,” Cal Vichet commented dryly as his hefty fellow officer Artie Belloise deftly managed to catch a toy gator.
Post-parade, the Crozat front lawn was once again abuzz with activity. Purple, green, and gold decorations hung everywhere, perhaps more than for Mardi Gras itself. In one tent, Gaynell and the Gator Girls played Cajun tunes to a packed dance floor. In another, contestants were deep into making their gumbo for the rescheduled cook-off, with new entrants filling in the slots of the few who couldn’t reschedule. A cloud of cooking steam hovered over the tent, perfuming the air with ingredients ranging from meats to seafood to those found in gumbo z’herbes, also known as green gumbo, which was made with garlic, bay leaves, herbs, spices, and almost a dozen different vegetables. Working the crowd were the dozen teenagers who’d originally competed for the title of Miss Pelican Mardi Gras Gumbo Queen, each wearing a tiara featuring a rhinestone gumbo pot.
“Look how happy they are,” Maggie said as she and Gran’ watched Kaity, Belle, Allie, and a few other contestants pose for pictures with a group of giggling tweens.
“I know. It’s lovely to see, considering everything that’s happened. Using some of the treasure money to buy each of those girls her own crown was a wonderful idea, chére.”
Maggie had guessed right about collectors’ interest in the tin box’s treasure trove of defunct currency. When she posted one of the twenty-dollar bills on an online auction site, a wealthy numismatist specializing in paper currency from nineteenth-century Louisiana banks snatched up the whole collection. The generous proceeds of the sale were divvied up between the nonprofit foundation tasked with maintaining Doucet and Ninette Doucet Crozat. A family conference split most of the money the Crozats received between Pelican’s flood relief efforts and continued construction of the B and B’s spa facilities. The tin box and one bundle of bills were donated to the Pelican Historical Society, along with a generous financial contribution to help fund the Society. Maggie’s suggestion to use another chunk of the earnings to buy crowns for all the pageant contestants was approved with a unanimous vote.
“I love how they sparkle in the sunlight,” Maggie said. “They really are beautiful.”
“Oh my, do I hear longing in your voice?” Gran’ teased.
“I have to admit, I get them now,” Maggie said sheepishly. “I can see why a girl would covet the crown. It’s gorgeous. But I was never comfortable with the idea of judging teens, having been one myself.” She and Gran’ helped themselves to small sample cups of gumbo, then used golf pencils to rate the blind taste test on scoring sheets. “This way, Belle doesn’t have to reveal her secret yet, but she’s also not living a lie because all the girls are Miss Pelican Mardi Gras Gumbo queens. And by the time she starts to show, there won’t be so much attention on her.”
“Have Whitney and Zach committed to adopting her baby?”
“Yes. They couldn’t be more thrilled. Xander will have a sibling soon.”
“And eventually, perhaps, more than one.”
Gran gave Maggie a knowing look. Maggie ignored her. She and Bo had hardly seen each other in the last couple of weeks. Whether this was due to legitimate scheduling issues or passive-aggressive avoidance, Maggie didn’t know. What she did know was that post–Second Mardi Gras, she and Bo would be having The Talk.
Gran surveyed the crowd, and Lee Bertrand caught the octogenarian’s eye. He did a brief two-step and beckoned to her. “Lee wants to take me for a spin on the dance floor. If you don’t mind…”
Maggie grinned. “Go for it. At least this time it won’t be behind my back.”
“Consider me chastised.”
Gran blew her granddaughter a kiss and wended her way through the festival crowd toward her beau. Maggie walked over to a row of tables set up for local merchants to promote their wares. Mo Heedles was busy handing out skin-care samples to a bevy of interested customers, which included Rufus Durand. “How’s the sunblock coverage in this?” he asked, holding up a lotion bottle. He patted his thinning scalp. “I’m tired of getting iffy growths removed from up here, and don’t want to spend all my off hours wearing a baseball cap.”
“That’s got an SPF of seventy,” Mo said. “And it’s non-greasy, so it won’t oil up your hair.”
“Sold. Dang it, Mo, I can never say no to you.”
“Few can, honey. Few can.”
Rufus pulled out a credit card. As he and Mo became engaged in their transaction, Maggie saw Stacy Metz perusing the display of Veevay items for sale. Stacy picked up a small pink and gray container of moisturizer, then hesitated and placed it back on the table. She caught Maggie’s eye. “I’m trying,” she said, flushed with embarrassment.
“I know,” Maggie said with a sympathetic smile.
She continued her stroll through the festivities. Jayden and Kaity had made themselves comfortable on the veranda rocking chairs. Kaity took off her gumbo pot tiara and mischievously put it on Jayden’s head. Jayden burst out laughing, and for the first time since Maggie met him, the vet looked like the boyish twenty-two-year-old he was. Gin had thrown a fit about the relationship, but Kaity pointed out to her grandmother that, being eighteen, she was an adult and legally free to date whomever she wanted. More importantly, her chosen beau was someone who’d put his life on the line for their country, and who could argue with that? Gin couldn’t, and gave up. Jayden also had a new home and a steady job on top of his freelance construction work, which helped Kaity sell the relationship to her grandmother. Lia and Kyle hired the former Marine to work as a security guard at Grove Hall. Once they moved in, the plan was to transition Jayden to estate manager. He’d live inside the plantation until renovations were completed, and then move into the restored overseer’s cottage on the property.
Someone tapped Maggie on the shoulder. She turned around to find Mike Randall. The change in him was apparent. Gone was the arrogance born of insecurity, replaced by a kind of gravitas. They exchanged polite greetings. There was a pause as Mike cleared his throat and stared at the ground. Then he lifted his head and looked Maggie in the eye. “I want you to know I thought a lot about what you said to me at the police station. You know, how basically the best way to measure a man is by his friends and family. Jules and Belle are gonna be moving in with us. For as long as they want. I don’t know if you heard, but Constance Damboise is using a portion of the insurance policy from Gerard’s death to buy Camellia Plantation from him.”
“No, I haven’t heard that.”
“Yeah, neither Jules or Belle want to be there anymore after what happened with Pauline. Constance is gonna live in part of the house and turn the rest into a home for the Historical Society. She’s got a bunch of displays planned. Mo’s gonna help her with one about the history of Creole Africans in Pelican. And my Allie’s gonna help set up the orphan train exhibit.” Mike shared the last piece of news with great pride. “Constance is even adopting Houmas and Pepin, and letting the girls take care of them. She knows how much they love those horses. Jules and Belle will eventually find a place to live nearby, maybe in Ville Blanc. In the meantime, Jules doesn’t have to give up his job to look after his daughter. He can travel as much as he needs to for work, and she’ll be with us. I plan on taking real good care of my girls. All of them.”
Mike put an arm around Denise, who had joined him. Dressed in jeans, sneakers, and a navy tee shirt, her hair back to its natural blonde, she no longer looked like a fifth-generation copy of her killer cousin, Pauline. She greeted Maggie with a hug, then told her husband, “They’re about to judge the gumbo contest. If you want more free samples, we best get over there.”
“’Bye,” Mike
said, and took off with his wife, leaving Maggie to contemplate the irony that it took death to get Gerard Damboise what he connived for in life—a home for the Pelican Historical Society at Camellia Plantation.
* * *
The rush on gumbo samples delayed the final tabulation of scores, so a winner wasn’t determined until early evening. As everyone gathered around the concert stage to hear Mayor Beaufils announce the results, Maggie searched for Bo. Rufus and Sandy walked by, hand in hand. Rufus held a half-eaten oyster po’ boy in his free hand. “Ru, do you know where Bo is? I haven’t seen him all day.”
Ru shook his head and chomped down on his po’ boy. “No idea. He did say something about running an errand in New Orleans. Maybe he’s there.”
“Maybe,” Maggie said with a shrug, trying to hide her disappointment.
“Hey, everyone, listen up,” Mayor Beaufils called to the crowd. “I want to give out these results before the ice melts in my Pimm’s Cup. Coming in third today—the gumbo stylings of Cal Vichet and Artie Belloise.”
The onlookers whooped as Cal jumped onto the stage. Artie lumbered up the stairs to join him. They took their trophy and held it high. “In second place,” the mayor continued, “Got-to-go-gumbo himself, Tug Crozat.”
Maggie cheered as her father took to the stage and faked a humble bow. Then he grabbed the trophy and kissed it. “It ain’t first place, but it’s first place’s first cousin,” he yelled to the crowd.
“And the grand prize trophy for this year’s annual Mardi Gras Gumbo Cook-off goes to a last-minute entrant … Ninette Doucet Crozat!”