by Ellen Byron
“Midcentury modern. I lived in a Brooklyn loft before I moved back to Pelican. My ex-boyfriend and I decorated the place with a fantastic collection of MCM.”
“Acck! MCM!” Lovie squawked.
Startled, Griffith looked in Lovie’s direction. “Interesting choice of pet.”
“Not ours. Lovie belongs to one of our guests. You wanted to ask me some questions?”
Griffith removed a pen and small notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket. “Walk me through your day yesterday.”
“All right. I was feeling stressed about … life in general … and was pretty much up all night Friday. I had coffee with my grandmother early in the morning. She said I looked terrible and insisted I go back to bed, which I did. I woke up around four PM.”
“You were asleep that entire time?”
“Yes.”
“Alone.”
That single word deflated Maggie’s last shred of confidence. Alone. Meaning there was no one to alibi where she’d been all day. The detective had only her word that she’d been sleeping during the crucial period prior to Susannah’s death. “Yes,” Maggie admitted. “Alone.”
MacDowell wrote in his notepad. “Okay. Tell me about your relationship with the deceased.”
“I explained all that to you yesterday.”
“But yesterday this wasn’t a murder investigation. Today it is. So, explain it to me again.”
Maggie repeated the details of her relationship with Susannah, from hiring to firing. “You make it sound so rational,” Griffith said. “But there were—are—those spam calls.” Maggie’s cheeks colored. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it. Griffith leaned into her. “One of Susannah’s stepkids informed me about them. A vindictive modus operandi, I have to say. I wouldn’t blame you one bit if that nasty trick of hers got to you.”
Maggie inhaled, then exhaled. When she spoke, her voice was calm. “The calls were annoying for sure, but nothing more. And there were less and less of them. At the risk of sounding repetitive, Susannah was fired for breaking the terms of our original agreement. In a separate issue, our families argued over a property line. That’s all it was—an argument. I never would have wanted her dead over it.”
“Acck! Mac-done with the MacDowells! They are Mac-dead!” Maggie and Griffith simultaneously turned to Lovie. “MacDead!” Lovie squawked. “MacDowells MacDead.”
Griffith stared down Maggie. For the second time in the detective’s presence, she felt herself perspiring, and tamped down the urge to blot her forehead. She affected a casual attitude. “We all say things we don’t mean when we’re angry. And if Lovie was being accurate, she’d squawk ‘Mac-dead to me.’ Those were my exact words. Which are completely different from wanting someone dead. Which I didn’t. And don’t.”
Except for that parrot right now.
* * *
To Maggie’s relief, Griffith wrapped up the interview shortly after Lovie’s potentially incriminating statement. As soon as the detective moved on to interviewing other members of her family, Maggie typed Is a parrot’s testimony admissible as evidence? into the office computer’s search engine. “Great,” she muttered at the long list of cases featuring chatty parrots. It seemed that no parrot had ever been called to the stand, but their testimony had proved useful in some cases. While prosecutors may not be able to put parrots on the stand during a trial, Maggie read, their utterances to law enforcement and owners can have an effect on who is charged with a crime.
“Acck! Peach and gold! Peach and gold!”
Maggie faced Lovie. “Oh, now you parrot Gran and her wedding plans. Why couldn’t you do that an hour ago?” Lovie made more noise and pecked at her empty food bowl. Maggie sighed and got up to replenish it. The parrot devoured her meal and made purring noises. Maggie petted the bird’s soft feathered head. “It was my fault. I shouldn’t have used this room for the interview.”
Lovie nuzzled Maggie’s hand with her head. “Acck! Lovie is a love! Lovie is a love!”
“You kind of are,” Maggie had to admit.
She rewarded the parrot’s affection with a little extra bird chow, then left the office for the kitchen to see how her family was faring with their police interviews. The kitchen was empty, so she retreated to the cottage, where she found Gran pouring a cup of coffee. “I’m making myself a café brûlot.”
Maggie watched her grandmother add a shot of brandy to her cup. “Unless you add a strip of orange peel and light that drink on fire, I’d say you’re just spiking a cup of coffee.”
“I prefer to think of it as my own recipe. Want one?”
Maggie shook her head. “I’m going with straight black coffee. I can’t afford a booze brain fog with what all’s going on around here.”
“Detective Rogert showed up. He’s interviewing your mother. That Griffith character, who positively reeks of attitude, is taking on your father.” Gran sat down at the kitchen’s small café table. Maggie poured herself a cup of coffee and sat opposite her grand-mère. “I had a lovely chat with the lady detective,” Gran said, sipping her drink. “Her name is Rosalie Broussard. From the Ville Blanc Broussards.”
Maggie curled her upper lip. “I don’t know if you can call a police interview a ‘lovely chat.’”
“They’re simply crossing their t’s and dotting their i’s, chère. We didn’t spend much time talking about Susannah’s unseemly passing at all. After we got through with that, I showed Miss Broussard the ad for the wedding dress I liked that earned a thumbs-down from you, and do you know what she said?”
“That the dress would work if you wore it with glass slippers and pulled up to your wedding in a pumpkin turned into a coach?”
“No, Snarkarella. She said it’s my day—”
“Our day,” Maggie reminded Gran.
“And I should wear whatever I want. So there.”
Maggie reached over, took her grandmother’s hand, and squeezed it. “Much as I hate saying this, Detective Rosalie Broussard from the Ville Blanc Broussards is right. Do what makes you happy, Gran. You’ll look beautiful in anything you wear.”
Gran placed a hand over her granddaughter’s. “The truth is, chère, it doesn’t matter what I wear, because all eyes will be on you,” she said with affection. “You will be an absolute vision in that spectacular Doucet heirloom gown.”
“I love you so much.” Maggie leaned over the table and kissed Gran’s soft cheek. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the kitchen window and pulled a face. “Ugh, I’m breaking out. That hasn’t happened in forever. It must be from stress.” She drained her coffee cup and stood up. “Mo has a miracle zit-zapper product she’s selling at the spa. I’m going to run over and buy a tube.”
“You reminded me—I must book a facial with Mo.” Gran patted her face. “If I’m going to be a jailbird, which seems to be Detective Griffith’s intention for all of us, at least I’ll be one with a flawless complexion.”
Maggie put her cup in the sink, then made her way to the Crozat spa. The air was damp and cold and the sky a collection of angry clouds, indicating an approaching storm. Maggie loved the rain but prayed it would contain itself to midweek. Life was complicated enough without a soggy Pelican’s Spooky Past weekend. A few fat wet drops fell on her head as she unlocked the door to the spa, which wasn’t due to open for another hour. She flipped on the reception area lights and stepped behind the desk to scan Mo’s display of skin care products. Maggie picked up a tube of Mo’ Better Buh-Bye Breakouts and went to swipe her credit card on the spa’s computer. She noticed the booking calendar was open and couldn’t resist checking. What Maggie saw worried her. There were far too many empty slots where massages should be. But she was relieved to see that Mo had an interview with a potential massage therapist scheduled for later that afternoon.
Maggie stepped into the spa bathroom and applied the cream to the area around her chin. Buh-Bye Breakout’s potent tea tree oil scent provided the added benefit of clearing her sinuses. The spa phone r
ang, and she dashed out to get it. Let it be a booking, let it be a booking. Maggie grabbed the phone. “Crozat Spa and Wellness Retreat.” The Wellness Retreat was more of a wish than an actuality, but Maggie liked how it sounded.
“Hi, um, this is Kelly Brandt. I had an interview scheduled for the massage therapist position.”
“Hi, Kelly. It’s have, not had. You’re on the books. Mo and I are looking forward to meeting you.”
“Um …” The girl on the other end of the call paused. “I’m sorry, but I have to cancel.”
“Oh. No worries, things come up. When would you like to reschedule the interview?” Maggie checked the wide-open schedule. “We might be able to squeeze it in tomorrow.”
“Um … I’m not going to reschedule.”
“No?” Maggie couldn’t hide her disappointment. “Why not?”
“Uh, I’ve got a lot going on, and—”
Maggie cut the girl off. “Kelly, it’s okay. It would be really helpful if you were honest with me.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.” Maggie steeled herself for what Kelly might share.
“Okay, well, my friends here in Ville Blanc are saying there’s weird stuff happening in Pelican. Like, werewolves and freaky stuff. At first I was all, ‘Really? You people believe that BS?’ But then that woman dressed as a rougarou died, and she was a massage therapist like me, and I was like, wow. There’s definitely some bad mojo going down.”
Maggie’s instincts had warned her this would be Kelly’s response. She knew bucking local superstition was futile but tried anyway. “I think people are overreacting to all of that. It’s almost Halloween, which brings out the pranksters in town. As to Susannah’s death, that has nothing to do with werewolves or her being a massage therapist.”
“Then what does it have to do with?” Kelly didn’t wait for Maggie to come up with a response. “I’m sorry, it’s all too creepy for me. And for my massage therapist friends. Good luck.”
“Thanks.”
A dial tone indicated Kelly had hung up. The barren booking schedule taunted Maggie from the computer. In an act of desperation, she Googled massage therapy license Louisiana. A list of options came up. She clicked on one after the other, and all told the same story. Earning a license required five hundred hours of training from an approved program and passing a national massage licensing examination. Even if Maggie dropped everything else in her life to pursue a new career, Crozat’s spa wouldn’t survive the time she’d need to complete the training.
The door opened, and Mo Heedles came in. The attractive black woman held an umbrella over her head. She took off her jacket as she spoke, revealing a white lab coat over a beige knit dress. “It’s coming down out there, but better today than the weekend, huh?” She closed her umbrella and mimed walking a runway to show off her lab coat. “You like this? I figure it makes me look like a medical professional.”
Maggie tried to muster up a smile. “You look like there should be a doctor before your name. But I have bad news. The massage therapist we were going to interview canceled.”
Mo opened the spa door and shook out her umbrella. “Her loss. We’ll find someone else.”
“After the conversation I just had, I’m not sure we will.” Maggie had pinned so much of Crozat’s future on the spa expanding the B and B’s guest base. She’d convinced her family that the facility was an investment that would quickly pay for itself. Instead, her grand plan was devolving into a disaster. “I feel terrible, Mo, because I dragged you into this whole thing, but we can’t sustain the spa on a cut of your facials.” Maggie’s voice quavered. “I’m making an executive decision. We’re closing it down.”
Chapter 9
Mo wrinkled her brow. She tapped an index finger against her lips. “Or—”
“We can’t afford an or, Mo,” Maggie said. “We’ve already sunk so much money into this place. We’ve been operating at a loss, but I expected that in the beginning. What I didn’t expect was a murder.”
Mo’s mouth dropped open. “Whaaaa …?”
“Yup, Susannah didn’t die a natural death. Add her to the list of murders that somehow always seem to involve Crozat. The bottom line is that we can’t keep going the way we’re going right now, and I don’t know when things will change.” Maggie chose not to mention that Zeke Griffith considered every member of her family a suspect. She was determined to direct his investigation in another, less ludicrous direction.
The skin care maven pondered this. Then she spoke. “Or … I take over the space, rent it from you, and run it as my own place. Mo’ Better Beauty and Day Spa. No stink of Crozat on it—if I can be blunt—but your guests still get first dibs at appointments.”
Maggie took this in. She searched for a downside to Mo’s plan and came up empty. “I love it,” she declared, a sense of relief flooding over her. “I’ll present the idea to my family, but I can’t imagine they’ll be anything but enthusiastic about it.”
“Woo-hoo.” Mo pumped the air with her fist. “First stop, Pelican; next stop, Mo’ Better franchises around the country. Around the world.”
Maggie laughed. “Dream big, my friend, dream big.”
Mo threw open her arms. “Let’s hug on it.”
The two women shared a hug. Maggie broke free and stepped out from behind the reception desk. “I’m going to run this by my family right now.”
“And I’m gonna put out feelers to the Baton Rouge massage therapy community,” Mo said, replacing Maggie behind the desk. “I’ve got a friend who wanted to partner on a makeup line. I’m putting in a call to her, too.”
Maggie left a busy Mo and hurried through the rain to the manor house kitchen. The Ville Blanc team of detectives was gone, but Rufus was once again seated at the room’s large wooden trestle table, a half-empty bowl of Ninette’s gumbo in front of him. Gran was also at the table, but instead of gumbo, she was enjoying a cocktail. Maggie pulled a tea towel from a drawer and used it to dry her hair. “I have good news about the spa,” Maggie said.
“I’m looking forward to hearing it,” Ninette said, “but Rufus was about to share what might be happening next with the investigation into Susannah’s death.”
Ninette ladled more gumbo into Ru’s bowl, then added a dollop of potato salad. Rufus helped himself to a large spoonful. “No wonder my officers always fight about who gets to respond to a call at Crozat. With cooking like this, it’s a wonder they don’t fake an incident just to come over here.”
“You were saying …” Tug prompted.
“I wasn’t saying nothing, but I understand your anxiety about this whole situation.” Rufus alternated speaking with shoveling in spoonfuls of gumbo. “What happens next is that Griffith will try and get a warrant that’ll allow him to search whatever premises a judge agrees to. But after how the ADA railroaded Gaynell last spring, I can pretty much gar-on-tee you he won’t be bringing charges unless Ville Blanc PD offers him a rock-solid case. He’s still recovering from a bad case of humiliation.”
“Good, he deserves it.” After a sketchy music producer was murdered during Pelican’s inaugural Cajun Country Live! music festival, Jace Jerierre, St. Pierre Parish’s assistant district attorney, had arrested Maggie’s close friend, musician Gaynell Bourgeois, on a trumped-up murder charge. Gaynell’s story had a happy ending—she and her band, Gaynell and the Gator Girls, were on tour after a smashing debut at the New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival—but Maggie would never forgive the ambitious ADA for almost ruining her friend’s life.
Rufus pushed his bowl away. “Anyhoo, while Griffith is getting all up in your business, know that me and Pelican PD’ll be hunting down genuine suspects. Your beau Bo is already on it, Miss Magnolia. There’s no such thing as a conjugal visit in the Louisiana penal system, and that’s all your future mister needs to hup-to on this.”
“Thank you for everything, Rufus,” Ninette said. “Can I get you a slice of my Bananas Foster Coffee Cake?”
“I’d love to say
yes, but I better save room for a coupla forkfuls of whatever healthy nightmare Sandy’s cooked up for me.” Rufus stood up. A pained expression crossed his face. “My stomach’s already not too happy about the thought of that.”
Rufus departed, leaving a glum collection of Crozats. “I wouldn’t mind a piece of that coffee cake,” Tug said. “I could use some comfort food.”
“Me too,” Maggie said. “Anyone else?” Ninette and Gran raised their hands. “That’s four orders of coffee cake, coming up.”
Maggie helped her mother cut four large pieces and warmed them up in the B and B’s oven. She heard singing in the distance. Someone was crooning a Nat King Cole standard.
Gran crooked her head. “Is that Lovie?”
“Acck!”
“I guess so,” Maggie said. “Which reminds me, be careful what you say around that bird. She’s got a big mouth. Thanks to her, I’m Griffith’s number-one suspect.”
“He can’t be serious,” Ninette said. “I’m sure he’ll get over it and focus on a genuine suspect.” She took the coffee cakes out of the oven and scooped a large helping of homemade whipped cream onto one.
“That boatload of whipped cream you loaded onto your coffee cake tells me you’re nervous,” Maggie said.
“No, no, I’m … in a whipped cream mood.” Ninette distributed the desserts to her family. She held up the bowl. “Anyone else want some?”
“Me,” Tug and Gran said simultaneously.
“Me too,” Maggie said with a sigh. She took the bowl and piled cream high on top of her cake.
“As long as we’re on the subject of being nervous, we got cancellations for the weekend,” Tug said. “We went from sold out to fifty percent capacity. I hope they solve the case fast enough to fill those spots. We’re already heading into a slow month.”
“Maybe we can advertise them as a last-minute reduced rate,” Ninette said.
“We run the risk of ticking off the guests who paid full freight, and some of them are repeat visitors. We don’t want to chase anyone off to those dang Rent My Digs.”
