by Ellen Byron
Patria bit. Her eyes lit up with the delight of sharing dirt. “They wish. Barrymore saw her a couple of times. He wanted her to tell him if he’d get hired as the spokesguy for Crawdaddy’s, that fast-food chain outa Lafayette. She told him there was a curse on him and she could remove it, but it would take several visits. He paid her, like, over a hundred dollars, and he didn’t even get an audition for the commercial. He was so mad.”
“I bet.”
“They had a big fight. I stopped by to get him at your place once last week when his car was in the shop, and he was getting all up in her business about the money.” Patria gasped. “Do you think he killed her?”
Maggie shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe.”
Patria looked genuinely worried. “I’d best be careful around him. Stay on his good side.”
Maggie dropped another line. “I wonder if Susannah ticked off anyone else.”
“I know Emma and that poet guy Johnnie saw her.”
“Johnnie was her stepson,” Maggie explained. “I doubt he got a reading from her.”
“He talked Emma into it as joke. She told me she was mad at him at first and was gonna report Susannah for being a fraud, but he convinced her not to. Said it was all a big goof and not to take it so seriously.” Patria scrunched up her face. “Although when you think about it, that makes it sound like Emma should’ve been the one killed, if she was gonna report Susannah.”
“Good point,” Maggie had to acknowledge.
“I better get back to my friends,” Patria said. “I’ll see you at the show. Tell your guests I’m happy to sign autographs.”
Patria flashed a sunny smile enhanced by perfect teeth and flounced out of the bathroom. Maggie reflected on their conversation. The actress had inadvertently added a twist to the mystery. What if Susannah hadn’t been the mask’s intended victim?
A group of giggly teenagers came into the tight quarters of the restroom. One girl caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and cried out, “OMG, I need some blush. I look like a dead person!”
Honey, if you only knew, Maggie thought as she squeezed past them back into the dining room. Bonnie and Gavin had begun eating. Maggie walked by them and did a double take. “Hey, y’all. You mind?” She directed this to another table and, without waiting for a reply, pulled the empty seat from that table over to where Bonnie and Gavin sat.
“Have a seat,” Gavin said, amused.
Bonnie glared at Maggie. “We’re eating.”
“I know, and it looks great,” Maggie said, then called out, “JJ, chère, would you fix me a bowl of this shrimp Creole?” JJ blew her a kiss and flashed a thumbs-up. “My fiancé loves JJ’s Creole,” she said to Gavin and Bonnie.
“That’s right, you’re engaged.” Bonnie seemed to relax a bit and dug into her dish.
“So,” Maggie said, “Whatcha all up to?”
Her stomach growled, and it occurred to her she hadn’t eaten in hours. She swiped the last piece of French bread from the table’s basket, slathered it with butter, and took a big bite as Grody watched. “Not eating any more bread, for one thing,” the techie said.
Bonnie flipped her stick-straight orangy gold hair over her shoulder and made a flirty gesture toward him. “Gavin’s taken me on a tour of his Digs. They’re so awesome. No creepy, moldy old furniture that make the places around here look like before pictures in some TV fixer-upper real estate show. Rent My Digs have all brand-new furniture, and decoration from places like Ikea.” She spoke the name of the chain that introduced the Allen wrench to the world with reverence.
“That moldy old furniture has lasted hundreds of years because it’s so well built,” Maggie felt compelled to point out. “I doubt a box store bookcase will stand the test of time.”
“Who cares?” Bonnie said with a dismissive shrug. “It’s not like we’ll be around that long. Gavin’s Digs have flat-screen TVs, microwaves, coffeemakers—”
“All of which we have,” Maggie said, “plus a pool.”
“Yeah, but this is different.”
“How so?”
Maggie tried her best to sound ingenuous and not prosecutorial, but she’d put Bonnie on the spot. Gavin spooned his gumbo and watched the two women with amusement. “It just …” Bonnie said, flailing. “It just is.”
Sullen, she picked at her Cajun chicken salad. Maggie, regretting that she’d let her ego control the conversation, tried a different tack. “I’ve been wanting to ask, how are you holding up since Susannah’s death?”
“Oh,” Bonnie said, thrown by Maggie’s change of topic. “I’m doing okay. We weren’t close. I mean, we didn’t hate each other or anything and I’m sad and stuff. Working with Gavin is helping me a lot.” She gazed at the techie with such a besotted look that Maggie half expected cartoon hearts to pop up in the young woman’s eyes. Gavin, who was swiping on his cell phone, didn’t notice. “We’re talking about using my position as an influencer to attract investors so Gavin can take Rent My Digs worldwide. It’s such a relief that I get to stay here now.”
This offhand comment got Maggie’s attention. “What do you mean, now? I thought Susannah’s plan was to stay here as long as she could.”
“That was her plan when we got here. But then she got a job offer from a spa she always wanted to work at. One of their massage therapists got carpal tunnel and had to quit. It’s, like, the most high-end place in the city. We were supposed to leave the day after she was … she died.”
“You were?” The revelation caught Maggie by surprise. She paused to consider the ramifications.
“My salad’s getting cold,” Bonnie said.
It was a ham-fisted way to get rid of her, but Maggie took the hint. “I’ll get my lunch to-go. If you need me, you know where to find me. Somewhere among the creepy, moldy old furniture at Crozat.”
While Maggie waited for JJ to pack up her shrimp Creole, she dissected what she’d learned from Bonnie. Despite Doug’s emotional pronouncement about Pelican being Susannah’s town soul mate and his declaration that he planned to plant himself in Pelican, the MacDowells had been only a day away from bailing on Cajun Country when Susannah was killed. That made two MacDowells happy to stay put.
It was time to find out where Johnnie, the third MacDowell, Mac-stood on the subject.
Chapter 13
A plea from Ione for Maggie to fill in for a sick Doucet tour guide delayed her hunting down Johnnie. She eventually found him at twilight, perched on a fallen tree overlooking the bayou behind Crozat B and B with his ubiquitous pen and journal. “Hey,” he said. “How’re the spam calls?”
“I’m down to one, maybe two a day.”
“Progress.” Johnnie gazed upward to where the combination of clouds and a setting sun created an early-evening palette of orange, pink, and gold. “The sky gives poets so much to work with.” He stood up. “It’s time for my Zen walk. Want to come?”
“Sure,” Maggie said, grabbing the chance to extract clues from him. “How does it work?”
“We walk in silence. Absolutely no talking.”
Silence was exactly the opposite of what Maggie needed from Johnnie. “What if we need to say something?”
Johnnie held up his journal. “We write it. But all verbal communication has to be kept to a minimum. Come. Let’s start.”
Maggie held up a hand. “It’s getting dark. Before we go, do you have a flashlight?”
Johnnie held up both hands. “Nuh-uh. No flashlights on a Zen walk. Our senses are our guide.”
He began trekking through the thick Louisiana brush. Maggie followed, hoping the bond of a Zen walk would lead to Johnnie sharing whether his future plans jived with those of his father and sister.
The two hiked for what felt like forever in no specific direction. The color-streaked sky disappeared, replaced by inky black clouds that blocked the moon. The air was damp, as was the ground. Maggie and Johnnie negotiated their way around swampy puddles, shoving errant branches out of their way. Maggie began to perspire.
A mosquito buzzed, then stung. Another dive-bombed her. She stumbled as she swatted it away. “Ow.”
“Shh,” Johnnie admonished.
Maggie glared at his back but kept walking. Her mind drifted. Doug was Susannah’s beneficiary, which made him a prime suspect. But he and Susannah seemed to have been on the same page with their life choices. Her desire to take a new job in Toronto didn’t negate a future in Louisiana, if that’s what he dreamed of. So why kill her? Then again, only a psychopath found logic in murder, and affable, slightly dim Doug didn’t fit any profile Maggie knew of.
A fallen branch crunched under her feet. Her eyes had yet to adjust to the pitch-black night, and she just missed stepping into a marshy patch of land.
Maggie’s attention pivoted to the Crozats’ mysterious attic burglar. How long had he or she been at it? Hopefully not long enough to make a dent in the collection of antiques handed down over centuries. She vowed to corral her family into doing an inventory of the B and B’s belongings and ratchet up security, which might be pricey. We’ll have to sell an heirloom or two to pay for protecting the others. Ironic. She thought so, anyway—she was never sure if she was getting the definition of irony right.
“We’re done,” Johnnie announced.
Maggie saw that they’d reached the old schoolhouse. “I have to say, I enjoyed the Zen walk.”
“It’s rejuvenating, isn’t it?” Johnnie closed his eyes and inhaled a deep breath. He slowly released it, then opened his eyes. “I feel cleansed.”
“Me too.” Maggie saw a chance to bring up the question she’d originally wanted to ask Johnnie and went for it. “I’d love to do another one sometime. Are you planning on staying here or going back to Toronto?”
“Either or,” he said with a shrug. “I’ll see you tomorrow at Susannah’s memorial.”
“I didn’t know that was happening.” Maggie hesitated. “Are you sure you and your family want us there? We’re all doing an excellent job of being civil to each other, but I don’t know if that carries over to a memorial service invitation.”
“Are you worried because you’re all suspects?” Johnnie chortled. “Oh honey, it’s Susannah. She was a horror. Who didn’t want her dead?” Johnnie made a dramatic exit into the schoolhouse, leaving a frustrated, sweaty, and itchy Maggie to find her way home in the dark.
* * *
“The Lord is my shepherd, I lack nothing,” Barrymore Tuttle read in a sepulchral tone. It turned out the actor had been ordained online and was a cheap hire, so he’d won the role of officiant at Susannah MacDowell’s memorial. The group that gathered in a clearing not far from the schoolhouse was small: the MacDowells, the Crozats, Barrymore, and Emma. Whatever hostility the performer felt about Susannah’s iffy psychic abilities had disappeared the moment he was offered the chance to orate. “Even though I walk through the darkest valley …” Barrymore paused for effect, then built to a crescendo. “I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.” He delivered the last few words with such force that he dissolved into a fit of coughing, followed by a few gagging sounds and some throat clearing. “Sorry. Allergies. Curse the dust and pollen in this godforsaken Louisiana air.” Barrymore punctuated this with a dramatic fist shake at the sky, then closed the Bible he was basically using as a prop since he had his lines—aka the first few verses of Psalm 23—memorized. “Let us pray.” He bowed his head, and the others followed suit.
Barrymore slowly lifted his head and gave a slight nod to Doug. The widower, holding an urn, stepped forward. “My late wife Susannah was the kindest, warmest soul who ever lived.” Johnnie gave a loud snort, Bonnie tried muffling a giggle, and their father shot them a look. “Her ancestors called this land home. Susannah dreamed of calling it home, too. And today, she will.” Doug began pouring an endless stream of ashes onto the ground. “Wow,” he said, “that’s already a pretty big pile and I’m not half done.”
Ninette placed a hand on his arm. “Instead of pouring the rest of them, why not bury the urn? You’ll still be making her dream come true—”
“But without the gross mess,” Bonnie said.
“Hey!” Doug snapped at his daughter.
“What? I’m not making a joke. It’s the truth.”
“Bonnie means that, Dad,” Johnnie said. “You know she doesn’t have a sense of humor.”
Bonnie scowled at her twin. “Shut up.”
“You shut up.”
“Both of you shut up!” Doug barked.
“I’m starting to think Susannah got off easy,” Tug muttered.
“Thibault,” Gran scolded.
Fearing he’d lost his audience, Barrymore made a stab at reclaiming them. “We shall end with the Lord’s Prayer,” he announced in a voice so resounding it echoed off the nearby cypress trees. “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven …” Barrymore finished the prayer with an “Amen,” and the attendees responded in kind.
“If everyone will come back to the manor house, I’ve fixed a funeral luncheon,” Ninette said.
“How appropriate,” Gran said. “A mourning meal, just like we’re serving our weekend package guests.”
“Way to make it sound ghoulish,” Maggie muttered.
“Magnolia,” Ninette reproached her.
“I wouldn’t mind doing a bit of imbibing,” Barrymore said. “Leading a service can be hard on the voice..” He coughed again and made a show of clearing his throat.
The mourners left the clearing for the manor house. Maggie found herself keeping step with Emma, who glowered at the ground as they walked. “Are you okay? You look unhappy, and not ‘I’m in mourning’ unhappy.”
“About Susannah?” Emma mimed gagging. “She sucked. Do you know what she did? She talked Doug out of paying for a second round of rehab for Johnnie. He paid for one, but the first time never sticks. For a lot of us, you don’t really hit bottom until you fail your first try. Doug was willing to help Johnnie, but Susannah said, ‘He’s an adult, it’s up to him; you’re just enabling him.’ Helping someone fight a disease isn’t ‘enabling’; it’s the opposite. Susannah just didn’t want Doug spending money on anyone but her.”
“Johnnie must have done something, because it looks to me like he’s in recovery.”
“He is, but only because he took out a giant loan to pay for rehab at this great facility in Malibu, California. But his dad will help now that Susannah’s gone.”
Maggie gave Emma an appraising look. “I’ll be honest—I’m surprised you were at her memorial.”
“I wanted to make sure she was really dead.” Maggie raised her eyebrows. “Sorry, dark humor. I went for Johnnie. I knew he had to go because of his dad, and I wanted to support him. But I’m not going to the luncheon, no offense to your family.”
“None taken. I’m not going myself. I have to get to work.”
The women reached the family’s parking area behind the manor house, where they parted ways. Maggie climbed into her convertible and took off for Doucet. As she drove, she considered what Emma had just told her. Johnnie made it obvious he despised his stepmother in general. Specifically, she’d been an obstacle to his recovery. Had that driven him to kill her?
Once Maggie reached Doucet, she temporarily shelved all murder theories. Since Ione was still short-staffed, she drafted Maggie into providing sales help in the plantation gift shop.
“What’s that?” a visitor asked, pointing to an ornament dangling from a broken branch Maggie had spray-painted black and mounted onto a stand to serve as a Halloween tree display.
The ornament in question was a small mirror half covered in black felt. “The Creoles and Cajuns followed the tradition of covering mirrors with black cloth after a death in the household,” Maggie said. “People feared that if they saw their reflection after someone in the family died, they would die next.”
“Yuck.” The woman put the ornament back and took a small doll off
the tree. The front of the doll’s dress was black, the back lavender. “Why is her dress two different colors?”
“To illustrate two different periods of mourning,” Maggie explained. “There were rigid rules regarding mourning apparel. For the first six months, a widow’s garments could only be made from a flat black fabric. After six months, the fabric still had to be black, but it could be shiny. After a year, she could wear gray or lavender garments.” Maggie took the doll and held it with the black fabric facing front. “Here she is in early mourning attire.” She turned the doll around. “And here’s what she might wear a year later.”
“Very interesting,” the woman said. “I’ll take it.”
Maggie rang up the sale, and the woman departed with her purchase, crossing paths with Ione on her way out. “I can watch the shop for the rest of the afternoon,” Ione told Maggie. “You can go back to your real job.”
“The job I’ll always owe you for,” Maggie said.
“None of that, missy. You earned it. What are you working on?”
“The exhibit for this summer. I thought visitors would enjoy seeing portraits of all the Doucet women who’ve worn the family wedding dress over the last hundred and fifty years. The final display would be the dress itself.”
“Wonderful.” Ione waved her off. “Go make, my friend.”
On her way to her workroom, Maggie ran into Helene Brevelle in the hallway. The voodoo priestess wore a traditional African dress in Mardi Gras colors, with a matching tignon wrap around her head. The women exchanged a hug; then Helene shuddered as if hit by a bolt of lightning. She grabbed Maggie by the arms. “Come with me. Now.”
Helene pulled Maggie into the small room she was using to meet with clients and make gris-gris bags. Navy-blue gauze covered the windows. Even though it was late afternoon, the room’s light came from a dozen or more spiritual candles in a rainbow of colors, not the sun. “I got a bad feeling when we hugged, Magnolia,” the elderly priestess said. “A terrible feeling. You need protection.” Helene pulled a small square of black fabric from a pile. “Black, for protection from negative energy.” She pulled various ingredients from jars and placed them inside the square. “St. John’s wort, basil, ginseng, yarrow, a garnet.” Helene took a piece of black yarn, gathered up the fabric, and tied it together with the yarn, turning it into a small pouch. She closed her eyes and waved a hand over the pouch. “Spirits, I call up you to bless Magnolia Marie Crozat. Banish evil and negativity from her life. Protect her. And make her fertile.”
