Murder in the Bayou Boneyard

by Ellen Byron

  “Excuse me?” Maggie said. “How does that fit in?”

  “I figured as long as I was doing a spell for you, I’d throw that in.” Helene attached a safety pin to the bag and handed it to Maggie. “Wear this under your shirt, close to your heart. Pin it on now.” Maggie did so. Helene pulled a tiny bottle out of a box. “This is protection oil. Rose, sandalwood, myrrh, frankincense. Dab it on.”

  “Frankincense and myrrh? I guess if it was good enough for the Wise Men …” Maggie took the bottle and dabbed a drop on each wrist. She recoiled. “Whoa. That’s strong stuff.”

  “You need it.” Helene extinguished a black spiritual candle. She handed it to Maggie. “And this, too.”

  “Helene,” Maggie said, unsettled by the priestess’s ministrations. “What exactly do you see?”

  “It’s not what I see, it’s what I feel around you. A sense of foreboding. Of danger. But what I’ve given you will help provide protection.”

  “O … kay.” Maggie looked at the candle and bottle of oil in her hands. “Can I pay you for these?”

  Helene gave her head a vigorous shake. “Absolutely not. Go and do what you need to do. But with great care until the evil I see is gone.”

  “It’s going to be a little hard to concentrate after all this,” Maggie said on her way out the door.

  Which it was. She put on an apron and began the delicate task of cleaning a portrait of her three-times-great-aunt Felicity Doucet in her bridal finery, but her heart wasn’t in her work. As Maggie used a soft brush to gently remove dust from the old painting, she couldn’t shake Helene’s dire pronouncements. Where might the danger Helene foresaw be coming from? she wondered. The obvious source was the threat of arrest by VBPD. But was there another threat looming?

  Maggie was so absorbed in her brooding that she almost missed hearing Ione announce over the plantation’s antiquated PA system that Doucet was closing for the day. She quickly put away her supplies, then placed the candle and potion from Helene in her tote bag. You’re being superstitious, she chided herself, and took them out. After a beat, she put them back. Just to be on the safe side, she thought.

  * * *

  In the morning, still spooked by Helene’s premonitions, Maggie made sure to dab on the protection potion after showering. She pulled on a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved teal T-shirt, then pinned Helene’s protection gris-gris bag inside her shirt and left the cottage for the manor house to help Ninette prepare the B and B guests’ breakfast. Gran was there, making coffee for everyone. Tug was half hidden as he worked under the sink, fixing the kitchen pipe’s chronic leak. Gran wrinkled her nose. “What’s that awful smell drowning out the wonderful scent of coffee?” She cast Maggie an accusing glance. “It’s coming from your direction.”

  “I’m trying a new perfume,” Maggie lied, embarrassed to admit the truth.

  “One that makes you smell like an old-time hippie head shop?” Gran said, not buying Maggie’s explanation.

  Maggie picked up the coffee carafe Gran had filled and poured herself a cup. Gran stepped back and waved a hand to diffuse the smell. “Being a little extreme, Gran.” She took a sip of coffee. “Fine, it’s not a perfume. Helene Brevelle got a weird vibe from me and gave me a protection oil.”

  Tug emerged from under the sink. “That’s a whole lotta protection. What’s she worried about?”

  “She couldn’t say. It was a general feeling.”

  “Maybe we should all dab on that oil,” Gran said.

  Tug and Ninette voiced agreement with the idea. “I feel a little better,” Maggie said. “I thought y’all might think I was being silly. I didn’t even tell you about the gris-gris bag Helene made me.”

  “If you’re looking for skeptics about premonitions and the like,” Gran said, “you might have to try another state.”

  “I wish Helene had been less vague, though.” Maggie ripped off the heel of a fresh baguette and chewed on it. Ninette used oven mitts to pull a casserole dish out of the oven. “What are you making, Mom?”

  “Baked eggs, plus bacon and sausage,” Ninette said. “And I thought it would be fun to serve our guests calas,” she added, referencing the fried rice balls that had faded into obscurity after being a staple of the nineteenth-century Louisiana diet but were making a comeback. “Help me set up the buffet.”

  The family carried the breakfast offerings out to the dining room and placed them in chafing dishes. They were about to return to the kitchen when the doorbell screamed. Everyone jumped. “How soon can we switch to a Christmas song for that ring?” Gran asked, her hand on her heart.

  “It’s probably a guest,” Tug said. “Maybe we should all greet whoever it is. Welcome them with a big dose of southern hospitality. Wouldn’t hurt to get a few more positive reviews on trippee.com.”

  Maggie, her parents, and her grandmother trooped through the hallway to the front door. Tug threw it open to reveal a slim man in his midthirties dressed in a suit.

  “Hello, welcome to Crozat B and B,” Tug said. The others flashed smiles and ad-libbed hellos.

  “Wow, nice greeting,” the man said. Maggie picked up a mid-Atlantic accent. “And cool doorbell.”

  “Thanks,” Tug said. “Feel free to mention that in any online reviews. Kidding, of course.”

  “I’m not a guest, although looks like you’ve got a great place here. I’m Noah Bauman. I’m with Harbor Chemical.” Bauman handed Tug his card. “I have a meeting with Doug MacDowell.”

  The Crozats exchanged a look. “Harbor Chemical,” Maggie said. “You built a facility on the other side of the river. Where Laurel Plantation was. Until you bought it.”

  Bauman nodded. There was an awkward pause. “Is Mr. MacDowell here?”

  Tug cast an uneasy glance at Maggie, Ninette, and Grand-mère, then responded to Bauman. “He’d be in our daughter’s art studio, the old schoolhouse. Down the side road, then you’ll see it through the woods.”

  “Got it, thanks.”

  Tug nodded acknowledgment and closed the front door.

  “Me, my gris-gris bag, and my protection potion have a bad feeling about this,” Maggie said.

  “Why would Doug be meeting with Harbor Chemical?” Ninette asked. “You don’t think …” She trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

  “You only meet with Harbor Chemical for one reason,” Maggie said. “To sell them your land.”

  Chapter 14

  Maggie burst out of the manor house’s back door, followed by the rest of her family. They hurried through the woods to the schoolhouse. Maggie rapped on the door. After a minute, Doug opened it. “I’m in the middle of a meeting.”

  “We know.” Maggie pushed past him, as did the others.

  “Hey,” Doug protested. “What the—”

  Maggie planted herself between Doug and Noah Bauman. “Are you trying to sell Susannah’s land to Harbor Chemical?”

  “It’s not hers anymore, it’s mine. And what I am or am not doing is none of your business.”

  “Oh, it is.” Maggie, furious, crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Remember, part of this place is ours.”

  “If I could say something here—” Bauman began.

  “You can’t,” Tug shot at him.

  “Got it,” Bauman said, intimidated.

  “This land …” Doug made an expansive gesture. “It’s full of memories of my time here with Susannah.”

  “That’s a bit hard to imagine, considering you’ve barely been here three weeks,” Gran said.

  “Well, it is. Which is why I realized I can’t bear staying on it anymore.”

  “Then go back to Toronto,” Maggie said.

  “The thing is, I’ve come to love the area,” Doug said. “Us Canadians are snowbirds. We fly south for the winter. Florida is a snore, but here … you got warmth, history, atmosphere. And you can’t beat the food.”

  “But—but—” Maggie sputtered. “Dang, I can’t argue with any of that.”

  “I could use the
proceeds of a sale to buy a place in Pelican for the winter months—”

  “And have plenty left over,” Noah chimed in, ignoring Tug’s glower.

  “Who knows?” Doug continued. “Maybe down the road me and the kids’ll become citizens.” He launched into “The Star-Spangled Banner.” “O say can you see … and whatever comes next.”

  Ninette’s hands shook from nerves, and she clasped them together. “Doug, we can’t have a chemical plant in our backyard. It will ruin our home, as well as our business. No one would ever stay here again. Plus, the cancer rate for people living near these plants is out of control. We’d be risking our lives.”

  “Not if you sell, too,” Bauman said.

  Tug stared at him. “Excuse me?”

  “I’m sure I could work out a deal for buying both parcels, yours and Mr. MacDowell’s. We might even be able to keep the big house for corporate functions, like the gas company up the road did with Bienvenu Plantation.”

  “It’s surrounded by storage tanks,” Maggie, outraged, said.

  “But it’s still there. I can’t promise that for your place. But if you’re interested in selling the land, let me know. I’ll run some numbers and make an offer.” Bauman addressed Doug. “Sleep on the figure I gave you. I’ll check in tomorrow.”

  Doug opened the door for the Harbor Chemical executive. Bauman left, and Susannah’s widower motioned for the Crozats to leave as well. “Your turn.”

  “Doug, please don’t do this,” Maggie pleaded. She flashed on an angle. “You’re interested in living here part-time and maybe forever. Everyone in Pelican will hate you if you destroy this land. They’re sick of industrial plants. You won’t have a friend in town.”

  Doug shrugged. “I’ve always been comfortable with my own company. And I think the locals might forgive me once I start throwing around money from the sale.” Doug grew thoughtful. He tapped an index finger against his lips. “There is a way out for y’all, as you say around here. You could buy me out.”

  Tug looked hopeful. “That’s a possibility. How much are we talking about?”

  Doug handed Tug a sheet of paper. “Harbor’s proposal.”

  Tug pulled reading glasses out of his pocket and perused the page. He blanched. “Wow. That’s a lot of money.”

  “Far as I’m concerned, it’s a starting figure. I’ve got meetings set up with four other companies.”

  Deflated, Tug handed the proposal back to Doug. “The only way we could come up with this much money is to sell Crozat to Harbor ourselves. Which kinda defeats the purpose.”

  “I’m giving you options. It’s your call what you do with them.”

  Doug opened the door a little wider. Tug, Ninette, and Gran took the hint and left. Maggie, consumed with fury, lingered. She took a step toward Doug. “This is not going to happen. I will do whatever it takes to stop you from turning this land into a toxic site.”

  “A threat, huh? Maybe I should mention that to the police. Might make you numero uno on their list of suspects in Susannah’s death, if you aren’t already.”

  “You know I had nothing to do with that, Doug.”

  “Do I?” Doug’s demeanor shifted from beleaguered to cunning, colored with a hint of menace. He gestured to the door. “You’re letting in mosquitoes. Pretty much the only thing I don’t like about Louisiana are those bloodsuckers.”

  “Takes one to know one,” Maggie shot at the man, then walked out of the studio, slamming the door behind her.

  Not wanting to give Doug the satisfaction of seeing her cry, Maggie waited until she made it back to the family’s parking area before bursting into tears. She didn’t see Johnnie and Emma come out of the woods and was startled when they spoke to her. “Maggie, what’s wrong?” Emma asked.

  Johnnie placed a comforting hand on Maggie’s shoulder. “You can tell us. We finished our Zen walk, so we can talk again.”

  Maggie wiped her eyes. “It’s your father. He wants to sell Susannah’s land to a chemical company.”

  She relayed the details of her family’s run-in with Doug. Johnnie paced as he listened. “This is what I’m talking about,” he said to Emma when Maggie finished. “My greedy, despicable family.” His voice was loud and angry. “A chemical plant, Emma. They are willing to poison people for money. But are they willing to give a dime to the arts? Noooooo.”

  “Right now, all I can think about is my family’s future,” Maggie said, trying to keep the conversation focused on the crisis at hand.

  “Of course,” Johnnie said. “I’ll go talk to my capitalist father. Argh, he infuriates me!”

  Johnnie marched off to the schoolhouse. Emma watched him go, a worried look on her face. “He’s stressed again. That’s bad. He could relapse. I better go with him.”

  Emma took off after Johnnie. Maggie pulled out her cell phone and speed-dialed Bo. “I’m a terrible person,” she sobbed before he could say a word. “Everything is my fault. The MacDowells, and Susannah being murdered, and the chemical plant, and now I made Johnnie go off the wagon.”

  “Whoa, whoa,” Bo said, flummoxed. “That’s a whole lotta word salad, chère. You need to calm down. Take deep breaths.” Maggie inhaled and exhaled. “Did you take them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you feel better?”

  “A little.”

  “Good. Take a few more of them and then meet me at Junie’s. But no driving until you calm down. Understand?”

  “Understand. I’m sorry. I just lost it.”

  “No apologizing, sweet girl. If anyone’s got reasons to lose it these days, it’s you. I’ll see you in a few.”

  Bo signed off. Maggie took enough deep breaths to calm herself. She looked heavenward. “Thank you for bringing that man into my life,” she said. “I owe you.”

  * * *

  Maggie confirmed with Ninette and Tug that it would be okay to take the afternoon off, then set out for Junie’s. The thought of Cajun comfort food washed down with a bottle—or two, or even three—of Abita Light beer appealed to her. As she drove down the River Road, she noticed Gavin Grody’s Tesla, decorated with Rent My Digs decals, parked in front of the old Dupois manor home. Grody was outside his car and appeared to be arguing with Dupois caretaker Walter Breem. Breem took a step forward and yelled something at the techie, who reacted by shoving the old man. Breem lost his balance and fell to the ground. Maggie veered to the side of the road and parked. She jumped out of her car and ran to the caretaker. She helped Breem, who seemed disoriented, to his feet. “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “Uh, hello, how about asking if I’m okay?” Gavin said, indignant. “There’s no cell reception along half this freaking road, so when I finally got some, I pulled over to finish a call and this psycho charged me.”

  “You’re on private property.” Breem, who’d shaken off his fall, spat at him.

  Gavin pointed to the ground. “No, I’m on public land next to private property. I swear, if Pelican wasn’t so charming”—the hipster heaped as much derision as he could onto the word—“I’d buy property somewhere else.”

  “Feel free to do that,” Maggie said.

  “Sorry, you’re not getting rid of me that easily. This place is exactly what tourists want. Only an hour from New Orleans. Great food, great setting. It’s like time stopped here.”

  “A Cajun Brigadoon,” Maggie murmured.

  “I like that,” Gavin said. “I’ll have to put it on my website.” He faced Breem. “I’m gonna make nice and not press charges for you coming at me. But if you try that again, old man, I will be all over you.”

  The entrepreneur strode to his car, jumped in, and peeled out. “Hate guys like him,” Breem said with a sneer. “Thinking they’re smarter than the rest of us. They’re not.”

  “Agreed,” Maggie said.

  “Him with his greed, buying up good homes and sending Pelican in the wrong direction.”

  “You know about that?”

  Breem responded with an annoyed snort. “I m
ay live a life to myself, but I know what all’s going on around here. I’d wager I know more’n most people, what with all the distractions taking folks this way and that these days.”

  The caretaker took a step and winced. “Let me help you get home,” Maggie said.

  “No need.”

  He took a few more steps and swayed slightly. Maggie took his arm. “I promise I’ll leave as soon as we get you there.”

  Breen didn’t respond, but he let Maggie lead him toward the old house where he lived. They maneuvered their way through the dense brush and forest that had once been Dupois Plantation’s acclaimed garden. “Watch out for critters,” he warned.

  They passed the crumbling remnants of a stone bridge over what had once been a stream. The ruins of a folly still stood atop a small hill carpeted with weeds. “I’ve never seen any of this up close,” Maggie said. “It must have been amazing in its day.”

  “One of the Dupois family’s enslaved people had a way with gardens,” the caretaker said. “Designed the whole thing. He fought on the Union side, but after the war he came back and lived with his family where I live now. Kept up the gardens till he died. No one had the heart to keep ’em going after that.”

  They reached the old man’s living quarters, once the plantation overseer’s cottage. It was a simple yet dignified building. Four columns supported an overhang to create a front porch. A few wooden steps led up to the porch and a plain wooden front door whose green paint had mostly peeled off. Paint flakes on the building’s weathered cypress siding indicated that the cottage had once been white. Maggie helped Breem up the rickety stairs. He opened the front door, which Maggie noted wasn’t locked. Still holding the man’s arm, she guided him inside. She was taken aback by the cottage’s interior.