Murder in the Bayou Boneyard

by Ellen Byron

  Unlike the shabby exterior, the main room was pristine and meticulously furnished with lovely antiques. A large Oriental carpet covered most of the well-polished wooden floor. Bookcases covered an entire wall of the room. “Your home is beautiful,” Maggie said.

  “Surprised?” There was a glint of humor in Walter Breem’s eyes.

  “No,” Maggie quickly responded, Then, a little sheepish, she added, “Maybe.”

  The caretaker released himself from Maggie’s hold. He sat down in an armchair covered with a crisp dark-blue brocade. “Thanks for your help. I don’t even know your name.”

  “Maggie. Maggie Crozat.”

  This sparked a smile on his worn, weathered face. “A Crozat. That accounts for your manners. Good stock, them.”

  “My mother’s a Doucet,” Maggie said, returning his smile. “I’m not bragging, just want to give her any credit that’s due.”

  “Doubly blessed.”

  “For all the good it does us,” Maggie said, feeling gloomy as she flashed on the peril her family and Crozat Plantation faced thanks to interloper Doug MacDowell.

  Breem leaned back in his chair. His face contorted as he put his feet up on a Victorian claw-foot mahogany coffee table. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t feeling my age right now.”

  “I’ll get going and let you rest, but first, let me get you a glass of water or something,” Maggie said.

  “I’m good.”

  “You’re pale. I’m getting you water.” Maggie looked around and saw the doorway leading to the kitchen. Like what she’d seen of the rest of the house, it was neat and comfortable. The cabinets looked recently painted, a bright white that brought light into a house shrouded by trees. Maggie opened a cabinet, found a glass, and filled it with water. She brought it back to the caretaker. “Can I make you something to eat? I’m not the cook my mother is, but I’m sure I can put together something edible.”

  The old man took a sip of water. “I’m not much of an eater. But I wouldn’t mind you getting me the top book over there.”

  He pointed to a stack of books on a side table whose design matched that of the coffee table. Maggie picked up the book. “I’ll check on you later,” she said.

  The man’s taciturn manner returned. “No need.”

  “Then I’m going to leave my number with you,” Maggie persisted. “Do you have a pen and paper?”

  “There’s a pen on the coffee table. You can write the number in the book. That way I won’t be losing it.”

  “All right.”

  Maggie picked up the pen and wrote her name and cell number on the first page inside the old book. She handed it to Breem, who turned to a page holding a bookmark. “If you need anything, call me. Day or night, doesn’t matter.”

  He gave a slight nod but didn’t look up from the book, so Maggie let herself out.

  By the time Maggie reached Junie’s, the restaurant was packed with lunch patrons. She saw Bo at a far corner table and started toward him. Kaity Bertrand waved from another table. “Maggie, come here a sec.”

  Maggie detoured to Kaity. She recognized the girl’s tablemates as employees from the other B and Bs participating in the Pelican’s Spooky Past weekend packages and greeted them. She picked up a slight chill in their responses. “How are things going with y’all?” she asked. “Any midweek guests?”

  “Some, but we would’ve had more if it wasn’t for all the rougarou and ghost bull.” This terse response came from Bon Ami’s desk clerk.

  “All of us have had guests scared by these effed-up sightings,” Kaity said. She did a sweep of the table with her hand. “Everyone here thinks those people staying with you are doing it.”

  “Why?” Maggie asked, startled by the implied accusation.

  “Because the one who died, the one who was your cousin, was wearing a mask like we seen on the others around our places.” The Bon Ami desk clerk fixed Maggie with an angry look. “Make ’em stop.”

  “I’ve been trying to explain to everyone that it’s got nothing to do with you,” Kaity said.

  “Thanks, Kaity.” Maggie appealed to the others. “Trust me, if I see any sign that the MacDowells are behind what’s been going on, you have no idea how fast I’ll turn them in. But until there’s evidence, our B and B is in the same position as you all are. Praying whatever horrible people are doing this get caught fast.”

  Kaity’s tablemates looked unconvinced. Maggie gave up and moved on to Bo. He stood and enveloped her in a tight hug, which he followed with a lingering kiss. They broke apart, and Maggie fell into a chair. “And the award for most hated person in town right now goes to … drum roll … me. If I ever have another ‘good idea’ like the Spooky Past weekend packages, tape my mouth shut before I can share it with the world.”

  “I wish I could say it’s not that bad, but I know it is for you, chère. Maybe these’ll perk you up.” Bo picked up his cell phone and opened the photos app. “They had a Halloween party at Xander’s school today.”

  He handed the phone to Maggie. She swiped through pictures of Xander, dressed as Captain America, striking poses, playing games, marching proudly with his classmates in a costume parade. “These are beyond wonderful. I love that kids still bob for apples.” She swiped to a photo of Xander with an apple in his mouth. “He grabbed one. Awesome. I could never do that.” She handed the phone back to Bo. “After looking at these, I’m going to say something I haven’t said in years. I can’t wait to go trick-or-treating.”

  “That’s my ghoul,” Bo said with a grin.

  Maggie rolled her eyes. “More jokes like that and I may change my mind.” She sipped the bourbon on the rocks Bo had ordered for her and released a breath. “I’m not a day drinker, but I needed this.”

  “What’s going on with the MacDowells? Ever since we talked, I’ve been trying to figure out how a chemical plant and someone falling off the wagon go together.”

  “I’ll break it down for you.” Maggie told Bo about Harbor Chemical’s unwelcome visit and Doug’s plan to sell Susannah’s land to the highest environmentally sketchy bidder.

  Bo stared at her, dumbfounded. “That’s … it’s …” At a loss, he held up his hands. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “How about, ‘Doug, you’re under arrest for—fill in the blank.’ Whatever might get him deported back to the land of hockey and socialized medicine. Can a DUI do it these days? I’ll slip something into his coffee.”

  “I’ll think on it.” Bo’s tone indicated he wasn’t kidding.

  “I know Ville Blanc’s stonewalling you,” Maggie said, “but are there any leads in Susannah’s murder? Even teeny tiny ones?”

  “Nothing on our end.” His face darkened. “And if there are any on theirs, Griffith isn’t sharing.”

  “Doug certainly benefits from her death, and if he does, Bonnie and Johnnie probably do, too.” Maggie lowered her voice. “I got a little gossip from Emma. Susannah was an obstacle for the twins in terms of getting their father to part with any money on their behalf. Speaking of Emma, she’s become very attached to Johnnie. I don’t know if they’re having a thing or not.”

  Bo raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think she’s his type.”

  Maggie had to laugh at this. “I feel like an old fart. Everyone’s so fluid these days, I can’t tell who’s anyone’s type anymore. Which makes me think of that actress Patria, who’s probably everyone’s type.”

  “Not mine.”

  Maggie squeezed Bo’s hand. “You’re sweet. Anyway, Patria told me that Barrymore was ticked off at Susannah because he got sucked into her psychic fakery and then couldn’t get his money back.”

  “This is good stuff,” Bo said. “Barrymore goes on the list. There’s also Walter Breem. He’s the obsessive type. All about protecting the Dupois property. He could’ve run into Susannah in that rougarou costume and been set off by it.”

  “Funny you should bring him up, I just happened to spend a bit of time with him.” Maggie relayed the run-in
between Breem and Gavin Grody.

  Bo glowered. “That Grody’s another one I’d love to have an excuse to arrest.”

  “You’d be a hero for that,” Maggie said. “I think Pelican would throw you a parade. But back to Walter. People around here assume he’s ‘teched in the head.’ He’s a loner for sure, but from what I saw today, I think there’s a whole other level to him. Which of course doesn’t rule him out as a suspect.”

  “We can’t rule out Helene Brevelle either, much as I hate to say it.”

  “I know. But I can’t imagine her killing anyone. She wouldn’t even let me use these black pins I found on the voodoo doll she made me.”

  Bo gave her the side-eye. “You got a voodoo doll? And black pins? ‘Have I told you I love you lately?’ he asked, trying to stay on her good side.”

  “Don’t worry, cher, you’re safe …” Maggie spoke in a fake-menacing tone. “For now.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by JJ delivering their meals: gumbo for Maggie, a catfish po’ boy for Bo. “I need to get back to the station,” Bo said after they finished eating. “We’ll figure out a way around the chemical plant. Get Mayor Banks to throw a few environmental impact studies at it. Go home and relax. Think about something besides murder. Hey, I hear this couple in town is getting married on New Year’s Eve.”

  “Nicely done,” Maggie said with a laugh. After they stood up, she wrapped her arms around Bo’s waist. “As soon as I get home, I’m getting my wedding gown from the attic and bringing it to the tailor so he has plenty of time to make alterations. My mother was the last Doucet bride to wear the dress. I don’t exactly have her waspish waist, so he’s got his work cut out for him.”

  Driving home, Maggie heeded Bo’s advice and allowed herself to daydream about her wedding. She imagined herself clad in the gorgeous Doucet gown, walking down the aisle of St. Theresa of Avila, the quaint Pelican church affectionately known to locals as St. Tee’s. Parish priest Father Prit would officiate; then a reception at Crozat, open to all, would follow the ceremony. She envisioned friends and neighbors dancing on the B and B’s spacious lawn to classic Cajun tunes performed by Gaynell and the Gator Girls. Maggie, who’d never been the kind of girl who longed for a big wedding, found herself growing excited about it. I may have to wrest some of the planning away from Gran, she thought as she parked behind the manor house.

  She stopped in the B and B office to grab a flashlight and retrieve a key for the new lock her father had installed on the attic door. After heading up the back stairs to the attic’s entrance, she inserted the key in the new lock, which promptly fell off the decrepit old door. Useless as the lock might be, Maggie shoved it back in place, hoping it at least gave the illusion of security. Then she scampered up the attic stairs, turned on her flashlight, and gasped. There was an empty space in the middle of the floor where the Doucet bridal gown had been stored.

  Maggie’s ancestral wedding dress was gone.

  Chapter 15

  Maggie’s heart thumped. Calm down, she told herself. Dad probably moved it. She scanned the clutter with her flashlight but saw no box. Now panicked, she shoved trunks and old furniture aside, brushing away cobwebs and grime. The air filled with dust. Maggie choked as she inhaled it but continued her search. After combing through the entire attic, she had to accept that the dress wasn’t there.

  Maggie ran downstairs. She found her parents in the kitchen. “Did you move my wedding gown?”

  “No,” Tug said. “We’d have told you if we did. Why?”

  She didn’t stop to answer his question. Maggie ran to the cottage to find her grandmother. Their home was empty. Panting from the run coupled with anxiety, she phoned Gran. “I was about to call you,” the octogenarian said. “I’m at a wedding expo, and I found the most darling favor. Alligator-shaped toothpick holders. What do you—”

  “Gran, do have my wedding gown?”

  “Of course not. Magnolia, what’s—”

  “I can’t talk now.”

  Maggie ended the call and ran back to the manor house. She burst into the kitchen. “It’s gone. My wedding gown. Our wedding gown.” She pressed her hands against her face. Her voice sounded strangled. “It’s been stolen.”

  Tug opened his mouth, but no words came out. Ninette dropped the empty pot she held, and it clattered to the floor. “No.”

  Maggie, her face still buried in her hands, nodded. “I searched the attic,” she said, fighting back tears. “I called Gran. It’s gone.”

  Her father threw down the paper he’d been reading. “I’m calling the police.”

  Tug jumped up and marched out of the room. Ninette picked up the pot she’d dropped and brandished it above her head. “When I find out who stole that dress, I’m taking this pot to them.”

  “I’m so lucky you’re my mom,” Maggie said, relishing an image of her petite mother, who weighed not much more than a feather pillow, beating up a thief with kitchenware.

  Ninette put down the pot and took her daughter by the shoulders. “We’re gonna find that gown, chère. As God is my witness, you will not be the first Doucet bride to walk down the aisle in a store-bought dress.”

  “Amen, Mama.”

  The doorbell screamed, and the women jumped. “Acck! MacMurder, MacDead!” Lovie cawed from the office.

  “This place isn’t a zoo, it’s a madhouse,” Ninette said, clutching her chest.

  Maggie’s phone pinged a text. “Dad said the police arrived. That was quick. He said to meet them round back.”

  Maggie left the house through the back door. She found her father in the parking area between the manor house and the shotgun cottage, along with detectives Zeke Griffith and Rosalie Broussard, plus two officers wearing polo shirts that read Law Enforcement on the back. “I’m glad you’re here,” Maggie said to Griffith.

  “First time I’ve ever heard anyone say that when I served a search warrant.”

  The detective handed her a piece of paper. Maggie glanced down at it and saw a jumble of legalese. “Wait, what?”

  “It’s legit,” Tug said, his face grim.

  “I thought maybe you were here because my wedding dress was stolen,” Maggie said to Griffith. “Along with other items from our attic. It could be tied to Susannah’s murder.”

  “Let’s table that until after we conduct our search.”

  Griffith motioned to his coworkers. The officers snapped on latex gloves and entered Maggie’s home. He and Broussard followed them into the cottage. “This is unbelievable,” Maggie said, steaming. “Go inside and keep an eye on them, Dad. I’m calling Bo.”

  She started for the B and B office, then remembered Lovie was ensconced there. Searching for a private spot, she settled on the cast-iron bench in the center of the plantation’s beautifully manicured parterre garden. Her call to Bo went straight to voice mail. She left an urgent message and then made another call. Defense attorney Quentin MacIlhoney picked up after one ring. “Magnolia, my dear, you caught me on a run-through break. Rudy Ferrier, the future star playing Jean-Luc Junior, has an AP Chemistry midterm on Monday, so I’m rehearsing his understudy. He doesn’t have Rudy’s charisma, but the Pelican talent pool is sparse.”

  “I’m sorry to bother you, but it’s an emergency. The detectives from Ville Blanc showed up with a search warrant. They’re in my house right now.”

  The lawyer’s usually congenial tone disappeared. “Who signed the warrant?”

  Maggie checked the paper. “A Judge Archer.”

  “They knew Gaudet would never approve it, so they did an end run around him and went to Archer, who never met a search warrant he didn’t like. Don’t say a word to those bottom feeders. I’m on my way.”

  After Quentin signed off, Maggie gazed at the cottage, disconsolate. She didn’t trust herself to observe the search, afraid she’d either break down or take one of Ninette’s pots to Griffith. She slumped back on the cold, hard bench. A squirrel peeked out from a bush. “This is all my fault,” Maggie said to
him. “You know that expression ‘No good deed goes unpunished’? It’s true. I thought I was doing something good by bringing our cousin here. Instead she’s dead and it doesn’t even matter that my wedding dress is gone, because the only aisle I may be walking down is the one that leads to a jail cell. Okay, that’s more a hallway than an aisle, but you get the idea.” The squirrel chittered and disappeared back into the bushes.

  Twenty minutes went by. A custom purple Jaguar sports car with a license plate that read Lwyr Up squealed into the parking area. Quentin got out and quickly made his way to Maggie. He wore a bespoke gray suit, crisp white shirt, and a tie in the same shade of purple as his car. Maggie knew the sixty-something attorney well enough to know this wasn’t an accident. The look painted him as prosperous, but with a hint of humor. Coupled with the white goatee he’d grown as part of his directorial persona, Quentin gave off the vibe of a good-natured Mephistopheles. “The cops come out yet?”

  “No. Dad’s in there with them.”

  “That Griffith’s a piece of work. Getting his ducks in a row for a run at office.” The attorney eyed Maggie. “Anything interesting they might find?”

  “Aside from a necklace made from the ears of my victims? No.”

  “Save that sparkling wit for people who’ll appreciate it. Which won’t be this crew.”

  The cottage front door opened, and Griffith exited with his fellow officers. He was holding what Maggie recognized as an evidence bag. Tug, looking lost, came out last. Maggie jumped up. She and Quentin walked toward the group.

  “Well, if it isn’t Ville Blanc’s boys in blue.” Quentin’s tone was affable. “What ya got there, my friend?”

  “Since you ask …” Griffith held up the bag. Inside it was the voodoo doll Helene had made Maggie, along with the container of black pins.

  Quentin shook his hands in mock fear. “A voodoo doll? I’m a-scared.” He dropped the act. “If that’s your best evidence, you might as well arrest half the town and every visitor who bought one of those from Helene Brevelle. I recognize her marvelous workmanship. You know, I was at the bank the other day and she was making a deposit. I’m guessing business has picked up for her now that the competition’s been taken care of, so to speak.”