Murder in the Bayou Boneyard

by Ellen Byron

  “I love you more,” Gran said, a slight tremor in her voice.

  “Impossible,” Maggie said. She grinned and wiped her eyes. A few bars of a Trombone Shorty song announced an incoming cell phone call. Maggie checked the ID, and her good mood evaporated. “It’s Ville Blanc PD.”

  Gran’s face darkened. “Ignore it.”

  “I am.” Maggie let the call go to voice mail. A text popped up on her phone screen. “It’s Detective Griffith. He wants me to come down to the station so we can go over my statement. I’ve watched enough police TV shows to know a trap when I see one.” Maggie took a screenshot of the text. “I’m sending this to Bo and Quentin.” She did so and received two quick responses. “Bo said, I’m on it. I’m guessing that means he’s going to share the info about the strychnine tree on the Dupois property.”

  “What did Quentin say?”

  “One word: Stall.” Maggie held up her cell. “I’m turning off my phone.”

  Gran took out her cell phone. “Me too.”

  The women powered down. “We’re off the grid,” Gran said. “What a freeing feeling. Let’s celebrate with dinner at LeBlanc’s.”

  “Not Junie’s?”

  “I feel like dining someplace where the floor is a little less sticky.” Gran stood up. “Robert,” she called over shoulder.

  The bank president bounded in. “Yes, Mrs. Crozat? And it’s Bob to my family, close friends, and favorite customers.”

  “You can lock up my safety deposit box, Bob. I won’t access it again until right before our wedding.”

  “Yes, of course. We heard that was happening. Many congratulations from myself and Mrs. Morrin.” The banker adopted his best professional demeanor, which didn’t succeed in masking his hurt feelings.

  “The invitations haven’t gone out yet,” Grand-mère said. “We’re waiting until the six-week mark. I hope you and Mary will be able to make it, but I know you often visit the grandchildren over the holidays.”

  “No, no, Mary and I will be there.” Morrin beamed. “You can count on us.”

  “Isn’t your fourth grandchild due around then?” Gran asked, slightly dubious. “In Atlanta?”

  Morrin dismissed this with the wave of a hand. “We were there for the first three; we’ll be there for number five. And number four won’t know the difference. Where are you registered?”

  After assuring Morrin that gifts weren’t necessary, Maggie and Gran divested themselves of Morrin’s attention and headed for LeBlanc’s, Pelican’s upscale eating establishment. As they entered, they almost collided with a woman around Gran’s age who was leaving the restaurant with a real estate agent Maggie recognized from her ads on Pelican bus benches. Cookie Hampton had co-opted the Pelican town motto—Yes, We Peli-CAN!—and turned it into her sales slogan: Yes, we Peli-CAN sell your home!

  Gran and the older woman exclaimed greetings and exchanged air kisses. “Phyllida, I haven’t seen you in forever,” Gran said. “We have to get together and catch up.”

  “We better do it soon, because I just sold my house,” Phyllida said. “I’m moving to Mobile to be closer to my daughter and her family.”

  “Well, Pelican’s loss is Mobile’s gain,” Gran said. “Who’s the lucky new owner of your charming home?”

  “Not that obnoxious man who’s eating up all the local real estate for his application,” Phyllida said with a sniff. “I sold my home to a very nice young woman. She’s Canadian.”

  This got Maggie’s attention. “Canadian? By any chance would her name be Bonnie MacDowell?”

  “Yes,” Phyllida said. “She’ll be a great addition to our little community. She already has friends here. Like you.”

  Cookie checked her watch. “Nice to see you all,” she said, subtly maneuvering her client toward the door. “We better get going, Phyllida, honey. That paperwork won’t sign itself.”

  The real estate agent hustled Phyllida off, and Gran and Maggie took their seats. “I wonder where young Bonnie got the money to put down on Phyl’s house,” Gran mused. “I don’t see her father handing over a bucket of cash.”

  Angry, Maggie snapped open her napkin. “This has Gavin Grody’s stink all over it. Notice how your friend thought she was avoiding selling to him. But Cookie knows exactly what’s going on. That’s why she rushed Phyllida away from us. If people are refusing to sell to Grody, he has to find a way around them. I’m sure he funneled the down payment for Phyllida’s house through Bonnie. What better way to do that than manipulate some girl who’s got the hots for him into being a front for his operation?”

  “You sound like a 1950s gumshoe,” Gran said. “But I think you’re right.” She picked up her menu. “Let’s put aside all the aggravation of the day and have a lovely meal. With dessert. Maybe two, fitting into whatever wedding dress I end up in be darned.”

  Maggie perused her menu. “The special today is Coquilles St. Jacque. That sounds—”

  The restaurant door flew open. Tug burst in. He glanced around, saw his daughter and mother, and made a beeline to them. “Y’all have your phones off. If we didn’t have that app that lets us find each other, I’d be running all over town looking for you.”

  “Dad, what’s wrong?” Maggie was surprised to see him and disturbed by his distraught appearance. “Why are you here?” Her heart raced. “Is it Mom?” Maggie lived in fear of Ninette suffering a relapse of the Hodgkin’s lymphoma she’d triumphed over in her twenties.

  “Your mother’s fine. But Doug MacDowell isn’t. He’s dead.”

  Chapter 17

  Maggie stared at her father, mouth agape. “Please tell me it was natural causes.”

  Tug, grim, shook his head. “He was shot.”

  Gran clutched her hands together. “Oh my Lord.”

  “That’s awful,” Maggie said. She closed her eyes, trying to process the tragic development. “Why? Where?”

  “Can’t answer the first, but apparently he took the bullet while he was marking off the dividing line between our property.”

  Maggie sucked in a breath, then released it. “Not to sound self-involved, but it’s a good thing I don’t own a gun. Griffith would be arresting and dragging me out of here right now.”

  “My guns are in the gun locker,” Tug said. “I can’t remember when I opened it last.”

  “Lee has my pistol,” Gran said. “He’s cleaning it for me.”

  Maggie faced her grandmother. “You have a gun? How can I not know this?”

  “I lived alone in that cottage for years while you were gone in New York, chère,” Gran said. “Have I mentioned that I also took a self-defense class and know exactly where to kick an intruder?”

  Tug ran a hand through his thinning head of hair, where white was fast outstripping his original ginger color. “At least we all have alibis this time. I heard the gun go off when I was checking in a guest. Your mama came running out of the kitchen, where she was. And y’all were here. Still, we need to get home. I’m sure the police will want to talk to us.”

  Maggie, trying to process the fact that another murder had taken place on or adjacent to Crozat property, rubbed her temples. “We have to focus. A man died. A man with children. They may be adults, but this will be a horrible shock for them.”

  “Unless one of them did it,” Grand-mère said.

  “Gran.”

  “Don’t sound so horrified, Magnolia,” her grandmother said. “You know it’s a possibility. These people are practically strangers to us. How long have we known them? A month, maybe? We have no idea about the family dynamics that preceded their visit.”

  “For now,” Tug said, “let’s assume Johnnie and Bonnie’ll be grieving the loss of their father.” A pained expression crossed his lined face. “Back to it being all about us. That guest I was checking in when we heard the gunshot—he checked right out as soon as he saw the coroner’s van pull up. Here’s hoping the weekend guests are less squeamish.”

  Maggie, Gran, and Tug returned to the B and B as quickly as
possible. All was quiet in the immediate area around the plantation. The police action was restricted to the property line, which extended deep into the woods, not far from the old schoolhouse. Maggie traipsed through the woods to where yellow tape marked the crime scene. She was ashamed to feel relieved that Doug’s body had already been removed. Bo and his underling, newly minted Detective Brady Rogert, were conferring with the crime scene photographer. Artie Belloise noticed Maggie and approached. “Hey there, Maggie. We meet again. Lucky for all of us there’s no Ville Blanc sticking their nose in this case. It’s only in our jurisdiction.”

  “Yay,” Maggie said, her tone mordant.

  “We’re gonna need all the guns y’all own for testing so’s we can eliminate them as evidence.”

  “Not a problem. My dad’ll get them for you.”

  Artie trudged off. Maggie caught Bo’s eye, and he came to her. “Another day, another murder,” he said, his tone as sardonic as Maggie’s.

  “This one hits close to home.” Maggie pointed to a marking flag delineating the property line that Doug had managed to plant before his death.

  Bo was about to respond, but he and Maggie were distracted by the sound of a woman giggling. Bonnie emerged from the woods, talking into her earbud. She wore ripped, belted jeans and a white crop top under a black leather jacket. The young woman kept her eyes on the ground as she tottered over the uneven surface in high-heeled, open-toed booties. “You are so lame,” she said into her earbud in a flirty voice. Bonnie bumped into the crime scene tape and looked up. “Gavin, I gotta go. I’ll call you later.” She ended the call, placed a fist on her hip, and fixed Bo and Maggie with a sour look. “Now what? Seriously, this place is, like, a permanent crime scene. I don’t know why you don’t want to sell it.”

  “Bonnie, we need to talk,” Bo said as gently as possible. “Let’s go inside.”

  The sour look disappeared, replaced by panic. “No. What happened? Tell me now.”

  “It’s your father, Bonnie. He was shot. And didn’t make it.”

  Bonnie’s shock was palpable. She screamed and fell to her knees. Maggie dropped down beside her, but the young woman pushed her away. “Get away!” she screamed. “You killed my stepmother and now you killed my father!”

  “I haven’t killed anyone, I swear,” Maggie protested.

  Bo helped Bonnie to her feet. “The Crozats have alibis. We’re searching the woods and already found possible clues to the suspect. Prints from a man’s boots. Detective Rogert is gonna take you inside. He’ll get you some water and go over a few things.”

  Bonnie, still in shock, nodded. There was a rustling in the woods. Johnnie MacDowell pushed aside branches and came into the small clearing. His sister ran to him. “Johnnie, the most horrible thing—”

  Johnnie held up his hand. He scribbled in his ever-present journal, ripped out the page, and held it up. It read Zen Walk. His sister grabbed the page and crumpled it up. “Dad is dead. Someone shot him.”

  Her twin dropped his journal. He swayed, then fell against a tree. “I need a meeting.”

  Bo took his arm. “We’ll get you to one, but first I have to ask you a few questions.”

  “I’ll go find Emma,” Maggie told the stricken man. Johnnie tried to speak but couldn’t find his voice. He nodded, a sick expression on his face.

  Bo and Rogert led the siblings to the schoolhouse while Maggie ran through the woods back to the B and B, where Emma was pulling into the graveled parking lot. “I’m so glad I found you,” Maggie said.

  “I was in Baton Rouge,” Emma said. She parked and got out of the vehicle. “I had to replace some props. Those actors don’t just chew the scenery, they chew through the props. What’s up?” Maggie shared the news about Doug’s death. Emma stared at her, wide-eyed. “I don’t believe it. You’re making it up.”

  “No, I’d never do that. He’s gone, Emma. Shot to death.”

  Emma made a small sound. Her body crumpled, and she covered her face with her hands. Maggie felt for the distraught woman, who lacked the exposure to violent death that Maggie had experienced, albeit unwillingly. “It’s awful,” Maggie said with compassion. “I have no idea if Johnnie and his dad were close. To be honest, I mostly saw them arguing. But I know Johnnie’s fragile, and something as shocking as this could be dangerous for his mental health.”

  Emma straightened up. She used a sleeve of her hoodie to wipe tears from her cheeks. “Yes, right. I’ll go to him. Thank you.”

  Emma took off for the schoolhouse. Maggie turned toward the cottage, but the flutter of a curtain covering a second-floor window in the manor house caught her attention. She looked up and glimpsed Barrymore. She realized he had been watching her and Emma. Something about the look on his face gave Maggie the chills. Her instincts, which sometimes approached a clairvoyant level, kicked in. He may not be the buffoon I thought he was, she thought to herself.

  * * *

  Maggie stayed up as late as she could, in case Johnnie or Bonnie needed anything from the Crozats. Around four AM, she passed out on the sofa in the front parlor of the manor house. She slept for an hour, then woke up and stumbled back to the cottage before guests could see her bedraggled self. She crawled into bed and managed to catch a few more hours’ sleep, which was followed by a bracing cold shower. Maggie filled a travel mug with coffee, yawning as she evaluated the mug’s size. She poured the coffee from the mug into a carafe four times bigger, filling it to the brim before departing for Doucet.

  She arrived a half hour before the historic plantation opened to the public. Ione and Helene Brevelle were already in the employee lounge, which was housed in the overseer’s house. Helene aimlessly shuffled a deck of tarot cards. “Are you okay?” Ione asked Maggie. The plantation manager stepped into a hoop skirt and yanked it up to her waist. “I heard someone died at your place. I was gonna call, but I figured you didn’t need the distraction.”

  “It wasn’t exactly at our place,” Maggie said. She detailed what she knew about Doug’s death. “That protection oil and gris-gris bag you gave me don’t seem to be doing their job, Helene.”

  “Oft times dark forces are much stronger than good,” Helene said. “What Crozat needs is a good cleansing.”

  Something thumped onto the outside doorstep. Ione pulled open the door and retrieved a bound stack of Pelican Penny Clippers. She glanced at the headline. “We don’t need these,” she said. “Our visitors could care less about the Clipper. They’re headed straight to the recycle bin.”

  “Hold up,” Maggie said. “Let me see.” Ione hesitated. “I know you’re trying to protect me from something. I need to know what it is.”

  “Fine. Here.”

  Ione reluctantly handed the bundle to Maggie. The Clipper cover was a collection of sensational tabloid headlines and articles, all revolving around her family’s home. “‘Crozat Plantation’s Spooky Past Has Nothing on Its Scary Present,’” Maggie read. She threw down the bundle.

  “The recycling bin is too good for that rag,” Ione, ever supportive, said. “It belongs at the bottom of a birdcage. No, I take that back. I’m insulting birds.”

  Maggie gave the stack a kick. “You were right the first time. I can tell you what our guest parrot Lovie’s going to be pooping on tonight. Wait, let me check something.” She pulled her cell phone out of her leather tote bag and typed in a search. Doleful, she dropped into a chair. “We could line every birdcage in Louisiana and it wouldn’t stop people from seeing these stories. Little Earlie posted them all over social media. Helene, we may take you up on that offer of a cleansing.”

  Helene snorted. “Wouldn’t worry about Little Earlie’s social media accounts. I bet his following is in the tens of people.”

  Maggie spent the rest of the day trying to forget what she’d read in the Clipper. She managed to convince herself that Ione was right; the only thing visitors wanted out of the freebie paper was the coupons for Pelican attractions. As for the locals, the Clipper’s articles were mostly a rehash
of past events that wouldn’t tell them anything they didn’t already know. Still, if I had Helene’s voodoo doll and those black pins, Little Earlie would find himself in a passel of pain, she thought to herself, giving the paintbrush she was cleaning a furious shake.

  “I’m glad I’m not that paintbrush,” a familiar voice said.

  Maggie’s anger melted away. She ran into Bo’s arms. They kissed, and then she rested her head against his chest. “It’s that stupid Little Earlie,” she said, her voice muffled.

  “I know. I saw the Clipper. The bundle we got delivered is making itself useful soaking up the oil dripping from under one of our patrol cars.”

  “A rag being used as rags. Perfect.” Maggie disengaged from Bo’s arms. She examined her fiancé. His coal-black eyes were shadowed. Under his chiseled cheekbones, Bo’s handsome face was gaunt. She brushed back a lock of hair that had fallen over his forehead. “You look exhausted, cher. Did you get any sleep last night?”

  “Couple of hours, maybe.” Bo blinked and rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know when I’ll be off the clock. I’m sneaking in a trip to the Halloween store to pick up Xander’s costume and thought I’d get in a little time with you, too.”

  “Did Xander finally land on a costume?”

  “Yup. He’s going old-school, as Frankenstein’s monster. He wants all three of us to dress like that.”

  “I can be the Bride of.”

  “Great idea,” Bo said. He checked the time on his phone. “I better take off. If I see a Bride of Frankenstein costume, should I pick it up for you?”

  Maggie stuck her arms out in front of her and grunted. “That’s a yes. I’m getting into character.”

  Bo chuckled. “That had more of a zombie thing to it. You might want to get a few tips from the cast of Quentin’s play.”

  Maggie faked a pout. “Ouch. Just for that, no goodbye kiss for you. Oh, who am I kidding?”

  She grabbed Bo and pulled him toward her. They embraced, then separated. Bo left, and Maggie returned to cleaning the brushes she was using to restore a centuries-old painting from Doucet’s collection. Her mind wandered to the image of Barrymore staring down at her from the manor house second-floor window. The look on his face had disturbed her. She dried off her hands and tapped Quentin’s telephone number into her cell. “Hello there, mademoiselle-soon-to-be-madame,” he cheerfully greeted her. “I assume you’re calling about the latest death by murder at Crozat.”