by Ellen Byron
“Near Crozat, not at,” Maggie felt compelled to clarify.
“Po-tay-to, po-tay-to. I did a little nosing, and our nonfriend Detective Griffith of VBPD is really hoping to tie you to the MacDowell killing and make a double-murder collar.”
Maggie felt bile rise from her stomach into her mouth. “You’re gonna make me upchuck, Quentin.”
“Not necessary. You didn’t do this, and Griffith’s boneheaded line of thinking provides us with a great stall. While he’s trying to build a case he can’t build, Pelican PD and your mister can scope out the real killer of the masseuse and her husband and make both cases go away.”
“I’ll work on finding that reassuring. But it’s not why I called. What do you know about Barrymore Tuttle?”
Quentin made a noise that sounded like a verbal raising of the eyebrows. “You intrigue me. Why do you ask?”
“Just a feeling.”
“This is Louisiana, chère; there’s no such thing as ‘just’ a feeling. I’d venture a good portion of the state is flat-out psychic. But to answer your question, I only know what I needed to know about him as an actor. He isn’t terrible and knows how to project, which has proved invaluable in that sound abyss of a cemetery.”
“Okay. If you think of anything else, let me know.”
Maggie ended the call. She took off the apron she wore to protect her clothes from errant paint spills and hung it on a hook by the studio door. Then she pondered her next step. Emma, she mused. She has a real attitude toward Barrymore. Maybe there’s more to it than finding him generally obnoxious. Hopefully Emma had recovered from the news of Doug’s death, which had produced a surprisingly emotional reaction from the stage manager. I am so over theatre people, Maggie thought as she locked up the studio. I need a break from the drama.
On her way home, she decided to treat Vince, her beloved Falcon convertible, to a bath. Lee Bertrand, her future step-grandfather, had added carwash facilities to his service station, and he insisted on doing the job himself. By the time he was done waxing and polishing, the vintage auto’s chrome exterior and leather interior gleamed. “Only payment required is a hug,” Lee told her.
“Here you go,” Maggie said, hugging him. “And here’s your tip.” She hugged him again.
Maggie put the convertible’s top down and took the River Road to Crozat, rejuvenated by the rush of cold wind as she drove. She parked in the family’s back lot, but rather than go to the shotgun cottage, Maggie decided to check on the MacDowell twins. Gopher, who’d greeted her in the parking lot, tagged along as she detoured through the woods to the schoolhouse. Bonnie answered the door, looking as if she’d slept in her clothes—if she’d slept at all. Her eyes were bloodshot, and a cigarette dangled from her mouth. “I’m so sorry about your dad,” Maggie said. “I wanted to see if you needed anything.”
Bonnie held up an empty cigarette box. “More ciggies.”
She crumpled the box and tossed it on the floor, where it joined a small pile of discarded empty cigarette boxes. Maggie grimaced as she followed Bonnie inside. The room smelled like a combination of stale cigarette smoke, rotting food, dirty laundry, and mildew. If I ever get this place back, I’ll have to fumigate it, Maggie thought, resisting the urge to hold her nose.
Bonnie collapsed onto the couch. “Johnnie’s not here. He’s at one of his useless meetings. Gavin was supposed to come over and be with me, but he texted that something came up. He’s busy like that.”
The mention of the entrepreneur’s name recalled the house Bonnie had purchased from Gran’s friend Phyllida. Maggie considered the lifestyle blogger’s current emotional state and tabled the thought of bringing that up to her. “I can make a run to the Park ’n Shop if you really need cigarettes.”
“Thanks, but I’ll text Johnnie to pick some up on his way home and have him make a wine run for me.”
“Given Johnnie’s …” Maggie searched for the best way to express her concern. “Given his … situation, and the trauma of your dad’s death, maybe a wine run isn’t the best idea for him. I’m happy to make a run for you.”
Bonnie flicked her hand dismissively, sending ash from her cigarette wafting into the air. Maggie’s art studio had already survived one fire, an arson attempt on the part of a murder suspect. She prayed an errant ash from Bonnie’s cigarette didn’t start another conflagration. “Johnnie’ll be fine,” his sister said. “It’ll be a good test of his sobriety. Thanks for stopping by. If we need anything, I’ll let you know.”
Maggie took the hint. “We’re here if you need us.”
She left Bonnie texting away on her cell phone and hiked through the woods toward home. That is one toxic sibling relationship, she thought to herself. Bonnie’s poor twin might be the definition of a hot mess, but Maggie was Team Johnnie all the way. She could almost sympathize with the tortured young man if he’d killed his father to inherit money that would enable him to escape his dysfunctional family.
Maggie called to Gopher, who was relieving himself on a tree. He finished his business and ambled over to her. Maggie bent down to pet him. Suddenly, a scream came from the woods. Maggie’s heart did a backflip. Now what? she thought. She was about to grab the basset hound, hefty as he was, and take off running when Cindy, the guest from the Paranormals group, staggered out of the dense brush. “I saw one,” she gasped. “A rougarou.”
Maggie silently cursed whomever was bedeviling the town B and Bs with the beast sightings. “I’m so sorry. We’re trying to figure out who’s responsible for—”
“I went for a walk because I figured that dusk would be when they come out.” Cindy’s face lit up. “And I was right! I can’t wait to tell the others. They’ll be so jealous.”
Cindy darted off to the manor house. “Gopher, buddy,” Maggie said to the dog as they headed out of the woods. “I’m bewildered by some of our guests. But right now, also relieved that someone’s actually happy to see a rougarou.”
Gopher woofed a response, then meandered off to troll for snacks. Maggie reached the small auxiliary graveled lot that lay between the back of the manor house and the shotgun cottage. The manor house back door opened and Barrymore emerged, lugging a large suitcase. She watched as he popped the trunk and deposited the bag inside. “Checking out, Barrymore?”
“Agh!” Startled, he turned and saw her. He quickly recovered and plastered on a smile. “Hello there, Maggie. Nope, not going anywhere. What kind of actor would I be if I cut out before my theatrical run was over? I’m meeting friends for a bite. And, uh, putting my props in the trunk for safekeeping. You know us thespians.”
Barrymore retreated to the driver’s side and got into the car. He gave Maggie a jovial wave as he drove off, which she returned. Then, as soon as he was out of view, Maggie pulled her car keys out of her back pocket, jumped into the Falcon, and began to follow him.
Chapter 18
Maggie, aware that her vintage convertible was not exactly a subtle vehicle, hung back a few cars behind Barrymore. She trailed him onto I-10. While she drove, she used her Bluetooth to connect with Pelican PD. Officer Cal Vichet took the call, and she shared her suspicions about Barrymore. “He’s driving a maroon four-door sedan. It’s an older-model car. He told me once that he rented it on the cheap from Homely Haul, the place in Ville Blanc that rents used cars. The first three license plate numbers are six, four, nine. I can’t see the rest and don’t know the number offhand.”
“No worries. I can get it from Homely Haul and pass it on to Baton Rouge PD. Any idea what’s in the suitcase?”
Maggie frowned. “No. I’m sorry. I know this isn’t much to go on, if anything. Oh, he’s getting off. I’ll let you know where he ends up.”
She ended the call and took the same exit as the actor. Night had fallen, which helped disguise her car but made it harder to track Barrymore’s dark sedan as he traversed local streets. But a determined Maggie managed to keep up. He finally stopped in front of a Creole cottage on a quiet street in the city’s historic dis
trict. Maggie slowed down slightly to read the wooden sign dangling over the front door, which identified the cottage as Baton Rouge Antiques. I knew it, Maggie thought. She drove past Barrymore, who was focused on extricating the heavy suitcase from the trunk of his car. Maggie made a left and parked. She got out of her car and traversed the sidewalk to the corner, where she hid behind a Tudor-style home. She peered around the home’s edge and saw Barrymore drag the suitcase up the cottage steps and into the antique store. Maggie scurried down the sidewalk to the store. She hunched over to create a low profile and crept up the stairs, then dropped to her knees to sneak a peek through a large front window. All she could see was the top of Barrymore’s head. The rest of him was blocked by the shop’s jumble of large antique furniture. Maggie decided on another tack. She hurried down the steps and around the side of the shop to the back of the building. The handle on the back door was of about the same vintage as the one on the attic door at Crozat, and just as sturdy. As in not sturdy at all, Maggie thought.
She opened the door with ease and slipped into the shop’s office, where she instantly spotted a familiar brass candlestick—the stolen mate to the one still at Crozat B and B. Maggie glanced around the room and noticed a bundle of what appeared to be ivory silk fabric. She tiptoed over, gently unfolded it, and managed not to gasp when the bundle revealed itself to be her wedding gown. Maggie tamped down the urge to grab the gown and run with it. No, she told herself. I want Barrymore to get caught and pay for what he did. Instead she tapped a message to Cal Vichet on her silenced cell phone, alerting him to her discovery and location. He sent back a thumbs-up emoji and a promise to alert Baton Rouge PD.
Maggie drew closer to the curtain separating the office from the main room. She squatted low to hide herself and listened to see what she could pick up of the conversation between Barrymore and another man. “A great piece of kitchenware,” he was saying. She heard the sound of knuckles rapping on metal. “Solid copper.” The mystery man’s response was muffled. “Stop yanking my chain,” Barrymore said, annoyed. “You know this is a beauty.”
“I said no,” the man, equally annoyed, said in a louder voice. “Millennials don’t want copper pots. They barely want any of that other stuff you keep pushing on me. The best thing you brought in is that wedding dress. I can make a nice profit selling it to a museum.”
Maggie somehow restrained herself from yelling, “No!” Anxious, she wondered, Where is BRPD?
“All righty,” Barrymore said in a more genial tone. “No copper pots, select bric-a-brac only, more antique clothing. I’ll see what I can do.”
The conversation seemed to be wrapping up and there was still no sign of the police. The men exchanged goodbyes. Unable to wait a minute longer, Maggie darted out of the office and ran to the front of the house, arriving just as the actor-slash-thief was leaving with a copper saucepot she recognized from Crozat’s attic stash. Maggie dashed up the stairs and, not knowing what else to do, held up a hand. “Stop in the name of the law! I’m making a citizen’s arrest.”
There was a sudden wail of sirens, which grew louder as the police finally found their way to the antique shop. Barrymore froze. Then he took the pot, whacked Maggie on the head with it, and took off running down the street. Maggie, seeing stars, staggered backward and tumbled down the shop’s steps as a patrol car screeched to a halt in front of the shop. Two officers leapt out. One gave chase to Barrymore and the other dropped to his knees next to Maggie, whose fall had ended with her splayed out on the shop’s small patch of grass. “Forget me,” she told the officer, her voice a whisper. “I wanna see that thieving SOB go down.”
* * *
“How badly does it hurt?” Bo asked as he drove Maggie down the interstate toward home. He had retrieved his fiancée from the hospital where the police brought her to be checked out after her head met up with the heavy copper pot. Luckily, she’d managed not to have a concussion, but a gash on her forehead had required a half-dozen stitches.
“A lot.” Maggie touched the stitches and winced. “At least now I’ll actually look like the monster’s bride. Did you find out if they caught Barrymore?”
“Yup. He’s in custody, facing charges of burglary, assault, and evading arrest.”
“Yes.” Maggie did a fist pump, then winced again. “Ow, that hurt.”
“Best if you avoid sudden movements, chère. By the way, it turns out his name isn’t really Barrymore Tuttle.”
“What a surprise,” Maggie said dryly. “What is it?”
“Marvin Crapser.”
“Wow.”
“Yup. I gotta say, if that were my name, I’d change it too. What made you suspect him, anyway?”
“I have to chalk it up to that famous instinct we Doucet-Crozat women seem to have, which was set off by a look on his face I hadn’t seen before. Kind of malevolent. Then I started thinking about how he was coughing during Susannah’s memorial. I remembered having the same cough myself—after spending time in the attic before I thought to wear a mask.”
Bo took his eyes off the road briefly to favor Maggie with an affectionate glance. “Here’s hoping young Detective Rogert develops your instincts.”
Maggie touched her temple, which throbbed. “What about my wedding dress? Is it evidence?”
Bo nodded. “But you’ll get it back real soon. I doubt Tuttle will want to go to trial. He’ll take a plea deal that’ll mean doing time but with a reduced sentence.”
“They’re not gonna need it to bring a case against the antique dealer?” Maggie asked.
“The guy swears he had no idea that Tuttle was a thief. He says Tuttle passed himself off as a plantation owner who fell on hard times.”
“I can believe that.” Maggie stared out the window. They were coming up on the Dupois cemetery. “They’re doing a run-through of the play. You mind stopping here for a minute? I need to break the news to Quentin that he’ll have to find a quick replacement for Barrymore.”
“You got it.”
Bo pulled to the side of the road next to the cemetery, and Maggie got out of his SUV. Quentin saw her and waved, as did Vanessa. “Maggie, chère, you okay?” her frenemy asked with genuine concern. “We heard about your run-in with a copper pot.”
Maggie pointed to her stitches. “Aside from my boo-boo, I’m okay. But Quentin, I have bad news about your male star.”
“I know all about that. Our costumer is dating that new detective, Rogert. We just finished a run-through with Tuttle’s understudy.”
“Who did you cast?”
Quentin grinned and pointed to himself with both index fingers. “Me. It was a gimme. I know all the lines, seeing as how I wrote the play.”
“And he’s wonderful in the role.” Patria, who was packing up what looked like a very pricey purse, added her two cents to the conversation. She gestured to Quentin and Vanessa. “They got awesome chemistry.”
“They should,” Maggie said, bemused. “They’re married.”
Patria slapped her forehead. “Duh. Right.”
The flighty actress giggled as she walked away, earning an eye roll from Vanessa. “And people think I’m a dumb blonde. That girl’s got miles on me.”
Bo got out of the SUV and joined them. “Don’t mean to break up the fun, but I’d like to get my girl home so she can rest. It’s been a—”
He was interrupted by a blast of police sirens. Moments later, a half dozen Ville Blanc patrol cars barreled down the River Road. They made a left turn and tore down the dirt road that ran alongside the cemetery to the Dupois caretaker’s house.
“What the what?” Vanessa said as they saw officers, including Zeke Griffith, pour out of the cars. They were clad in protective vests and approached the house with guns drawn.
“Quentin, clear your people from the area,” Bo said, his brow taut. “I gotta see what’s going on.”
Bo ran toward the emerging crime scene while Quentin ushered Vanessa and a few curious performers to their cars. Maggie stayed beyond, taki
ng refuge behind a tomb as a precaution. Someone shouted something she couldn’t make out from inside the caretaker’s cottage, which precipitated a shift in the action. The officers holstered their guns. Griffith strode out of the cottage and reached through the window of the nearest patrol car. He pulled a portable radio out of the car and barked an order into it. Maggie saw Bo confer with an officer. Then he started toward her. She emerged from her hiding place. “What is it? What’s going on?”
“It’s Walter Breem,” Bo said. “VBPD got a complaint from a parent. Breem caught her son cutting through the Dupois property and threatened to eighty-six him with strychnine. Putting that together with Susannah’s murder was enough for Griffith to get an arrest warrant from a Ville Blanc judge.”
A police officer grabbed a first aid kit from his car and ran into the house. The scene in front of Maggie confused her. “Are they arresting Walter or not?”
“Not,” Bo said. “At least not right now. They found him lying on the floor with a knife in his back.”
Chapter 19
An ambulance rushed the critically injured caretaker to the hospital. Bo dropped Maggie at home, then took off for the hospital for an update on Breem’s condition. After checking in with her worried parents and grandmother, Maggie, depressed and head aching from her copper pot injury, crawled into bed. It was both hard and not hard to envision Walter Breem as a murderer. He presented a disturbing, even scary, façade to the world. But she had seen another side to him, one that made her wonder if what everyone else saw was an act. A way to protect himself from being encroached on by a society he had no interest in joining.
