Murder in the Bayou Boneyard

by Ellen Byron

She opened a bag, holding her breath, and rummaged through it. Tug did the same. They repeated this with another round of bags. “Aha.” Tug triumphantly held up a note card. “Found it.”

  “Let me see.” Maggie took the card from her father and read aloud. “‘Johnnie: sending love and sympathy on your father’s death, and a little something to ease the pain. Maggie.’ It’s printed, not handwritten. I’m guessing whoever did this ordered from the liquor store in Ville Blanc. I doubt there are any clues on it. But the store might be able to describe who bought it.” She placed the card in the back pocket of her jeans. “I’m bringing the note and bottle over to Pelican PD. Let’s tie up the bags we opened and get out of here.”

  On the drive to the police station, Maggie homed in on Bonnie as the chief suspect in the bourbon debacle. Maggie had announced to the blogger that she was going to ask Johnnie to fight the sale of the MacDowell land. Incapacitating her brother and pointing a finger at Maggie would take them both out of the picture and free up Bonnie to move forward on a deal with one of the local oil or chemical companies.

  Maggie parked in an angled spot outside the police station and scurried up the station steps into the lobby. Artie was once again manning the front desk while eating. This time, his meal of choice was a bowl of gumbo. “Late lunch?” she asked.

  “Nope,” Artie said. “Pre-gaming for lunch. Congrats on tracking down your wedding dress. That Barrymore character won’t be playing a part for a change. He’s gonna be a real live convict. Ooh, that’s a nice chunk a crab right there.” He slurped a big spoonful of gumbo.

  “I know Bo’s not around today, so I need to see Rufus. I heard he’s out of the hospital. Is he here today?”

  “In his office. I’ll buzz you through.”

  Artie pressed a button and a door flew open. Maggie thanked the officer and headed to the police chief’s office. Ru’s door was open. The chief sat with his feet up on his desk. Like Artie, he was eating, but his snack consisted of chocolate cake with white fondant icing. “Glad to see you’re up and about, Ru,” Maggie said. “You look a hundred times better.”

  “And I feel the same.” He held up the paper plate holding his cake slice. “Want a bite? I got an extra fork.”

  “No thanks, but it does look good. Is that from Fais Dough Dough?”

  “Nope. Bridal expo in Baton Rouge. We saw your grand-mère there. Everyone knew her. One of the vendors told me she’s a regular.”

  “Bridal expo?” Maggie side-eyed Rufus. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  “I’m getting hitched.” Rufus ingested a large forkful of cake. “Sandy proposed.”

  Maggie plopped into a chair. “She proposed to you?”

  “Yeah.” Rufus grinned. A piece of chocolate cake blacked out one of his bicuspids. “We’re all modern like that. My surgery put a scare into her, and she just blurted it out when I came to. I couldn’t see any reason to say no, so here we are.”

  “This is wonderful news, Ru. Congratulations.”

  “Thanks. One thing I love about Sandy, she won’t care that I told you. She’s not about turning every little thing into a giant event, like the other one was.”

  “You mean Vanessa, your ex, and the mother of your child.”

  “Right, her.” He finished the cake, licked the fork, then deposited plate and fork in a trash can under his desk. “So, what brings you here today?”

  Maggie pulled the bourbon bottle and the note card, both encased in plastic, out of her tote. “These.”

  Rufus listened as Maggie explained about Johnnie’s relapse and the attempt to paint her as the culprit. “I’ll get Artie and Cal to track down where the bottle came from and see what we can dig up on who bought it.”

  “Thanks, Ru. Can you keep it on the down-low? I don’t want Detective Griffith thinking he’s got new evidence against me.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that,” Ru said. “Pelican PD took a turn searching Breem’s place, and one of our boys noticed a loose floorboard. He pulled it up and whaddya know, he found a gun. Just like in an old-timey movie.” A malicious grin spread across Ru’s face. “Boy-o-boy, did it feel nice one-upping VBPD.”

  “The gun was under a floorboard.” Maggie was dubious. “That does seem like out of a movie. Maybe it wasn’t there when VBPD searched. The real killer could have snuck it in after that.”

  Ru’s face morphed into a sour expression. “Way to take all the fun out of it, Magnolia. Anyhoo, ballistics is checking the gun against the bullet that killed MacDowell. But there is a bit of a twist here. Turns out the gun’s not registered to Breem.”

  “It was hidden in his house, but it’s not his.” Maggie said, trying to wrap her head around this new development. “Then who’s is it?”

  “Thanks to Canada’s stringent gun registry laws, we got that answer toot suite. The gun belongs to Douglas MacDowell.”

  Maggie gaped at Rufus. “Doug was killed by his own gun?” Rufus nodded. “Could he have … killed himself?”

  “Not according to the coroner, based on the bullet’s trajectory. Bullet went through his side into his heart. He’d have to be some kind of contortionist to pull that off. My money’s still on Breem.”

  “But why would he do it?” Maggie wondered. “He doesn’t have a history of overt violence, or any connection to the MacDowells.”

  Rufus shrugged. “Maybe he doesn’t like Canadians.” He took his feet off the desk and planted them on the floor. “Breem is known for yelling at people to get off the property. We don’t know his mental state. He’s an old dude. He could have some form of dementia that made him cross the line from ornery to violent.”

  “That could be,” Maggie conceded. “But he certainly didn’t stick a knife into his own back.” She pushed the bottle and letter toward the police chief. “Someone tried to kill Walter Breem. Even if he murdered Susannah and Doug, there’s still the question of who attacked him. And maybe the same person tried to put Johnnie MacDowell out of commission.”

  Rufus groaned. “Argh, my head’s like to explode from all this. I’m starting to wish I could turn the whole thing over to VBPD. Griffith does seem to get off on drilling down into investigations. I’m more of an open-and-shut-case kinda guy.”

  After leaving the police station, instead of heading home, Maggie drove to the St. Pierre Parish Medical Center. “You’re Mr. Breem’s first visitor,” the volunteer at the information desk told her. “Aside from law enforcement officials. He’s in ICU. Only family is supposed to visit, but I’ll put you down as his niece.” The woman winked at Maggie and handed her a pass.

  Maggie took an elevator to the fourth floor and the caretaker’s room. The old man, his eyes closed, lay on a hospital bed under a sea of tubes and wires connecting him to a panoply of beeping machines. A nurse checked the readings on one machine and made notes on a clipboard. “How is he?” Maggie asked.

  The nurse motioned for Maggie to follow her out of the room. “It doesn’t look good. I heard he’s a suspect in a murder. He’s under guard, but they’re pretty loose about it.” She gazed at Breem through the ICU room’s glass window. “It’s not like he’s going anywhere.”

  Maggie, due back home to chauffeur the riverboat guests to Quentin’s play, left the hospital. When she got home, she checked in with her father for updates. “I texted Bonnie about Johnnie’s condition, and she came right over,” said Tug, who was at the computer responding to reservation inquiries. “She seemed real upset.”

  “It could have been an act.”

  “I don’t think so, chère. She burst into tears the minute I told her. Your mom came in, and Bonnie cried in her arms. We were concerned about her driving, so Mom took her to the hospital to see him.”

  “I was just there myself.” Maggie told her father about her visit to Rufus and subsequent stop to check on Walter Breem.

  “It’d certainly make things easier if he was the killer,” Tug said.

  “That’s Ru’s line of thinking. But why? What
would Walter get out of killing the MacDowells?”

  “That’s a question for the detectives.” Tug rubbed his chin. “There was one thing. Bonnie’s instant reaction was something we didn’t expect. The first thing she said was, ‘Gavin.’ Like she blamed him for planting the bottle of booze that took down Johnnie. I pressed her for more, but she backed off. All she said was, ‘Nothing, never mind.’ Still, blurting his name seemed like a gut response.”

  “I think Grody is soulless and ruthless,” Maggie said. “With Susannah and Doug gone, Johnnie’s the only obstacle to Bonnie inheriting the property here. I’m assuming that’s why Mr. Rent My Digs keeps stringing her along. Rich as he is, I never met an ‘entrepreneur’ like him who didn’t need more money.”

  Tug sucked in a breath and blew it out as a whistle. “That’s basically saying he’d kill for it.”

  “I know. Ugh, I’ve got to get out of murder head.” Maggie shook her hands vigorously. “I’m shaking it off.”

  “Shake it off, acck!” Lovie squawked, startling her. “Shake it off!”

  “Lovie. I forgot you were there.” Maggie, who alternated between being amused and aggravated by the parrot, addressed her father. “When are Lovie and DruCilla checking out?”

  Tug checked the schedule. “Not until Monday.”

  “Oh, goody,” she said with an eye roll.

  “Goody goody,” Lovie sang, launching into the old Johnny Mercer tune.

  “Hello? Crozats?” Bo called out from down the hall. “Anyone besides singing birds home?”

  “We’re in the office,” Maggie called back to him.

  Bo came into the room, his arms laden with clothes in plastic bags. He greeted Tug and kissed Maggie. Lovie let out a squawk. “Kiss me, acck! Kiss me!”

  Lovie made kissing sounds. Bo looked stricken. “Is that something I have to do?”

  “Absolutely not. Let’s go into the front parlor.”

  Maggie put a hand under Bo’s elbow and steered him out of the office to the parlor, which was blessedly empty of feathered creatures. “What’s all that?” she asked, referencing the bundles in Bo’s arms.

  He set the packages on the sofa. “Our costumes for trick-or-treating. Here’s mine.” He held up a ragged monster costume replete with a rubber Frankenstein mask. “Here’s yours.” Bo handed Maggie a bag containing a distressed wedding dress and a wig.

  “I won’t need the mask. I already have the perfect scar.” Maggie pointed to her stitches. “Is that Xander’s costume? It looks like a doctor’s medical jacket.”

  “It is. When I explained that Frankenstein wasn’t the name of the monster but of the doctor who created him, Xander decided to be the doctor. That way he gets to order us around. He’s already told me I have to practice my grunts.”

  Bo grunted a few times. Maggie laughed. “Yeah, those could use some work.”

  “He’ll get what he gets, and he won’t be upset.” Bo pushed aside the costumes and sat on the couch. He pulled Maggie down next to him. “This visit’s not just for fun. Rufus updated me on the episode with the bourbon bottle. Artie tracked down the sale, and you were right. It was purchased at Ville Blanc Beverages.”

  “Did he get a description of the buyer?”

  “Not a good one. Hoodie, hat, sunglasses. The salesclerk couldn’t even say whether it was a man or woman. Artie got the feeling the clerk had been sampling the merchandise, so he wasn’t much of a witness.”

  “So, the only thing keeping me from being in Griffith’s cross hairs again is Walter Breem.”

  “Pretty much,” Bo acknowledged. “As soon as he’s conscious, he’ll be arrested and charged with Susannah and Doug’s deaths.”

  Maggie pursed her lips. “There’s still something wrong here. I feel it in my bones.”

  “I’m with you on that,” Bo said. “I can’t stand explanations like ‘He’s just crazy.’ Even crazy people have a motive for murder. Something that when you look at it, you go, ‘I get it now.’ I won’t be convinced Breem’s the killer until I know his motive.”

  Maggie turned to face Bo. She took his hands in his. “When was the last time I told you how proud I am to be your fiancée?”

  Bo quirked his mouth. “I can never hear that enough. And right back at ya, chère.” They kissed, and then Bo rose. “I better get to the station. VBPD may not care about the Johnnie incident and you being framed, but I do.”

  Maggie followed his lead and stood up. “And I better corral the group I’m taking to the play tonight. Let me know if you get a toxicology report back on the bottle. I’m sure the bourbon was doctored.”

  “We won’t get any results back until next week,” Bo said, “but I’ll let you know as soon as they come in.” He motioned to the costumes. “Give me a heads-up if the costume doesn’t fit. It should. It looks pretty much like two sheets sewn together, and that’s about it.”

  Maggie took the bag holding her costume. She opened it and pulled out a tall, puffy black-and-gray wig. “Wow. Well, at least I’ll look how I feel. A little bit dead inside.”

  Crozat’s Haunted Happy Hour and a pre-theatre meal of Ninette’s Ghoulish Cajun Goulash followed by Pecan Cookie Fingers provided a welcome respite from murder investigations. The German teachers were either fascinated by the members of the Paranormal group or humoring them as they told their tales of spectral phenomenon. Maggie couldn’t tell which, but since everyone seemed happy, she didn’t care. She loaded all the visitors into the B and B minivan and shuttled them over to the Dupois cemetery, where the aging aboveground tombs became the backdrop to a plethora of selfies. Quentin made an impressive if showy debut as Jean-Luc Dupois Senior and treated himself to several encore bows.

  “Autogramme,” one of the German teachers said to Maggie as she was herding the group together.

  “Autogramme?” Maggie repeated. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

  “Autogramme.” The woman mimed signing her program.

  “Oh, you want autographs,” Maggie said. “I can’t see any of these hambones saying no to that. Come with me.”

  The woman chattered excitedly to her fellow tourists, and they marched with Maggie as a group to the grassy area behind the cemetery where the cast was receiving guests. “Quentin, these are some of our guests, and they’d love to have the cast sign their programs.”

  Quentin’s face, splotchy with fake tears and running stage makeup, lit up. He gleefully threw his hands in the air. “A star is born,” he announced to the air. He placed an arm around the oldest teacher’s shoulder, and she tittered. “Madame, you’re looking at the lead actor, playwright, and director of this shindig. A triple threat, as they say in the business. I’ll introduce y’all to the cast. No worries if you don’t have pens.” Quentin reached into a jacket pocket and pulled out a handful of purple pens emblazoned with his attorney logo in gold. “I’ve got plenty.”

  While Quentin steered the besotted women toward Vanessa and a few other performers, Maggie, thirsty from the goulash, hunted for a bottle of water. She found a tub of them by the company’s makeshift concession stand. She helped herself to one and went to wait for her group by the B and B van, which was parked by the edge of the Dupois woods. As she downed the water, she felt a slight vibration under her feet. She glanced around and saw Gavin Grody’s gray Tesla rocking back and forth. Bonnie must be working out her grief with Gavin, Maggie thought. If the Tesla’s rockin’, don’t come a-knockin’.

  The rocking stopped. After a few minutes, the passenger’s side back door on the car opened. A woman got out of the car. She straightened her top, pulled a brush out of her expensive-looking purse, and brushed her hair with a self-satisfied smile.

  The woman wasn’t Bonnie MacDowell. It was Resurrection of the Spirit ingenue Patria Heloise.

  Chapter 21

  Maggie slunk back into the shadows so that Patria wouldn’t notice her. The fact that Grody was two-timing Bonnie didn’t come as a shock. Maggie had seen enough of him in action to know he was what
Grand-mère would politely term a cad and she herself would define in much harsher terms. But Patria’s canny expression was a revelation. Either she, like Barrymore, wasn’t what she seemed, or she was street-smart enough to cash in on the benefits of boffing a tech entrepreneur. Actors confuse me, Maggie thought, frustrated. She pulled out her cell phone and texted, Bo, can you check out Patria Heloise? Thanx.

  He responded, Okay but why??

  Maggie tapped out a quick explanation of Patria and Grody’s hookup and got a thumbs-up emoji in response.

  A Babel-like chatter of English and German alerted Maggie to her guests’ approach. She bused all the B and B guests home, making sure to scope out the woods near the van parking spot for any errant rougarou. A group text from her fellow hoteliers had warned of guests being frightened by new sightings at Bon Amie and Belle Vista. The Crozat woods were quiet, to Maggie’s relief, but she walked all the guests to their rooms before retreating to her own bed and a well-earned sleep.

  Halloween dawned crisp and cool, just as it was meant to be. The leaves on the few deciduous trees in the region had obliged by turning shades of yellow and light red, completing the illusion of a New England fall day. Gopher and Jolie, both in costume, traded tushy sniffs with two Chihuahuas who had checked in with a family from Metairie, a suburb of New Orleans. Each small dog wore a Halloween-themed sweater. “We couldn’t resist the pet parade,” the mother said to Maggie.

  “I can see that,” Maggie said, offering a dog biscuit to a Chihuahua dressed in a sweater with a mummy bandages pattern. The other Chihuahua, whose sweater boasted a witch on a broomstick, barked a treat request, and Maggie obliged.

  Since it was the last weekend of the Pelican’s Spooky Past package, the Crozats offered their guests a chance to decorate a batch of Ninette’s sugar cookies after they finished making immortelles. Maggie and Ninette covered the long dining room table with butcher paper and set out a variety of frostings and decorations. Dogs ran around the room snacking on fallen cookie pieces while Lovie sang the Addams Family theme song. Unfortunately, the parrot knew only the first line, so she sang “They’re creepy and they’re kooky” ad infinitum until a gentle admonishment from pet mom DruCilla quieted her. Maggie gave Bo a call, inviting him and Xander to join the cookie fun. “We can’t,” Bo said. “Xander’s got two parties and he’s decided to wear different costumes to each of them. He’s got more costume changes to make today than a pop star at a Madison Square Garden concert. But we’ll be by at five to pick you up for trick-or-treating.”