by Ellen Byron
“You are indeed, Quentin.” Maggie frowned. Worry creased her forehead. “I don’t want to believe there’s some maniac loose in town. That seems the go-to answer for too many people. But I can’t stop wondering, are the murders of John Doe and Gerard Damboise connected? Or is it really just a sick, horrible coincidence?”
“Here’s hoping it’s the latter. I get two potential clients that way.”
“I have to admire your blatant avarice. But I’m hoping for the former. Intuition tells me the murders are connected in some twisted way no one’s been able to figure out yet.”
“I’ve learned not to doubt any Pelicaner’s intuition, especially yours. When you nail the perp, make sure to give him or her—or them—my card.”
“Them?” Maggie couldn’t help smiling. “Still shooting for maximum return on the murders, huh?”
“What can I say?” Quentin thumbed in Vanessa’s direction. “The future third Mrs. Quentin MacIlhoney has expensive tastes.”
“Don’t lay this on me, old man,” Vanessa called from Bon Bon. “I’m not the one driving that new gold Bentley.”
Quentin gave a genial shrug. “Busted once again.”
Maggie stepped across the threshold to Bon Bon and added an assortment of chocolates to her gift for Pauline. She left the store and drove north from the village up the River Road, eventually making a left onto a long drive similar to the one at the Crozat Plantation B and B, but made of crushed oyster shells. The drive ended in front of elegant, imposing Camellia Plantation, Pauline’s ancestral home. It was one of several River Road plantations still in private hands, much to the chagrin of tourists because it was breathtaking. The white antebellum structure stood two stories high. Outdoor staircases curved to the left and right of the home’s grand entrance. Wide, round columns reached from the ground to the roof’s eves. In a curious twist, the original wide front lawn had been replaced with a horseback-riding rink. Maggie knew nothing about horses, but she knew enough to know Pauline was astride a beauty. The steed’s gray coat gleamed, even with the sun behind clouds threatening rain.
Pauline rode with the grace and assurance of an experienced rider. Behind her galumphed her cousin Denise, who disguised her obvious discomfort every time Pauline glanced her way, which she did often, as if checking to make sure Denise was still on her mount. Pauline saw Maggie and waved to her. She cantered over with ease, Denise following with less grace. “Maggie, hi. I’m so glad you dropped by. I’ve been meaning to invite you over.”
Pauline nimbly dismounted, then helped Denise off her horse. Pauline’s daughter and pageant queen front-runner, Belle, waved to her mother from the manor house veranda. She jogged over to the women. Clad in cut-off jean shorts and devoid of makeup, Belle was almost unrecognizable. Instead of a pageant queen wannabe, she simply looked like a typical teen. “Hello, nice to see you,” she greeted Maggie with her usual robotic politeness. She took the reins of both horses. “I’ll walk them back to the stable,” she told Pauline.
“I better get going,” Denise said. “Allouette is taking three advanced placement classes, and I like to make a good, healthy dinner to fuel her. Maggie, so glad I was here when you came by.” She air-kissed her cousin. “See you tomorrow. Take good care of Pepin. Allouette misses him. She’ll be by this weekend for a ride. If she has time. All that AP work keeps her real busy.” The last comment was directed at Maggie.
Denise hurried off to her car. Pauline watched her go, making sure she was out of earshot. “Pepin was the Randalls’ horse. We’re boarding him until … temporarily.”
“Were they affected by the floods?”
“No.” Without articulating, the message Pauline sent was that the Randalls were victims of financial troubles. “Come inside. We’ll have some iced tea.”
Maggie realized she’d yet to explain her visit. “Lia asked me to stop by and drop off some treats from her shops. She’s grateful for how much effort you’ve put into Oak Grove.”
“That’s so sweet, but totally unnecessary. I’m having the best time working with them and that gorgeous old place.” She called to her daughter, “Belle, chére, we’re going inside if you need us.”
Belle, absorbed with the horses, didn’t respond. She took turns nuzzling each one, stroking their manes and cooing at them. It was the most humanity Maggie had yet to see from the girl. “Belle’s wonderful with the horses,” she said.
“Like mother, like daughter. She lives for them. If we were down to our last dime, we’d spend it on Houmas and Pepin.” She started for the manor house, and Maggie followed. Pauline, lithe and nimble in rider’s attire, sailed up steps leading to the impressive carved oak door. Like the doors at Crozat, they were flanked by floor-to-ceiling windows that allowed in a river breeze. Pauline swung open the heavy door with easy familiarity, and the two women stepped into a wide hallway. Again, like at Crozat, the hallway stretched from front to back to welcome any waft of air that might cool off a humid Louisiana day or evening.
A man holding a briefcase and a carry-on bag came down the home’s grand, carved staircase. “Hey, sweetie, I’m heading to the airport,” he said to Pauline, adding a polite hello to Maggie.
“Maggie, this is my husband, Jules. Jules, Maggie is Lia Bruner’s cousin. She’s also a judge for the Miss Pelican Mardi Gras Gumbo Queen contest.”
“Really? A pleasure to meet someone so important.” Jules said this with humor. He extended his hand, and Maggie shook it. Jules, like his wife, appeared to be in his late thirties. He still had a full crop of light brown hair peppered with gray, cut in a conservative style. He was handsome, but it was a tired handsome with deep worry lines. Jules kissed Pauline on the cheek she turned to him. “I better run or I’ll be late for my flight. Maybe someday my company will spring for TSA pre-check, huh? Nice meeting you, Maggie.”
Jules headed out the door. His wife watched him go, and then turned back to Maggie. “Where were we? Right. The parlor.”
Pauline led Maggie into the front parlor. It was an exquisite combination of antique and contemporary furnishings upholstered in a range of taupe shades, with an occasional “splash of an accent color,” a term Maggie had learned from the home decorating TV channel, a guilty pleasure of hers. In this case, the color was lime green, which to Maggie felt like the equivalent of splashing cold water on her face to wake up. It all somehow worked and allowed accessories she assumed were family heirlooms to take center stage.
Yet something was slightly off. It took Maggie a moment to zero in on exactly what that was. Then her artist’s eye picked up worn spots on the upholstery, as well as on the baseboards and rugs. Maggie got the sense the Randalls might not be the only members of their extended family struggling financially. She debated how to broach the subject in a delicate way. “You have a beautiful home.”
“It’s a study in deferred maintenance.” Pauline laughed and waved a hand as if to dismiss the place.
Maggie shook her head and fibbed, “No, I don’t see that at all.” But she was relieved, although surprised, that Pauline was so open about Camellia Plantation’s condition. She’d assumed Pauline, like her daughter, valued the illusion of perfection above all else.
“Jules’s company relocated its headquarters to Arkansas last year,” Pauline, now a font of information, shared. “We couldn’t imagine pulling up our roots here, so he took a lower-paying job with a local company that involves a lot of traveling, and I took on more design projects. Bibi Starke’s been kind enough to send a few jobs my way. Like Grove Hall.”
“I’m sure she’s thrilled to have someone as talented as you to work with.” It was time to steer the conversation toward Gerard Damboise. “I heard Gerard Damboise was thinking about hiring you to do some redecorating at his place,” Maggie said. She was a little disturbed by how easily lies were coming to her.
“What?!” Pauline was incredulous. “Wow, I’d love to know who started that nutty rumor.”
Uh … me, Maggie thought to herself sheepishly.
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“If anything, the man was a complete and total pain. He’s been pestering my family for years to donate our heirlooms to the Historical Society, and we’ve given him an artifact whenever possible. No one’s more supportive of preserving Pelican’s history than a Tremblay, Boudreau, or Favrot, believe you me, but as of now we’re a living history display, not a static one. The furniture stays put.”
“It’s a remarkable collection.”
“Thank you so much. Would you like a tour?”
“I’d love one.” Maggie jumped up before her hostess could retract what sounded like an obligatory invitation. Her instinct was confirmed when Pauline seemed startled by Maggie’s enthusiasm.
“Wonderful,” Pauline said in a tone both gracious and insincere. “Follow me.”
For the next half hour, Maggie trailed behind the interior decorator as Pauline led her through beautiful room after room. There were signs of “deferred maintenance” throughout the home. Then Maggie noticed a small, circular, red sticker tucked in the corner of an elaborately carved nineteenth-century end table. “Is that for sale?” she asked.
Pauline pursed her lips almost imperceptibly. “No, why do you ask?”
“The sticker.” Maggie pointed to it. She then unleashed another whopper. “I’ve been looking for a piece like it for Crozat’s front parlor.”
“Sorry, I see the confusion. We have a huge collection of furniture stored in the attic that I rotate into these rooms. I use stickers to mark the pieces I’m rotating out.” Pauline pulled open a set of pocket doors. “Here’s the dining room. The table dates back to the 1830s, but the chairs are contemporary…”
Maggie half-listened, her focus still on the stickers. She was convinced the red dots marked items for sale, like they did at the Brooklyn art gallery she’d owned with her ex-boyfriend in a not-too-distant lifetime. Pauline had been upfront about the Tremblays’ reduced financial circumstances, yet squirrely about the furniture, which was odd. Maggie wondered if the woman had tried and failed to strike a deal with Gerard Damboise for a few pieces of her family’s history. Still, Maggie wasn’t picking up a sense of desperation that might lead to murder. A simpler explanation occurred to her. Perhaps Pauline’s husband, Jules, was the kind of prideful man who’d want to put a spin on his demotion. That would certainly motivate his wife to hide sales generating additional income for the family.
Maggie made a show of checking her watch. “Oh wow, I’ve totally lost track of time. I have to get to work. Thanks so much for the tour. We should get together socially sometime—a double date with you and Jules, and Bo and me.”
“I’d absolutely love that. I’ll check my schedule and call you.”
Oh no you won’t, Maggie thought. Pauline’s tone belied her words, giving the impression that a foursome with Maggie and her detective boyfriend was the last thing the decorator wanted to schedule.
* * *
Once at Doucet, Maggie resumed the painstaking task of carefully removing one work of art to reveal the painting beneath it. She barely noticed plantation guests peeking into the room to watch the process, and was so engrossed in her work that it took a minute to register someone was knocking on her workroom door. “Come in,” she called. She was thrilled when the visitor proved to be Bo, with Xander at his side. “Hey, you two.” Maggie put down her scalpel, brushed paint flakes from her face and hair, and went to them. Mindful of the young boy, she and Bo exchanged the most chaste of kisses.
“I gave Xander a choice between the batting cage and a petting zoo,” Bo said, glancing with affection at his son, who was already pulling objects from the mask box and arranging them to form a face. “He wanted to come here.”
“That makes me so happy. And I have some updates for you.” Maggie led Bo to a corner of the room and in a low voice shared what she’d discovered about both the Tremblays and the Randalls.
“Interesting. And I did a little research on Stacy Metz. She’s got a history of kleptomania.”
“I’m not surprised. It’s a compulsive behavior.”
Bo nodded. “Robbie’s tried to get her help, but no treatment seems to stick. They’re doing their best to keep her condition quiet because it’s not something an aspiring mayor would want the world to know about. When she lifts something from a local store where the shopkeeper knows Robbie, he gets an alert and returns whatever she stole. Sometimes a new merchant reports her, and whoever’s on duty explains the situation. The department feels for the Metzes, who are good people in a difficult situation.”
“It’s hard to imagine that level of kindness anywhere but in a small town,” Maggie said, moved.
“We’re not all beaters and donut eaters at Pelican PD. Although now I want a donut. I’ll pick up a dozen for the boys on my way to the station.”
Bo started to go, but Maggie placed a hand on his arm. “Do you want to come by tonight?” she asked, her tone tentative. “I still have the cottage all to myself.”
“I’d love to, but Ru’s having his rascally pals over yet again. I’m afraid if I’m not there, I’ll come home to who knows what all. Whitney will be by for Xander.”
Bo gave Maggie a peck on the cheek and departed. If we don’t have a conversation soon, this relationship will die, Maggie thought, fighting off a wave of nausea brought on by anxiety.
“Maggie?” Xander claimed her attention. He held up the glue gun.
“It’s empty, buddy? I’ll take care of it.”
Relieved by the distraction, Maggie reloaded the glue gun and returned to her project, eventually exposing several more inches of the picture beneath the watercolor. She called Xander over. “What do you think this is?” she asked, pointing to the painting.
Xander studied the emerging image carefully. “A road.”
“That’s what I thought. And it looks like it’s intersecting with another road.”
The boy took a finger and slowly skimmed the painting’s surface. “Could be a map.”
“To buried treasure?” Maggie joked. Xander nodded, utterly serious. “You know, there are stories about pirates burying treasure at Crozat and my Doucet ancestors doing the same thing here when the Civil War broke out,” she said, and grew excited. Could Xander be right? What if a nineteenth-century Doucet painted a rudimentary watercolor over a map to a family treasure chest, hiding its location until a safe time to reveal it?
The ring of her cell phone interrupted Maggie’s reverie. She saw the call was from fellow judge Robbie Metz and answered it. Before she could get out a greeting, Robbie blurted, “Maggie, thank God I got you. Something terrible’s happened.”
“Oh no. Stacy?
“No. Why would you say that?”
“What’s wrong?” Maggie asked, sidestepping his question.
“It’s Constance Damboise.” There was panic in Robbie’s voice. “Someone tried to kill her.”
Chapter 15
Maggie managed to locate Whitney, who was waiting to go into an appointment with her ob-gyn. After dropping off Xander, she raced to St. Pierre Parish Hospital. Cal Vichet stood guard at the ER entrance. “Hey, Maggie. Figure you’re not here to candy-stripe. Everyone’s up in Intensive Care.”
The St. Pierre elevators were so slow that a few Pelican moms-to-be wound up delivering their babies in them on their way to Obstetrics. Rather than wait for one, Maggie dashed up four flights of hospital stairs. She found Bo and Rufus outside the closed door of an ICU room. “How’s Constance?” she asked, winded from the run.
“They pumped her stomach, and she’s resting,” Bo said. “We’re waiting to talk to her.”
“What happened?”
“Lame attempt to make it look like she offed herself,” Rufus said. “Whoever did this left a typed note, seemingly from Constance, confessing to killing Gerard. They included her missing purse pistol as so-called evidence, so at least we know where it is now. They put some kind of pill in her coffee, and by the time she figured out the bitter taste wasn’t only from the chicory, she was almo
st passed out. Luckily, she had enough juice left in her to call 911.”
“But how did they get into her house?”
“It’s Pelican. Pretty much every senior in town sleeps and wakes with an unlocked front door. I imagine most of them couldn’t tell you where a house key was if you put Constance’s purse pistol to their head.”
Bo put an arm around Maggie’s shoulder. “Your fellow judges are in the waiting room. I need to talk to you.” He guided her down the hall into an empty ICU room, shutting the door behind them. “Have you received any threatening letters?”
“About the pageant?” Maggie asked, confused.
“No. About the potential orphan train exhibit.”
Maggie shook her head. “I never heard of the exhibit until Robbie and Gerard argued about it before one of our meetings. Why?”
“We just learned that, about a week before the flood, Robbie and Constance both got anonymous letters threatening trouble if the exhibit went through. They were going to bring them to the police, but Gerard said he had an idea who sent them and would take care of it. They gave their letters to him, and since nothing happened, they figured Gerard handled the situation.”
“So, the murders are tied to the orphan train, not the pageant.” Maggie sat down on the edge of the room’s bed, trying to process the latest development. “Someone tried to kill Constance because she supports it. But someone killed her husband, who was against it. This is crazy-making.”
“Welcome to my job.”
Maggie’s stomach suddenly clutched. “Gran. She was involved with the pageant before me. She must have heard conversations about the orphan train exhibit.”
“Call her.” Bo’s tone was grim.
Maggie’s hands shook as she pulled out her cell phone and speed-dialed her grand-mère. “Hello, chére,” Gran’ greeted her. She sounded hoarse but cheerful. “I just woke up from a long, lovely nap.”
“I’m so glad you’re getting rest.” Maggie fought to keep the anxiety she felt out of her voice. “I was wondering … did Gerard or Constance Damboise ever talk to you about a possible orphan train exhibit at the Historical Society?”
