Mardi Gras Murder

by Ellen Byron

  “Thank you.” Whitney’s lower lip quivered. “It’s not the first time either. But Zach and I are going to keep trying. He’s excited about growing our family. That was always a problem for Bo and me.”

  Maggie got a queasy feeling in her stomach, a sensation that was becoming way too familiar. “Bo didn’t want more children?”

  “No. He felt it would be too much for Xander, especially with the unpredictability of Bo’s schedule. But that was then, Maggie. And I think the truth is that unconsciously we both knew our marriage was in trouble. I was doing the thing where you think a child will save it. He was being way smarter about it. I wouldn’t worry about it in terms of your relationship. I’m sorry I said anything—it wasn’t right. Really. Anyway, I’ll come by for Xander in a couple of hours.”

  “No worries. I can drop him off when I leave work.”

  “Thank you. And please—forget I said anything. Your situation isn’t mine.”

  Whitney turned and walked down the hall. Maggie knew there was no way she’d be able to forget what Bo’s ex-wife had shared. But for Xander’s sake, I have to shelve it, at least for now. She took a deep breath and returned to her studio, where she forced herself to focus on work. Stopping to take a break, she downed a bottle of water and wandered over to where Xander had finished a mask. He handed it to Maggie. Bottle caps formed the eyes, and wax lips the mouth. White carpet scraps served as bushy eyebrows, and a battered old kitchen drawer knob was the nose. Xander’s creation was the perfect combination of creepy and amusing. “Xander, this is wonderful. Can I wear it on the Run?”

  Xander gave a slight nod, the ever-present serious expression on his face.

  “Thank you.” Maggie impulsively reached down and hugged him. He tensed slightly but didn’t pull away, marking more progress in their relationship. She released him and put the mask on a shelf so the adhesive could finish drying. “How about we go to the café and grab us some chewy pralines? We get them from Bon Bon Sweets, and they are delish, I gar-on-tee.”

  She led Xander to the small Doucet café, where she bought them each a chewy pecan praline and soda. They sat outside at a white wrought iron café table, watching swans glide across the plantation’s pond. The weather was unseasonably warm, a humid harbinger of summer days to come. A blast from Trombone Shorty alerted Maggie to an incoming phone call. “We were just eating your chewy pralines,” Maggie told the caller, her cousin Lia. “As usual, they’re a heavenly test of my fillings.”

  “I’m so glad. I’ve been taste testing while on bed rest to make sure the substitute candy and pastry chefs at the stores are keeping up the quality. Is there a chance you could do me a small favor? Kyle’s delivering a batch of pastries to Belle Vista for their weekend brunch. Pauline left me paint samples at Grove Hall, and I promised I’d pick a few today for her to try out. If there’s any way you could grab them and drop them by, that’d be so helpful.”

  “Consider it done.”

  Maggie ended the call, to the effusive thanks of Lia. She and Xander followed the path to Maggie’s car. “Top down?” she asked the boy. He gave a slight nod, but his eyes lit up. She pressed the button that lowered the old convertible’s top, and they buckled in and then took off for Xander’s house, the wind whipping their hair and faces.

  After depositing Xander with his mother, Maggie drove on to Grove Hall. She took the back roads, which passed homes most affected by the floods. A few sat forlorn and semi-abandoned, but most showed at least glimmers of life. Maggie resolved to renew her volunteer efforts once Mardi Gras was over; she’d ask Jayden to teach her a few simple construction skills she could put to use in the rebuilding efforts.

  She parked in the circular driveway fronting Grove Hall and let herself in. She found the paint samples in the entry foyer and picked them up. She started for the front door. Then she paused. A sudden instinct motivated her to reverse course and hasten up the mansion’s cypress staircase.

  When she reached the second-floor landing, she closed her eyes, trying to recall the path that led to the home’s secret room. The day’s fading light didn’t help her task, so she resorted to feeling the walls of each bedroom until she found the outline of a hidden door. She gently pressed on it, and the door opened. Maggie stepped inside. The secret room was no longer bare. Trash and a few empty liquor bottles littered the floor. An old blanket lay rolled up in a corner. I think I know where Kaity got the inspiration for her steamy essay, she thought. Maggie hoped against hope that whatever assignation the girl had arranged was with someone other than Jayden. The last thing the struggling vet needed was to be caught in Gin’s furious crosshairs. Please let him be too smart to fool around with an underage, oversexed teen.

  Maggie noticed a plastic bag among the trash. She picked it up and began stuffing it with fast-food wrappers and liquor bottles. She’d alert Kyle to the situation, but figured if the trespassing kids came back to a clean room before he had a chance to change the locks, they’d know they’d been busted. As she cleaned, Maggie wondered what drove people to hide aspects of their lives. She was in a room built almost two hundred years ago to shelter a family secret, now being used for clandestine assignations. There was the painting at Doucet, almost as old, hiding what might be a map. And then there was Gerard Damboise and his last words: “Lies. Secrets.”

  She thought about his murder and the attempt on Constance’s life; evidence now pointed to the couple being victims connected to a surprisingly controversial exhibit. Robbie Metz mentioned the last orphan train had come to Cajun Country in 1929. Was there something linked to that historic event that the murderer wanted to hide?

  With the only light in the room coming from the sunset’s last flash, Maggie rushed to finish filling the trash bag. The dark, silent house spooked her. She dashed down the stairs and out of Grove Hall, tossing the bag into the workmen’s dumpster before getting into her car. As she drove away, Maggie released a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding in. Her phone rang, and she pressed a button on her Bluetooth to answer the call.

  “Hey, chére, it’s your mama,” Ninette said. “Are you on your way home?”

  “Yes, I should be there in less than ten. Is everything okay?”

  “Oh yes.” Ninette’s voice was measured. “But we’re having a service for your father’s pot.”

  “We’re having a what?”

  “A service.”

  “You mean like a funeral?”

  “Yes.”

  “For a pot?”

  “Just come home. And soon.”

  Ninette ended the call, missing Maggie’s groan. Maggie speed-dialed Lia, who picked up on the first ring. “Hey, it’s me. I’m dropping off your paint samples, but I can’t stay for a visit. I have to go home and attend a funeral for cookware.”

  She relayed the saga of the ill-fated cast iron pot, and to her surprise, Lia burst into tears. “I have such great memories of your dad’s gumbo,” her cousin sobbed. “Then again, I also have more hormones than a mama elephant, so that could account for my being so upset about a beat-up old pot.”

  “Yeah, hormones would get my vote.”

  “But think about it, Maggie. How would you feel if Grandpa Doucet’s convertible died and had to go to the junkyard?”

  Maggie clutched the steering wheel of her beloved vintage Falcon. “Don’t even say that. But I see what you mean.”

  “Kyle can come by for the samples. Go home. Your dad needs you.”

  “Okay,” Maggie said, choked up. “I will.” And to her surprise, she began to cry.

  * * *

  Maggie and Ninette watched solemnly as Tug dropped a final shovel of dirt on the departed cast iron pot, now resting peacefully under a centuries-old magnolia tree. “I know you both think I’ve gone cuckoo, but I couldn’t bring myself to toss it in the garbage. Didn’t seem right.”

  “Oh, chére, I know.” Ninette put her arms around her husband. “I’d give anything to have that old pot back and you banging around my kitchen,
getting in my way, judging my gumbo against yours.”

  “It’ll happen. I just need time.” Tug hugged his wife back. Then he picked up the lantern lighting the area.

  “Dad, wait.” Maggie reached into a bag by her side and pulled out a small cast iron pot. “Remember this? You got it for me when I was little so I could pretend to cook alongside you. I’d like to donate it as a marker.”

  “Thank you, sweet girl.” Tug took the small pot from Maggie and placed it on top of the fresh mound. “I could use a drink.”

  “I think we all could,” Ninette quickly responded.

  The threesome retreated to the manor house front parlor, where Tug mixed them each a Pimm’s Cup. “Anyone hungry?” Ninette asked. “I can start a holy trinity and see where it leads.” She sometimes enjoyed cooking up the Cajun trifecta of celery, green pepper, and onions, then letting inspiration strike.

  “I’m having dinner with Bo,” Maggie said. She checked the room’s walnut grandfather clock for the time. “He was supposed to be here ten minutes ago. I better give him a call.” Maggie stepped onto the veranda and speed-dialed the detective.

  “Hey.” Bo sounded tired and distracted.

  “Hi there. Dinner tonight? Remember?”

  Bo groaned. “Ugh, I’m so sorry. I’ve been working on the Damboise case—cases.”

  “Any progress?”

  “There’s no evidence of unexplained deposits in Gerard’s accounts, which rules out blackmail. Ballistics shows the bullet he was shot with came from Constance’s pistol, but there’s no evidence to show she killed him and then tried to kill herself but chickened out. And there’s no evidence pointing to another suspect, so what we’ve got right now is a whole lotta nothin’.”

  Maggie heard the frustration in his voice. “Chére, you need a break. Instead of going out, why don’t you come by here? I can mix you a drink, make you something to eat. Throw in a nice, relaxing back massage.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m not good company tonight. When I finish here at the station, I have a bunch of insurance paperwork for FEMA I have to go through. Maybe tomorrow night.”

  The maybe cut through Maggie’s heart. “Bo … I think we need to talk.”

  There was a long pause and then a sigh. “I know.”

  Maggie ended the call before he could get out what she could only assume would be a perfunctory “I love you.” The cell phone fell to the veranda floor as she dropped her face into her hands.

  After a moment, she wiped away tears, picked up her phone, and went into the house. She walked down the hall to the Rose Room and gently tapped on the door. “Venir en,” Gran’ called from inside. “Come in.”

  Maggie stepped into the room, where her grand-mère was sitting up in bed, reading. “Are you still contagious?”

  “Given the amount of antibiotics I’ve been pumped with, I certainly hope not.”

  Maggie walked to the bed and kicked off her shoes. She crawled in next to Gran, who closed her book and placed it on the nightstand. She stroked Maggie’s hair. “Do you hate when people say, ‘This too shall pass?’”

  “A thousand percent.”

  “Then I won’t say it.”

  Gran began humming a French lullaby. Maggie snuggled closer to her and was slowly lulled into a deep, deep sleep.

  * * *

  Maggie woke up early in the morning next to her grand-mère, feeling unexpectedly refreshed. She might lack solutions to any of her dilemmas, but at least she had the energy to face down the day. Gran’ was still asleep, so Maggie carefully extricated herself from the bed. She treated herself to a morning jog, returned to the shotgun cottage for a shower, and then strode back to the manor house. As she stepped inside, she heard the B and B’s landline ringing, and ran into the office to answer the call. “Crozat Plantation Bed and Breakfast. May I help you?” she said in her sunniest voice.

  “Uh, yeah. This is going to sound weird.” The caller was male, and from the timbre of his voice, Maggie guessed he was in his late twenties or early thirties. “I’m trying to track down a guy named Ira Stein and wondered if he might be staying at your place.”

  “No, we don’t have any guests checked in at the moment.”

  The caller uttered an expletive. “Sorry, my bad. I know he was going to your neighborhood, and I’ve tried a ton of places in the area. He was supposed to be back a week ago and never showed. I don’t know how to find him. I kept telling him, it’s the twenty-first century—get a cell. Even if it’s one of those Jitterbug phones with big numbers for old dudes. Anyway, thanks. I’ll keep looking.”

  “Wait—don’t hang up.” Maggie felt a frisson of excitement. “Mr. Stein’s an old dude? Can you describe what he was wearing? I mean, generally wore?”

  “I dunno. Old guy stuff. You know, ratty pants, old guy sweaters. He kind of had a ‘Hey, remember the eighties look’ going. Do you know him?”

  “I think I do.”

  “Awesome. If you see Ira, tell him to find a phone and call Max. I need to know how much longer I should keep watering his plants.”

  Every nerve in Maggie’s body pulsed. “Max, if Mr. Stein is who I think he is, you can keep the plants. He won’t be coming home to water them.”

  Chapter 17

  Maggie burst out of the back door and ran outside to her parents, who were weeding Ninette’s organic garden. “Our John Doe has a name,” she called to them.

  Ninette gasped and Tug dropped his trowel. “Who—what—how?” he sputtered.

  Maggie filled them in on her conversation with Max, which had continued after she’d alerted him to his neighbor’s death. “Ira lived in New York on the Upper Westside. One of those five-floor walkups where millennials pay a fortune and old-timers like Ira pay practically nothing. Max said he was a total curmudgeon who worked at the lower Manhattan Department of Motor Vehicles office until he retired, and seemed to have no friends or family. But he was obsessed with genealogy. I’m sure it’s our guy. I have to let Bo know.”

  She ran back into the house and called the Pelican PD station. “Bo’s not here today,” Artie Belloise told her, with a full mouth as usual. Maggie wondered if there was ever a time Artie wasn’t eating.

  “Then I need to talk to Rufus.”

  “Not here either. Try ’em at Ru’s house. We were hanging out there last night.”

  “Thanks, Artie.”

  Maggie ended the call. Then she made a decision. She ran down the hall to the Rose Room and threw open the door, startling Gran. “Heavens, child. I’d prefer not to add a stroke to my list of ailments.”

  “Sorry, but it’s important. I know who the man was that we found dead in the bayou after the flood. Mom and Dad can fill you in. Tell them I ran over to Bo and Ru’s.”

  She was gone before Gran’ could respond.

  * * *

  Maggie pulled up in front of Rufus’s home, a double-wide trailer next to the skeleton of La Plus Belle, a McMansion he and Vanessa had been building before she left him at the altar. Maggie gave the trailer door a hard knock. She heard footsteps, and a minute later, Rufus, clad in gym shorts and a grandpa tank tee, opened the door. “Hey,” he said, his face registering surprise. “Why the visit? You couldn’t reach Bo by phone? It’s probably buried in here somewhere.” Rufus gestured to the trailer’s living room behind him, which looked like a party tornado had blown through.

  “I need to talk to both of you,” Maggie said.

  “Okay.” Rufus turned around and hollered down the hallway behind him. “Beauregard, company!”

  “Hey Ru, any chance you could teach your pals how to tell the difference between a bathtub and a trash can?” Bo’s cranky voice came from the trailer’s bathroom. He appeared, holding a bag full of empty beer cans. Like Rufus, he was surprised to see Maggie. Unlike his cousin, the look on Bo’s face also conveyed an unusual blend of pleasure and discomfort. “Maggie. Hi. What—”

  “This isn’t a social call,” she said, cutting him off. “John Doe is Ira Stein.” Rufu
s uttered a stunned expletive, and Bo tossed aside the trash bag. She had their full attention. “He’s—was—a senior citizen from Manhattan. His neighbor, a guy named Max, has been trying to track him down. Ira told him he was coming to our area to visit family, which surprised Max since he’d always found Ira to be a loner. It was family Ira never knew he had; he tracked them down through genealogy research. Max has been watering his plants. He’s got keys to Ira’s apartment.”

  Bo and Rufus exchanged a look. “We need to go to New York,” Bo said. Rufus nodded. “I’ll call Perske, then NYPD and tell them to secure Stein’s apartment.”

  Bo disappeared down the hall, leaving Maggie with Rufus. “Nice work,” he said.

  “It’s more about luck. I happened to answer when Max called.” Maggie picked up the trash bag Bo had discarded and began filling it. “Might as well make myself useful while we’re waiting. By the way, Ru, if you were thinking your recent party lifestyle would be a great way to complicate my relationship with Bo, job well done.”

  “Hold up. That’s the exact opposite of my plan.” Rufus tossed more beer cans into Maggie’s bag.

  “Plan?”

  “I mean, don’t get me wrong—I’m having a great time. But I’ve been trying to push Bo into your arms, not out of them.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah. I figured if things were bad enough here, he’d be forced to move in with you.”

  “How romantic,” Maggie said dryly.

  “He’s got this bug up his butt about everything being ‘perfect.’ That’s a lotta pressure to put on a relationship. I’ve never tried to be perfect in a relationship.”

  “So I hear from all your exes,” Maggie said. Rufus gave her a good-natured light punch in the arm. Their relationship had improved to the point where the two former enemies could kid with each other. “But really, thank you. Although I don’t think perfection is the issue anymore. The problem is much bigger than that.”