Mardi Gras Murder

by Ellen Byron

  An angry Maggie started her car and backed out of the Park ’n’ Shop parking lot. She made sure to dodge any eye contact with Kaity, who was still on the phone. Kaity and her grandmother had lied about the girl’s age. She was eighteen—which made her ineligible for the Miss Pelican Mardi Gras Gumbo contest.

  * * *

  Gran pursed her lips. “Well, this is disturbing.”

  She’d been enjoying another café au lait at the small table in the shotgun kitchen when Maggie showed up with the news of Kaity and Gin’s deception.

  Maggie nodded soberly. “I have to wonder if Lee knew about it.”

  Gran craned her neck to see out the kitchen window. “Why don’t you ask him? He just pulled up. We were supposed to go dancing again this afternoon.”

  The path to the shotgun cottage crunched under heavy-soled footsteps. There was a brisk knock at the door. Maggie opened it to Lee. “A great good morning to you, pretty lady.” Lee greeted them with an affable grin that brought to mind his great-granddaughter’s cheery countenance. “I’m here to steal away your grand-mère.”

  “We’ll see about that.” Gran’ marched in from the kitchen and stood in front of Lee, her arms folded in front of her chest. “Were you part of this little scam Gin and Kaity tried to pull off?”

  Lee stared at Gran’ blankly. “Scam? What now?”

  “They were pretending Kaity’s seventeen, when she’s really eighteen, which makes her ineligible for the Miss Pelican Mardi Gras Gumbo Queen title,” Maggie said.

  “Kaity’s eighteen?” Lee’s surprise was genuine.

  “Leland Abelard Bertrand, you appall me,” Gran’ said. “You don’t know how old your own great-granddaughter is?”

  Lee gave a sheepish shrug. “I have five kids, nine grandkids, and twenty-two great-grandkids. I think. Might be twenty-three. One of the grands was due to pop out a new great-grand sometime around now. Anyway, I do know Kaity and her mama went through such a bad patch that Kaity ran away. Gin tracked her down and took her in, but the girl lost so much school time she had to repeat a year. That’s why her grades are good. Basically, it’s her second year as a senior. So … would that make her eighteen?”

  “Or even nineteen.”

  “Oh boy.” Lee’s shoulders sagged. “I’ll talk to her and Gin.”

  “Don’t,” Maggie said. “I will.”

  “Whatever you think’s best. I’m sorry about all this.” Lee sat up straight and fixed his focus on Gran, a hopeful look in his eyes. “Dancing?”

  Gran shook her head. “No dancing.”

  “I understand.” Lee stood up. Looking like a scolded schoolboy, Gran’s boyfriend took a slow walk out the front door.

  “I feel bad,” Maggie said. “I don’t want this to upset your relationship.”

  “Oh, it won’t,” Gran’ said, waving her hand in a dismissive gesture. “He was getting a tad too comfortable anyway. It’s good to keep him on his toes.”

  Gran returned to the kitchen and her coffee. Maggie texted Gin and Kaity that she needed to speak to them about a matter of great importance, then picked up her car keys. “This dang contest is taking up way too much of my life,” she muttered as she left for yet another trip to the Park ’n’ Shop.

  * * *

  Confronted with the evidence against them, Gin and Kaity both looked abashed and were effusively apologetic. Knowing simply participating in the contest helped transform the teen’s life, Maggie let go of her anger and presented the option of voluntarily withdrawing rather than being humiliated and outed as a liar, which Kaity gratefully accepted. Maggie was on her way to Junie’s for a meeting about Gaynell’s Mardi Gras Run when she got a text from Constance to the judges: “Kaity dropped out. Too much schoolwork. We’re down to Belle and Allouette.”

  One crisis solved, Maggie thought, relieved.

  The crowd at Junie’s was already liquored up and raucous by the time Maggie joined them. “The ladies got a head start on you,” JJ informed her as he ferried two full pitchers of beer to their tables. “You’re gonna have to do some serious catching up.”

  A scream of laughter enveloped the room. “I’ll pass on the catching up,” Maggie said. “I think someone here might need to stay sober.”

  “Good idea.” The sentiment came from Mike Randall, who sat at the bar with another man who looked vaguely familiar to Maggie. Mike wore his HomeNHearth polo shirt; his companion was dressed in a suit. The men appeared to have come to Junie’s straight from work. “Hey, Maggie,” Mike said. He winked at her and then motioned to the man next to him. “Don’t know if you’ve met my brother-in-law, Jules Tremblay.”

  A feeling of recognition clicked in. “Yes, we met once, briefly. Hi, Jules.”

  Jules mimed tipping a hat. “Miss Maggie.” He followed this with a seductive smile. Like Mike, he was a flirt. Unlike Mike, who was flirtatious in an aging ex-quarterback way, Jules exuded the dissipated charm of an ill-fated Tennessee Williams character. Maggie had to wonder about Denise’s and Pauline’s taste in men.

  Gaynell saw Maggie. She jumped to her feet and waved her over. “Excuse me,” Maggie said to the air. With neither man getting the response they sought from Maggie, both had already turned their attention back to their drinks.

  Maggie navigated her way to Gaynell, who greeted her with a hug. “You made it—yay!” Gaynell said. “I’m going over the plan for tomorrow. Meet some of your fellow lady Mardi Gras.” Gaynell made a wide swoop with her arm. Maggie estimated around forty women filling the tables, many of whom she recognized, which made her happy. She was finding her place in Pelican. “Maggie,” Denise Randall called from one of the tables. She was sitting next to her cousin Pauline, who waved hello. Maggie waved back, then saw Ione and Mo sitting together and waved to them as well.

  Gaynell banged an empty pitcher with the back of a knife. “Okay, madams and mademoiselles, listen up. Here’s what’s happening Tuesday morning—on Mardi Gras!” The women whooped and hollered. Gaynell gave them a minute to settle down. “We meet up at nine AM wearing costumes and masks. About a dozen of us’ll be on horseback, including me, your capitaine. We’ll also have two flatbed trucks that you can jump on and off if you need a break from walking. I’ve got a map of our route, but it’s best just to follow along with the group. I got the okay from about ten houses for us to stop at. When we get to them, we sing our song, beg for gumbo ingredients that’ll go into the communal town gumbo, fool around a little—but not too much; we don’t want to go overboard and offend the homeowners with pranks like the guys sometimes do—” A loud boo rose from the crowd, and Gaynell banged the pitcher again. “Anyway, once we finish our stops, we march over to the Crozats’, who’ve kindly donated their big, beautiful front lawn for the town’s festivities.”

  Gaynell gestured to Maggie, and the women applauded. A few staggered to their feet in a slightly drunken standing ovation. “My parents get all the credit,” Maggie said. “Between us, I think my dad keeps the party close to home so his gumbo doesn’t have to travel.” Thanks to the high alcohol content of the crowd, she was rewarded with more laughter than her small joke merited.

  “Eh bien, that’s it for now. Any questions, text me.” Gaynell banged the pitcher one last time. “Meeting adjourned. Ladies, let’s par-tay!” She ran over to the stage and hopped up on it. Members of her all-female band, Gaynell and the Gator Girls, clambered onto the stage and joined her. Gaynell strapped on an accordion and launched into a zippy zydeco tune she’d composed. Women poured onto the dance floor. Maggie took an empty seat next to Eula Banks from the Hall of Records, and poured herself a glass of beer. “Maggie, I was going to call you.” Eula yelled to be heard over the music. “I got in touch with the New York Foundling Hospital. They found some records on Jacob Seideman and Bridget Colleary.”

  “They did?” Maggie yelled back. “That’s wonderful.”

  “It’s probably what we had in those missing files—maybe even more information. I’ll forward whatever they send me to yo
u as soon as I get it. I’m hoping it’ll hold the clues you need to identify Gerard’s murderer.”

  “I hope so too. Thanks so much, Eula. Can I buy you a drink?”

  “Sure.” Eula held up her stein. “Abita Light.”

  Maggie gave Eula a thumbs-up and trooped toward the bar. She was distracted by the sight of Pelican PD’s Cal Vichet and Artie Belloise coming in through the front door. Both were regulars at Junie’s, but the looks on their faces told her they weren’t there for some off-duty imbibing. The officers headed straight for Mike Randall and Jules Tremblay. Cal had a hand on his revolver; Artie was holding a pair of handcuffs as he walked. They stopped in front of Mike and Jules, who sensed their presence and turned toward them.

  “Mike. Jules.” Cal addressed them in a somber tone.

  “Hey, Cal.” Jules’s tone was friendly, but guarded. “What’s up?”

  ***Artie put his hand on his partner Cal’s shoulder. “I know you go fishing with these two fellas, so I’ll take it from here.” He opened the handcuffs and readied them as he spoke. “Mike Randall, I’m afraid you’re under arrest.”

  Chapter 22

  The ear-piercing scream Denise Randall unleashed when she saw her husband in handcuffs set off a chain reaction of screams from the other women that made Maggie’s ears ring. “My husband’s not a murderer!” Denise cried as she ran after the police officers.

  “He’s not being arrested for murder,” Artie said. “He’s under arrest for vandalism. He tore up—”

  “Allegedly,” Cal interrupted, throwing his fishing buddy Mike a sympathetic glance.

  “Allegedly tore up Doucet’s front steps. You can meet us at the station, Denise. Temporary station. Dang, I keep forgetting.”

  Cal and Artie disappeared through Junie’s front door. Denise fell sobbing into her cousin Pauline’s arms. “It’s okay,” Pauline said, stroking the distraught woman’s hair. “Jules, give Quentin MacIlhoney a call. Hurry.”

  “He’s probably at Fais Dough Dough,” Maggie said. “You can run right over there.”

  Eula Banks seconded Maggie’s suggestion, adding, “His mother-in-law’s been living with him, so he never goes home these days. Wouldn’t be surprised if he had a cot set up in the Fais Dough Dough back room.”

  “Thanks, I’m on it,” Jules said, and sprinted out the door.

  “I cannot believe this is happening,” Denise wept. “My poor Allouette. How’s she gonna take her daddy being in jail? Now she’ll never been be Pelican Mardi Gras Gumbo Queen.”

  Seriously?! was what Maggie wanted to say. Instead, she summoned up the self-control to respond in an even tone, “I wouldn’t give that a minute of worry right now. Here’s a thought. Why doesn’t Pauline go take care of Allouette, and I’ll take you to the police station?”

  Eula again backed Maggie up. “That’s a good idea. Maggie’s gotten to know Pelican PD real well, what with all the murders around her.”

  Maggie gritted her teeth. Eula was starting to bug her. “I know Pelican PD mostly because of my relationship with Bo Durand. But yes, I might be helpful that way.”

  Pauline and Denise exchanged a look, and then Pauline said, “Thank you, Maggie. I’m going to bring Allouette over to our house. If you need me, I’ll be there.”

  Gaynell appeared at Maggie’s side. “I called Ione. She’s going to meet us at the station. This is all news to her. She had no idea the police had a suspect.”

  The word suspect triggered another round of tears from Denise. Maggie put a comforting arm around her shoulder. “Let’s go. The sooner we get to Pelican PD, the sooner we can clean up this mess.”

  * * *

  Maggie quickly found a space in the giant parking lot outside Pelican PD’s provisional station, which was located in a big box store that had gone out of business. Inside the abandoned building, officers had used empty floor displays as partitions to create everything from offices to a holding area for anyone being transferred to Baton Rouge PD’s jail, the closest functional way station for Pelican’s small criminal element. This was where she and Denise found a glum, still handcuffed Mike Randall. “Baby,” Denise cried out, and ran to her husband. Cal Vichet, stuck with guard duty, made a halfhearted attempt to stop her.

  Mike opened his mouth to respond to Denise, but Cal shushed him. “Best not to say anything right now.” Abashed, Mike nodded.

  Chief Perske emerged from his improvised office, followed by Ione and Quentin MacIlhoney. The defense attorney wore an apron over his pink, perfectly ironed polo shirt and charcoal-gray designer slacks. For Quentin, this was dressing down. “How-do,” he greeted the new arrivals. “I was about to frost some cupcakes at Fais Dough Dough when Jules Tremblay zoomed in and sounded the alarm. But this case was so easy, I have half a mind not to charge you for it, my friend. Notice I said half a mind.”

  Chief Perske hovered over Mike Randall, his six-foot six-inch tree trunk of a body casting a giant shadow. “Go buy a lottery ticket, Randall, because today’s your lucky day.” Perske swung a thumb and a look of disdain at Quentin. “Thanks to this shyster here, Miss Savreau says she’s dropping all charges.”

  “It seems my client did Doucet a favor,” Quentin said. “Take it away, Ms. Savreau.”

  “When we were throwing out the ruined wood from the steps, I noticed something,” Ione said. “It wasn’t old growth cypress, the original material. Somewhere along the way, the steps were replaced. Probably in the 1950s, when the state first assumed control of the property. They thought they were upgrading the facility, but what they did was replace a good wood with a bad one. Those steps were rotting and termite-damaged. One of our visitors could’ve put a foot right through them and gotten injured.”

  “You see?” Quentin said. “Mr. Randall’s a downright hero.” He blithely ignored the glares emanating from both Ione and Chief Perske.

  “Mr. Randall, you still committed an act of vandalism,” Ione resumed. “But I’m willing to drop the charges if”—Ione placed a large emphasis on the small word—“you replace the Doucet steps with perfect new ones. And do a bunch of other tasks around the old place. Historic sites like ours are always short on money, so we’ll take donated labor any way we can get it, including from a vandal.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I can do that.” For the first time since they’d arrived at the police station, Maggie saw a glimmer of life in Mike. “You tell me what you need, and consider it done.” Then he looked down at the floor, unable to face Ione. “I’m sorry about the steps. When I was working on the security system, I heard you and Maggie talking about the painting and the treasure and … we could use some money. I got suckered into buying this online course on investing. Turns out the only one making money from it was the guy selling it. From now on, I’ll stick to what I’m good at—delivering stuff.”

  Maggie felt for Mike. She now saw his flirtatious bravado was an act masking his deep insecurity. “What you did was wrong, Mike. But there’s nothing wrong with delivering stuff. Where would flood repair be without you?” This earned a slight smile from him. “And remember, you have a wife who adores you and an absolutely extraordinary daughter. So, you must be doing something right.”

  “Not so sure about the ‘wife who adores you’ part right now. “Denise?” His tone was tentative. “You still love me? After what I pulled?” Denise responded with a fresh burst of tears and buried her face in Mike’s shoulder.

  ‘Now that’s what this ol’ shyster likes to see, a happy ending,” Quentin said. “’Course, I prefer seeing it after a long, drawn-out court case fulla billable hours, but it’s Louisiana. Someone’s doing something bad somewhere—they just ain’t been caught yet.”

  Like Gerard Damboise’s murderer, Maggie thought. She saw Chief Perske scowl. I bet he’s thinking exactly the same thing.

  * * *

  When Maggie returned to Crozat, she discovered the B and B’s guests were off being tourists, much to her relief. She was worn out from the events of the last few hours and lacked t
he energy to make small talk with strangers. Her grumbling stomach alerted her to the fact she had skipped lunch. She retrieved a container of jambalaya from the refrigerator and spooned it into a pot on the stove. When it was hot—but not too hot, Maggie transferred the jambalaya into a bowl and devoured it. She was sopping up the last remnants with a thick hunk of French bread when her cell rang. Bo’s name flashed on the screen, and her heart flip-flopped. “Hey.” Maggie kept her tone casual, despite her swirling emotions.

  “Hey yourself.” Bo’s tone was warm, but also casual. “Just wanted to check in.”

  “That’s nice. Thank you.” Oh, that was so lame. An uncomfortable silence followed. Maggie, desperate to end it, asked, “Any progress on the late Mr. Stein?”

  “Yes. Took too long, but we did get a search warrant for the library. Stein was obsessive-compulsive and, according to the head librarian, always did his genealogy searches on one particular computer. Unfortunately, it also turns out the computers are set in a way that erases a patron’s history. We’ll need a forensic computer expert to retrieve data. I was hoping we’d leave tonight, but now it looks like it won’t be until morning at the earliest. There’s one nonstop flight that’d get us to New Orleans by around four PM. We’ll miss the Courir and the gumbo contest, but even with the drive from the airport to Pelican, we’ll catch the rest of Mardi Gras. Ru’s bummed, though. He’s gone off to drown his sorrows in pizza and a Broadway show.”

  “You didn’t go with him?”

  “No. Wasn’t in the mood. There’s about a hundred Chinese restaurants around here. I’ll grab something from one of them and wait to hear back from the computer expert. NYPD fast-tracked it. I think they want to get rid of Rufus. He’s really ticking them off with his constant comments about how New Orleans is so much better than New York. They started calling him ‘the Big A-hole from the Big Easy.’”