by Ellen Byron
“That’s easy.” Gran’ took another sip of her doctored coffee. “The one thing Gerard could never get his hands on was a home for his beloved Historical Society. He even sniffed around us, dropping clumsy hints about how much work it must be to run a barely functional B and B, especially with me aging and your mama being a cancer survivor. He’d end by saying if we ever wanted to donate Crozat as a home for the Society, he’d do us a favor and take it off our hands. I believe this might have grown into an obsession that drove him to take reckless actions.”
“Here’s a scenario.” Maggie leaned in, her mind racing as she assembled the puzzle pieces of the murders. “The killer offers Gerard a bribe to cancel the exhibit in order to protect a secret about their family lineage. They offer some way to come up with a home for his collection—and I say his because I think that’s how Gerard perceived everything in the Historical Society—as his, not Pelican’s.”
“Yes. He became extremely and annoyingly possessive about every last item. That’s why I only donated a few things pro forma and made sure they were of little emotional value to us, which is sad because the Society should be of historical value to all in Pelican.”
“Agreed. So the floods come, and Ira Stein turns up dead. My guess is Ira contacted Gerard to find out more about the genealogy search that brought him to Pelican. After Ira died, Gerard connected the man’s death to the killer. And Gerard turns to blackmail. He’ll keep his mouth shut if the killer delivers the ultimate prize—whatever Gerard needs to create a permanent home for the Pelican Historical Society.”
“I’m assuming you have an idea about who our demented murderer might be.”
“Yes, but I’d rather not name a name because my theory is so fantastical it could get me in a lot of trouble if I’m wrong.”
“It could get you in more trouble if you’re right. Please watch out for yourself, chére.”
“I will. Promise.”
Gran finished her coffee and returned to her bedroom to dress for the day. Maggie forwarded the email from Constance to Bo, with a note to have someone at Pelican PD check Gerard’s datebook for all appointments the late Historical Society president had scheduled the week of the floods. She debated texting Bo her theory about who the killer might be, but had a sudden attack of paranoia about putting it in writing. She decided to pick up Bo at the airport and share her thoughts with him on the drive home. In Louisiana, even a killer could be counted on to take Mardi Gras off.
It was a decision that within hours she’d deeply regret.
* * *
Shortly before the Courir de Mardi Gras was to begin, Maggie changed into her costume. The day was cloudy and cool, so she slipped on undergarments that would keep her warm under the cotton fabric. Her slim five-foot four-inch frame still swam in the bright red pajamas. She pulled her brown hair into a high ponytail and then twisted it into a bun she stuffed under the capuchon hat. Just for fun, she put on Xander’s spooky, elaborate mask. She giggled when she saw herself in the mirror. An unrecognizable figure stared back, both amusing and unsettling. Maggie shook her arms and twisted her waist back and forth, making the multicolor strips of fabric decorating the outfit dance. Then she left the cottage to begin the celebrations.
Ninette and a group of local women were on Crozat’s front lawn, organizing for the community gumbo, when Maggie showed up in her costume. “Happy Mardi Gras!”
Ninette clasped a hand to her chest. “Chére, you put a scare in me. With that mask on, I didn’t know it was you.”
Maggie lifted the mask. Despite the nip in the air, drops of perspiration slid down her forehead. “This thing is hot. I don’t know how I’m going to wear it for hours.”
“You’ll be having so much fun you’ll forget it’s on.”
Ninette kissed her daughter on the cheek and returned to work. Maggie traipsed through the damp grass to where her father and his gumbo-cooking cohorts were setting up for the cook-off. The men—and the contestants were all men, for the Pelican townswomen, confident in their own cooking talent, had good-naturedly ceded this particular contest to the fellows—had to follow strict rules. Cooking would begin simultaneously at one PM, after the various courirs finished. The only prepared ingredients allowed were precooked meats, foul, seafood, and potato salad, which locals liked to add to their bowls of gumbo.
There were two long rows of tables and twenty butane burners or camp stoves for the contestants; no electricity was permitted. Some men had entered on their own; others built teams from friends and coworkers. Maggie noticed Team HomeNHearth was sans Mike Randall, who she assumed was lying low after his close dance with jail time. There’d be no Mississippi gumbo this cook-off. She found her father carefully lining up his ingredients in the order he would need them. “Good luck, Dad.” She kissed him on the cheek. “I know you’ll take home the trophy.”
“I hope,” Tug grumbled. “Artie and Cal are claiming they have some new secret ingredient.” Tug craned his neck to suss out the two officers’ setup.
“Uh-uh, no peeking,” Artie scolded.
“I’m not peekin’. I’m takin’ a mental picture of what a loser’s table looks like,” Tug shot back.
“Then you best be looking right in front of you, my friend.” Artie whooped at his own comeback and high-fived Cal.
Maggie laughed. “I’ll leave y’all to your gumbo trash-talking. I got a Run to run.”
Maggie drove over to the Hebert homestead, passing the occasional throng of Mardi Gras revelers. Given their general state of inebriation, she was glad they’d chosen to walk—or stagger, as it were—instead of get behind the wheel of a car. By the time she parked and joined Gaynell’s Courir, a large group had already assembled. All were costumed and masked, making it impossible to recognize a soul. This made Maggie uncomfortable despite the festive atmosphere. She wondered if some men had snuck into the Courir to prank the women, which she heard had happened in the past.
“Maggie,” a female voice said, and a Mardi Gras slapped a hand on her shoulder. The costumed woman lifted her mask, revealing Eula Banks. The grandmother of four had a beer in hand, despite the fact that it was eight thirty in the morning. “Did you get those files on the lost orphans I forwarded to you?”
“Yes, thank you so much.”
“Ce n’est pas rien. It’s nothin’.” Eula let out a loud belch, and Maggie got a wheaty whiff of hops.” Here’s hoping the files help you lock up the latest murderin’ town crazy.”
“Attention, tout le monde,” Gaynell called through a megaphone. She, along with half a dozen other participants, was on horseback. “Remember the rules. Beg as much as you want, but no stealing. No damaging anyone’s property. Keep the roughhousing playful so I don’t have to whip ya.” She brandished a leather whip, and the Mardi Gras reacted with mock fear. Gaynell used the whip to point out a couple of flatbed trucks sporting Porta Potties tricked out with Mardi Gras decorations. “We got two Andy Gumps on the flatbed trucks, if you need to take care of business. As far as riders go, the trucks can take as many people as can fit on them. But priority goes to those who have trouble walking.”
“I gotta ride cuz of my knee replacements,” Eula announced to the crowd. A dozen older women chorused, “Me too.” Given Pelican’s propensity for overweight citizens who’d rather hold onto the extra poundage than cut back on the rice and beans, this came as no surprise to Maggie.
“Are you ready, Mardi Gras?” Gaynell shouted. The group’s loud whoop answered the question. “Allons-y! Let’s go!”
There were more cheers as everyone descended on the Heberts, who were already waiting on their front porch. Mardi Gras fell to their knees, begging in French, and the Heberts responded by tossing bags of celery, onions, and green peppers. Maggie hung back, self-conscious. “Celeste Fontenot is up a tree!” someone yelled. Maggie turned to see a Mardi Gras had climbed into one of the Hebert’s trees and was pretending to ignore Gaynell’s demands she come down. Gaynell cracked her whip on the grass. Celeste mime
d tears, slid down the trunk, and ran back to join the group, which began singing a loud, off-key rendition of “La Chanson de Mardi Gras” as they marched away from the Heberts.
The Courir de Mardi continued this way for the next two hours. The crowd grew larger, drunker, and more raucous. Maggie got over her shyness and joined in the festivities. The other Mardi Gras cheered her when she caught a live chicken that had been released as a ceremonial addition to the gumbo. “Run free, little friend,” she whispered to it. She released the bird, and it scampered off to join its feathered brethren in the field. Maggie noticed Gaynell was having trouble controlling some of the more inebriated mischief-makers. “Do you need help?” she asked as her friend tried to coax yet another Mardi Gras out of a tree.
“Nope, this is my job as capitaine. But thanks. Hey!” With a yell and crack of her whip, Gaynell startled the Mardi Gras, who tumbled off the low-hanging branch.
Maggie returned to the group. Thirsty, she took a gulp of beer from a can offered up by a Mardi Gras who pulled it from a pouch attached to her costume. Many of the costumes had these pouches, which served to store the donated gumbo goods the Mardi Gras scored. The single beer gulp was enough to give Maggie a slight buzz, and she linked arms with a few other women as everyone sang:
Les Mardi Gras s’en vient de tout partout,
Tout alentour le tour du moyeu,
Ça passe une fois par an, demandé la charité,
Quand-même ça c’est une patate, une patate ou des gratins.
They switched to the English version of “The Mardi Gras Song”:
The Mardi Gras come from all around,
All around the center of town,
They come by once per year, asking for charity,
Sometimes it’s a sweet potato, a sweet potato or pork rinds.
Another hour went by, and Maggie’s energy was flagging. She’d given in to the party mood and finished the can of beer, which was acting as a soporific. I might as well have taken a sleeping pill, she thought with a yawn. She forced a jog to catch up with the flatbed trucks, which were as packed with humanity as a New York subway at rush hour. “Any room for me?” she asked plaintively, to which she received a resounding, “No.”
A loud yell came from the front of the group. It was matched by a loud yell from across the street. “The men’s Courir,” a Mardi Gras shouted. The crowd instantly tripled in size and noise. The men’s run featured a local Cajun band on a flatbed truck, which broke into a dance tune. The street quickly filled with dancing, singing, flirting Mardi Gras. Maggie, overwhelmed with the desire to go home and shower before driving to the airport to pick up Bo, stumbled out of their way. Her mask had become a mini furnace, causing sweat to pour down her forehead. She turned her back to the crowd and furtively lifted up the mask, grateful for the unusual midday cool breeze. She was relieved when the crowd began singing and dancing their way back to the Hebert home, where the women’s Courir had begun, and trudged along with it.
“You look beat, chére.”
Maggie glanced around. On one side a couple was singing; on the other, two Mardi Gras were cracking themselves up as they pretended to smooch through their grotesque masks. No one was paying attention to her.
“Y’all like a ride?”
She looked up to see a masked horseback rider beckoning to her. “Yes, thank you.”
“Help her on the horse,” the rider called to a few roisterers.
Two male Mardi Gras lifted Maggie into the air and onto the horse, their alcohol intake seeming to give them super-human strength. “Laissez les bon temps rouler!” they called after her as the horse cantered off with its two riders.
“I really appreciate this,” Maggie said to her mystery rescuer, who nodded a response. “I’m Maggie Crozat. Do I know you?”
The rider muttered something in a guttural voice. The singing and imbibing had made many of the Mardi Gras hoarse. Between that, the mask, and the oversize costume, Maggie had no idea if she was clinging to the waist of a man or a woman.
The rider suddenly pulled on the reins, and the horse took off in a new direction … away from the Courir. Maggie watched helplessly as the jerky movement caused her cell phone to bounce out of her pocket onto the road. “My phone fell—do you mind if we go back?”
There was no response. Instead, the horse’s canter turned into a gallop. And bile rose in Maggie’s throat as she realized she wasn’t being rescued.
She was being kidnapped.
Chapter 25
“Help! Somebody help me!”
Maggie knew screaming was useless, but she was desperate. She debated jumping off the horse, but it was galloping too fast. She might crack her skull or break her neck in the fall. As they rode, her wire mesh mask bounced up and down, creating a map of painful scratches and abrasions on her face.
The horse picked up speed, forcing Maggie to hold on even more tightly to her captor. They made a sudden turn and galloped into the driveway of Grove Hall. The rider pulled on the reins, causing the horse to rear as he came to a stop. Maggie lost her balance and tumbled onto the hard ground. She lay there, dazed, for a minute and then scrambled to her feet. Her plan to run was derailed by the barrel of a gun stuck in her back. It was a small gun barrel—the size of a purse pistol. Like the one Constance Damboise owned. “Scream and I’ll shoot you,” her tormentor said in a rough voice. “Go into the house.”
“It’s locked,” Maggie said, hoping to thwart whatever plan was being enacted.
“It’s not. Go.”
Maggie did as she was told. She turned the knob of the massive front door, which opened with ease. Maggie cursed herself for not getting around to telling Kyle he should change the lock.
She and her abductor entered the empty, unfinished front hall. “Go up the stairs,” the mystery Mardi Gras ordered. Maggie hesitated as she contemplated making a sudden move that would throw her kidnapper off balance. The gun barrel dug deeper into her back, canceling the potential escape plan. “Now. Move.”
Maggie reluctantly walked up the stairs. When they reached the landing, the gun directed her to make a right. She knew exactly where they were going. “You’re taking me to the secret room,” she said. “Aren’t you, Pauline?”
The kidnapper snorted. Then she pulled off her mask, revealing Pauline Boudreau Tremblay. “Ding-ding-ding,” she said, making the prize-winning sound of a game show. “I can finally take this thing off.” Pauline tossed the mask over the landing rail, and it crashed to the floor below. “So now that you know where you’re going, let’s get there. Allons-y.”
“I don’t remember which room it’s in,” Maggie said, stalling for time.
“No worries. I do.”
Again, Pauline used the gun to poke Maggie in a specific direction. She marched Maggie down the hall and into a bedroom, where she pressed on the door hidden in one of the room’s walls. The door swung open. Pauline nudged Maggie into the room, which was once more littered with illicit partying paraphernalia. “Here’s what’s going to happen,” Pauline said. “I’m going to load you up with sleeping pills. If you have any ‘trouble’ swallowing them, this gun should fix that problem. Someday I have to thank Constance Damboise for introducing me to the value of a purse pistol. They’re so convenient. Although I’d rather not shoot you. It’s too close to the other deaths.”
“You mean murders.”
“I have no desire to argue with you. I want to get this over with so I can watch my daughter continue the family legacy of being crowned Miss Pelican Mardi Gras Gumbo Queen.”
“It’s a legacy built on a lie. You’re not a Boudreau at all, are you? Or a Favrot. Your great-grandmother was Bridget Colleary and your great-grandfather was Jacob Seideman.”
Maggie had come to suspect that, despite her self-deprecating attitude, Pauline Beaudreau Tremblay was deeply invested in her impressive Louisiana lineage and status as a pillar of Pelican society. And thus she had the most to lose if her true background was exposed. Maggie assumed th
e decorator was behind the theft of the files at the Hall of Records. But Pauline couldn’t stop the New York Foundling Hospital’s records from revealing her secret—a secret obsessively guarded by generations of the woman’s ancestors. Both Bridget and Jacob had been adopted by families determined to hide their birth lineage, so they were raised as Boudreaux and Favrots. They’d eventually met, fallen in love, and married, taking the secret of who they both really were to their graves—if they ever knew, having been adopted as infants. “You found out who you really are from Ira Stein, who was obsessed with genealogy,” Maggie said. “Ira, whose mother’s maiden name was Seideman. A distant relation of yours.”
Just hearing the names of her orphaned ancestors made Pauline grimace. “Do you think Jules would have married me if he knew about my real background? Do you think anyone would have?”
Maggie stared at her in disbelief. “Uh, yes. Considering it’s not the eighteenth century, I think a lot of people would have married you.” They would have regretted it in a big way when they realized you were out of your mind, of course, Maggie thought, but wisely refrained from saying. She clung to the desperate hope that if she sympathized with Pauline, there was at least a chance of having her life spared.
“Jules never, ever would have proposed. Tremblays marry up, not down.” Tears slipped down Pauline’s cheeks. “Do you know what it’s like to find out your whole past is a farce? Of course you don’t, because your background is legitimate.” She spit out the last word. “You know who wasn’t legitimate? Either of my great-grands. My great-grandmother’s mother was a chambermaid, father unknown. My great-grandfather’s parents were teenage Jewish immigrants. No wonder Ira was so thrilled to find out he was related to a distinguished Louisiana family. Except being related to him canceled out the distinguished part.”
