by Ellen Byron
Cajun Kiss of Death
A CAJUN COUNTRY MYSTERY
Ellen Byron
Dedicated to Ramona DeFelice Long.
You have no idea how much your stamp of approval has meant to me.
To Jer and Eliza. You are my world.
To Mom, David, Tony, and my late father Richard.
To everyone who has encouraged me on this incredible journey: Friends. Readers. Readers who became friends. Likewise, blogger-reviewers like Dru, Mark, Kristopher, Sandra, Lesa, Lisa, Debra Jo, and so many others.
To the Malice Domestic and Left Coast Crime conventions and attendees for their incalculable support and inspiration. Thank you all from the bottom of my heart.
Laissez les bon temps rouler! Let the good times roll.
Acknowledgments
A shout-out and immense gratitude to my indefatigable agent, Doug Grad, and the team at Crooked Lane Books, including Matt Martz, Madeline Rathle, Melissa Rechter, brilliant cover artist Stephen Gardner, and everyone who’s helped edit, design, and sell my books since Plantation Shudders debuted in 2015. A special—and eternally grateful thank-you—to my amazing mystery editor. I know who you are but won’t reveal your secret. But any honor I’ve received is shared with you.
Thanks to my fab fellow chicks Lisa Q. Mathews, Kellye Garrett, Mariella Krause, Vickie Fee, Cynthia Kuhn, Kathy Valenti, Leslie Karst, Becky Clark, and Jennifer J. Chow. Ladies, I am nothing without your priceless feedback. Especially you on this one, Leslie! I couldn’t have written Cajun Kiss of Death without your help.
Nancy Cole Silverman, our weekly walks have been lifesavers. West Donas Walkers Kelly Goode, Lisa Libatique, Kathy Wood, and Nancy McIlvaney, same goes for our power walks! Jan Gilbert and Kevin McCaffrey, I couldn’t write this—or any of my books—without your support. Same goes for you, my dear friends Charlotte Allen and Gaynell Bourgeois Moore. I love and value you both more than I can say. Additional thanks to more of my New Orleans “krewe”: Laurie Becker, Shawn Holahan, Madeline Feldman, and Frank Moon. David J. Hubbell, the world owes you for your passion to preserve Cajun food heritage. Mark Bologna, New Orleans is blessed to have you as its champion. And D. Max Maxey, I owe you for that awesome cocktail recipe. Wendy Allen-Belleville, I cannot thank you enough for your sensitivity read. Thanks to all the friends who’ve supported me throughout this fabulous journey—I’m talking to you, June Stoddard (Mystery Guild—talk about support!), Nancy Adler, Denise and Stacy Smithers, Karen Fried, Von Rae Wood, and Kim Rose! Laurie Graff, your friendship means the world to me—as does your promo savvy! If I’ve missed anyone, I’m deeply sorry.
I’m blessed to belong to Sisters in Crime and Mystery Writers of America, specifically the chapters SinCLA and SoCalMWA. Without the Guppies, a SinC subgroup, I never would have gotten anywhere in the mystery world. A million fin flaps to all of you! Same goes for my fabulous groupmates at the Facebook page Cozy Mystery Crew. Malice Domestic, you gave me my start and I will be forever grateful. Left Coast Crime, I love you! And a super special heaping of love goes out to all the bloggers and reviewers who’ve supported me over the years, some of whom have become dear friends in the process. Without you, I think the only people who’d buy and read my books would be my immediate family, lol. I’m talking to you, Dru Ann Love, Mark Baker, Lesa Holstine, Lisa Kelly, Sandra Murphy, Lorie Hamm, Carol Papp, Jerri Cachero, Christine Gentes, Marie McNary, Danna, and Debra Jo Burnette. Apologies to anyone I missed. I could go on forever naming your wonderful names. I must also thank my intrepid readers group, the Cajun Country Mysteries Dirty (Rice) Dozen, affectionately known as the Gator Gals. Jane, Kimberley, Dianna, Jackie, Carol, Marci, Sheila, Mary, Kory, Nicole, Alisha, Melissa, Jerri, Kris, Staci, Cheryl, Cherie, Virginia, Jean, Ginger, Tillie, and Donnell—I am so grateful to each and every one of you. A special shout-out to reader-turned-pal and needlepoint guru, Ruth B. (Thanks for sharing Jennifer with me, Ruth!)
And finally, infinite thanks to my mom, my bros, and especially my husband Jerry and daughter Eliza. Words can’t express how much I love you.
What an amazing ride this has been.
The People of Cajun Kiss of Death
The Family
Magnolia Marie “Maggie” Crozat-Duran—our heroine
Bo Durand—detective and Maggie’s new husband
Xander Durand—Bo’s eight-year-old son and Maggie’s new stepson
Tug Crozat—Maggie’s father
Ninette Crozat—Maggie’s mother
Grand-mère—Maggie’s grandmother on her dad’s side
Lee Bertrand—Maggie’s new step-grandfather
Friends, Frenemies, and Locals
JJ—proprietor of Junie’s Oyster Bar and Dance Hall
Ione Savreau—friend and coworker
Vanessa Fleer MacIlhoney—frenemy turned friend … adjacent
Quentin MacIlhoney—defense attorney, Vanessa’s husband
Little Earlie Waddell—publisher, editor, and reporter for the Pelican Penny Clipper
Clinton Poche—local teen and occasional Crozat B and B employee
Brianna Poche—Clinton’s two-years-younger sister
Abel Garavant—proprietor of Abel’s Home Cookin’
Ash Garavant—Abel’s son and Maggie’s old flame
Vi De Lavallade—renowned painter currently in residence at Tulane University
Esme—Xander’s young friend
Sandy Sechrest—fitness studio owner and Rufus Durand’s wife
Lulu Colombe—Maggie’s friend from high school
Ginny Parvenue—part-time Doucet Plantation tour guide
Lia Tienne Bruner—Maggie’s cousin
Kyle Bruner—Lia’s husband
Robert “Bob” Monnin—local bank president
Father Prit—the town priest
Pelican PD Law Enforcement
Rufus Durand—Pelican PD police chief
Cal Vichet—officer
Artie Belloise—officer
Chanson Restaurant Staff & Crozat B and B Guests
Phillippe Chanson—celebrity chef and owner of the Chanson Restaurant group
Kate Chanson—brand manager for the Chanson Group and Philippe’s ex-wife
Becca Wittenberg—sous-chef and Phillippe’s current girlfriend
Patrick “Trick” Costello—mixologist
Scooter Pitot—oyster shucker
Luis Alvaro—young garde-manger for Chanson’s new restaurant
Dyer Gossmer—former journalist turned Phillippe’s ghostwriter
Chapter 1
Eight-year-old Xander, dressed in a suit for the first time in his life, slowly walked down the aisle of St. Theresa, the quaint church that had provided spiritual guidance to the Catholic citizens of Pelican, Louisiana, for over a century. The young boy used one hand to carry a small satin pillow holding a wedding band. In his other hand he held a blue leash attached to Gopher, the Crozat family’s beloved basset hound. Esme, a platinum-haired sprite and Xander’s best friend, followed him down the aisle. She tossed rose petals in a deep shade of peach with her left hand. The other held tight to a pink leash attached to Jolie, a stray Chihuahua mix who had found a happy home with the Crozats.
Gopher braked to inhale a couple of Goldfish crackers dropped by one of the toddlers attending the wedding with their parents, causing a minor scuffle as Jolie tried to get in on the snack action. The ring bearer and flower girl quickly untangled the dog’s leashes and proceeded to the altar, where they made a left and took seats in the first pew. Cherie Claire, a violinist better known as the fiddler in the popular Cajun band Gaynell and the Gator Girls, segued into a slow, dreamy version of the Cajun classic “Jolie Blon,” and the guests rose to their feet. Magnolia Marie “Maggie” Crozat, clad in a
n exquisite wedding gown worn by the generations of her mother’s family that preceded her, appeared in the church doorway, a beaming parent on each arm. Tug and Ninette Crozat proudly led their daughter down the aisle to her waiting groom, Bo Durand, who managed to control the emotions threatening to overwhelm him at the sight of his beautiful bride.
Father Prit, Pelican’s popular priest, motioned for everyone to sit, then began leading the wedding mass in an accent that would be incomprehensible to a new attendee but was easily understood by his congregation. “By the power vested in me,” he concluded, “I now pronounce you husband and wife.” Father Prit then focused on the couple next to Maggie and Bo—Maggie’s grand-mère Charlotte Bringier Crozat and her new husband, Lee Bertrand. “I now pronounce you husband and wife.” The priest finally turned his attention to a third couple, Pelican police chief and Bo’s first cousin, Rufus Durand, and his lovely bride, Sandy Sechrest, an exotic dancer turned fitness studio owner. “I now pronounce you husband and wife.” Father Prit favored all three couples with a warm, happy smile. “You may now share a kiss. Make sure it’s with the right spouse.”
The couples kissed. “It’s almost time!” someone yelled, and the crowd began counting down. “Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one … Happy New Year!”
Church bells pealed as the guests whooped and applauded. “Let’s eat!” another guest yelled.
This engendered an even louder round of cheers and applause. A guest pulled out a trumpet and began playing “When the Saints Go Marchin’ In” as the brides held up the umbrellas they carried instead of bouquets and danced down the aisle out of the church and toward the parking lot, followed by their guests in a boisterous second line.
People piled in their cars to make the short drive to Crozat Plantation B and B, where a special Réveillon dinner awaited them under a party tent on the expansive front lawn. Eager to protect the heirloom gown that would be handed down to future generations—perhaps even her own daughter someday—Maggie disappeared into the manor house, where she traded the gown for a simple white cocktail dress. She returned to the festivities and admired the scene with Gran. Thousands of fairy lights looped around the inside and outside of the tent and twinkled from the lawn’s ancient oak trees. Every table sported a centerpiece of white roses, dahlias, snowberries, peonies, camellias, and magnolias, perfuming the air with a rich floral scent. “It looks gorgeous,” Maggie said. “And those flowers …” She closed her eyes briefly and inhaled the fragrance.
Grand-mère gave her granddaughter the side eye and fluffed her own silver hair, which sparkled thanks to a last-minute shake of glitter. “If I had a dollar for every time you said, ‘Gran, isn’t that a little over the top?’ …”
“I’ve never been so happy to be wrong.” Maggie hugged her grandmother and kissed her on both cheeks. “Let’s go find our husbands. Oooh, it feels so weird saying that.”
“You get used to it,” Gran said. “Of course, I am on my second.”
The women went off to locate their newly minted spouses. Moments later, a chime announced that dinner was being served. “Newlyweds first,” Rufus declared, leading his wife Sandy to the front of a buffet line. He waved to Bo and Maggie, who were surrounded by well-wishers.
“I thought the Creole tradition was to enjoy a Réveillon dinner on Christmas Eve.” This came from DruCilla, a past guest who had returned to the B and B to celebrate the marriage. Lovie, her pet parrot, perched on her shoulder.
“In the nineteenth century, they celebrated Christmas and New Year’s Eve with Réveillon dinners,” Maggie explained. Bo clasped his bride’s hand in his as they walked toward the nearest buffet line. “We cheated a little, since it’s technically New Year’s Day now. And we also mixed in some Cajun dishes with the Creole. But I don’t think anyone’s going to complain.”
DruCilla surveyed the repast in front of them, spread out on tables decorated with tablecloths in two shades of peach and trimmed with ivory lace. One table groaned under the weight of an array of appetizers. The next featured chafing dishes loaded with gumbo, jambalaya, crawfish étouffée, shrimp Creole, seafood-stuffed pastries, and more. DruCilla emitted a low whistle, which Lovie the parrot parroted. “I think I’m looking at the best meal of my life.”
“The best meal,” Lovie said, copying the note of awe in her pet mom’s voice.
Bo and Maggie exchanged an amused look, then piled their own plates with a selection of dishes provided by their close friend JJ, owner of Pelican’s most popular eatery, Junie’s Oyster Bar and Dance Hall.
The couple’s trek to join friends and family who had staked out a large table was delayed by congratulations from yet more well-wishers. By the time they sat down, their food was lukewarm to cold. “The fact that this still tastes so good is a tribute to JJ,” Bo said, devouring his bowl of jambalaya.
“Oh, yeah,” agreed Gaynell Bourgeois, Maggie’s close friend and founder of the eponymously named Cajun band garnering national attention. “I missed this when we were on tour.” She speared a shrimp and popped it in her mouth, then speared a second one and dropped it with a giggle into the open mouth of her boyfriend, Chret Bertrand. Chret was the nephew of Maggie’s new step-grandfather, which meant they were now related by marriage, although exactly how neither had figured out yet. Among the friends at the table were Maggie’s cousin Lia and her husband Kyle as well as Rufus’s former fiancée, Vanessa Fleer MacIlhoney. Vanessa had dumped Rufus at the altar, despite being pregnant with their daughter Charli, instead plighting her troth to Quentin MacIlhoney, the defense attorney who’d helped her dodge a murder charge and currently sat next to her enjoying a healthy portion of étouffée. Maggie had found that life in a small Louisiana village often proved way more complicated—and intriguing—than life in the New York City borough of Brooklyn that she had once called home.
“Hey there, muh friends. Y’all passing a good time?”
JJ, taking a break from his kitchen duties, appeared in front of them. He wore an apron over a sequined navy-blue caftan, one of many he’d inherited from his late mother along with the family restaurant. The chef bowed in mock humility as everyone at the table rose to their feet to give him a standing ovation. “I can’t begin to tell you how fantastic everything is,” Maggie said. Her friends seconded the compliment.
Bo pulled a spare chair away from the table next to them. “Here. Can you sit a while?”
“I’d say I earned a rest before dessert.” JJ parked himself in the chair, his large body splayed out over its small seat. He picked up a printed menu and fanned himself with it. “It’s so warm in the kitchen tent I sweated off my temporary beauty mark. I had to spoon it out of the whipped cream I made to go with the bread pudding that’s gonna be coming out after the wedding cake.”
“I think I put on weight just listening to that sentence,” Maggie said.
“Good luck to Phillippe Chanson, opening a place that’ll compete with Junie’s,” Vanessa said, or at least that’s what Maggie thought she said. It was hard to make out, given that Vanessa was chomping on a big hunk of JJ’s homemade French bread when she said it.
Phillippe Chanson, one of the most famous chefs in the country, had recently taken over LeBlanc’s, Pelican’s one “fancy” restaurant. He was in the process of a remodel that would transform the eatery into Chanson’s Cajun Kitchen, the newest addition to his famed Chanson Restaurant Group. Chanson had explained why he’d anointed Pelican as the recipient of his culinary magic in an interview with Little Earlie Waddell, jack-of-all-publishing-and-editing-trades for the Pelican Penny Clipper, a local freebie Little E had transformed from a coupon tabloid to a genuine tabloid—with coupons. Chanson claimed his goal was to position the new eatery as a “destination restaurant,” along the lines of legendary European establishments found in tiny, off-the-beaten-path villages. “What better location for my take on Cajun cuisine,” he’d opined, “than a picture-perfect postcard of a Cajun town?”
The locals were
divided into two groups: those who were excited about a star chef descending upon their “picture-perfect postcard” and those who felt apprehensive. Maggie fell into the latter camp. National attention could be a good thing. Crozat Plantation B and B, her family’s business, had seen a marked uptick in reservations after a recent profile on a TV travel show. But the increase in business had only put it on a par with nearby B and Bs. When a Phillippe Chanson outpost came to town, it could endanger humbler local restaurants, the drop-off in patrons sometimes dooming them.
Maggie forced her attention back to the conversation. “I’m looking forward to the new place,” JJ was saying. “Chanson is a legend. His place is gonna be packed, and I’ll be happy to take the overflow of people who don’t feel like waiting hours to get in.”
Gaynell, who’d left the table to join her band, struck a chord on her accordion. “Allons à Pelican!” she hollered. The young woman’s mass of blonde curls bobbed as she launched into a catchy up-tempo Cajun tune. The dance floor quickly filled with revelers.
Bo held out a hand to Maggie. “May I have this dance, Mrs. Crozat-Durand?”
Maggie grinned and took his hand. “It would be my pleasure, Mr. Crozat-Durand.”
Vanessa rolled her eyes. “Ain’t that just so modern of ya. I couldn’t wait to unload Fleer and take MacIlhoney as my last name.”
“And I couldn’t wait for you to do it as well, my dear,” said her husband. Quentin patted his trim white beard with a napkin and offered a hand to his wife. Vanessa polished off her last bite of French bread and allowed him to lead her onto the dance floor.
After a lively two-step, the band segued into a Cajun waltz. Bo held Maggie close as she rested her head against his chest. The past months of danger and drama, of murders and accusations, faded away. There was only this moment and the promise of their future. “Did you ever think we’d get here?” she asked Bo as they danced.
“Always. I swear, sometimes it was the only thing that kept me going.”
