Cajun Kiss of Death

by Ellen Byron

  “Amen to that.”

  The song ended. Gaynell played a flourish on her accordion, and JJ wheeled out a spectacular wedding cake created by Lia at Fais Dough Dough, the bakery she and her husband Kyle ran along with its companion candy shop, Bon Bon Sweets. The cake, covered with peach fondant frosting and tiny candy pearls, stood five tiers high. A garland of white flowers made from sugar cascaded down one side of it. “Yikes,” Bo said, a little overwhelmed. “Your grandmother?”

  Maggie nodded. “Yup. Designed it herself.”

  Gran clapped her hands together joyfully. “Lia, it’s perfect. Brides, grooms—let’s do this.”

  “If you smush cake in my face, I’m filing for divorce first thing in the morning,” Maggie murmured to Bo as they made their way to the cake.

  “Noted, but don’t stand too close to Rufus,” Bo warned. “I’m sure he’s got something planned.”

  The couples took turns cutting the cake and serving it to each other. Maggie held her breath as Rufus headed a fork toward Sandy. He fed his wife with decorum, and then the jokester took the cake plate and slapped it against his own face to roars of laughter. He fist-pumped the air in a gesture of triumph, then took a number of bows. “Thank you, thank you.”

  Maggie couldn’t help herself. She joined the laughter, as did Bo. She saw JJ howling so hard he had to bend over and gasp for air.

  It would be a long time before Maggie saw JJ laugh again.

  Chapter 2

  A few weeks later …

  Maggie cast a discerning eye at the canvas on her easel. Then she glanced at her subject. Xander sat curled up with a book in the living room’s club chair, which was upholstered in a soft, pale-green velvet. His pet cat, Maggie—named after his now-stepmom, who was deeply touched by the honor—slept in his lap while pups Gopher and Jolie snoozed at his feet.

  Evening had come and the moon was behind a cloud. Maggie missed the lovely natural light it cast through the room’s expansive picture window, but now was the best time to capture her stepson—how Maggie loved thinking and saying that—in repose. She used a fine paintbrush to feather a few strokes of light brown into Xander’s sandy hair and added a touch of black to the view outside the window. Her phone pinged a text. Maggie checked it. “Your mom’s here, Xander, cher.”

  Xander closed his book. “ ’Kay.”

  Maggie parked her paintbrushes in turpentine and took Xander’s book so he could rise from the chair with the sleeping kitty in his arms. “You hold on to Maggie. I’ll carry your backpack.”

  “ ’Kay.”

  The two headed downstairs from Maggie and Bo’s apartment, which took up the entire second floor of the B and B’s expanded former garage. The building’s downstairs contained Mo’ Better Beauty and Day Spa. Maggie had originally envisioned her family running the spa, but when circumstances precluded this, friend and beauty expert Mo Heedles had stepped in to take over the facility, and the Crozats couldn’t have been happier with the arrangement.

  Maggie shivered as she and Xander stepped outside. Her thin T-shirt, stained with a rainbow of paint colors, was no match for the cold late-January night air. Whitney, Xander’s mother and Bo’s ex-wife, waved to them from the driver’s side window of her SUV. “Hey, baby boy. You got everything?” Xander nodded. “Okay then, hop in.”

  Maggie kissed her stepson on top of his head and helped him into the vehicle. Her namesake gave a fretful meow but stayed in Xander’s arms. “See you in a couple of days, buddy. Love you.”

  She waved them off, then scurried inside and upstairs, where she changed into fleece leggings and an olive-green sweater that matched the color of her hazel eyes. She pulled her thick chestnut hair into a high ponytail, then dabbed on a light touch of makeup. The heat kicked on, the breeze from the HVAC unit triggering ceramic chimes that Maggie had bought on her honeymoon in Mexico. She and Bo had toyed with the possibility of a European honeymoon but opted for a more frugal trip closer to home. While she’d been the recipient of an inheritance from a neighbor, most of the money was earmarked for turning the old man’s dilapidated plantation manor house into a co-living space that would help ease Pelican’s housing shortage.

  Maggie slipped on a warm jacket, then removed the painting of Xander from its resting place on the easel, careful not to get wet paint on her clothes. She headed downstairs again, making the short trek to her former home, the cottage she’d once shared with her grandmother. It was Grand-mère and Lee’s home now, and Gran was making the most of the change, redecorating with a vengeance. Maggie negotiated her way around a collection of antique furniture sitting on the front porch, which ran the length of the old house. She found Gran inside the empty living room. “What exactly is”—Maggie gestured to the bare room—“this?”

  “I’ve asked Vanessa to help me redecorate.”

  “Wha … wha …” Maggie sputtered. “Vanessa? As in ‘I hate all that old, gross stuff and only want new stuff that looks like old stuff’ Vanessa?”

  “That’s the one. I’ve decided it’s time for a whole new look, even if it’s a new look that looks like an old look. I’d like to live out my final years not worrying about leaving a coffee stain on a two-hundred-year-old sideboard.”

  “Okay, let’s skip the ‘final years’ talk. It’s your and Lee’s home now. Have at it.”

  Gran pointed to a couple of packed suitcases. “We’ll be moving into the manor house for the duration. It was either that or move into Lee’s old apartment above the service station, so the choice was obvious. While new-car smell has its merits, ‘old car that needs beaucoup servicing’ smell does not. Once Valentine’s Day is over, B and B bookings will slow down until the music festivals begin, and by then we’ll be back in our newly appointed digs.”

  “Sounds like a plan. Speaking of Valentine’s Day, is it okay if I keep this here?” Maggie held up the painting. “It’s Bo’s Valentine’s Day present, and I can only work on it when he’s not around.”

  “What a lovely gift. Yes. Put it in the closet for safekeeping.” Maggie did so. Gran rubbed her hands together. “Now, let’s get to our—what do you call it?”

  “A GNO. Girls’ night out.”

  “Yes. That. I am ready for a cocktail.”

  “You’re always ready for a cocktail,” Maggie said, teasing her grandmother.

  Gran lifted her chin, affecting a dignified air. “But I am particularly ready when the cocktail is attached to an event and not merely free-floating. Allons-y. Let’s go.”

  Maggie and Gran headed to the graveled parking lot. Two rental cars pulled in past them and parked next to each other. An attractive woman got out of each car, one in her early thirties, the other ten or more years older. The younger woman wore a hoodie over a chef’s jacket. They made a point of ignoring each other as they went their separate ways. The older woman strode toward the carriage house, the younger to the overseer’s cottage, recently renovated to serve as guest rooms. “How can two people who obviously can’t stand each other work together so closely?” Gran wondered.

  “I guess when the whole is bigger than the sum of its parts. And in this case, the whole is Chanson’s new restaurant.”

  Famed chef Phillippe Chanson was wasting no time getting his new location up and running. While he chose to commute by motorcycle from New Orleans, home to his flagship restaurant, Chanson’s in the Quarter, he’d parked most of the staff for Chanson’s Cajun Kitchen in the Pelican area. Crozat B and B was home to three of them. The women in question were Kate Chanson, his ex-wife, and Becca Wittenberg, his young, attractive sous-chef and rumored current girlfriend. The third guest was Dyer Gossmer, the beleaguered coauthor aka ghostwriter of Chanson’s “autobiography.” The air quotes were courtesy of Gossmer, who never talked about the book without using them.

  Becca, who’d raced to her lodgings in the overseer’s cottage, darted out and ran past them. “Everything okay?” Maggie called to her.

  “The handle on my offset serrated knife broke, but luckily
I have a spare.” Becca held up an odd-looking knife. She jumped into her car and kicked up dust as she sped out of the small lot.

  “Do you have any idea what she’s talking about?” Gran asked.

  “Not a clue.”

  Maggie and Gran got into the vintage 1964 Falcon convertible Maggie inherited from her late grandfather on her mother’s side, Papa Doucet. “I know it’s early, but I’m surprised Becca was able to run home from the restaurant,” Gran said. “You’d think she’d be indispensable.”

  Maggie started the car and backed out of her parking spot. “I’m sure she usually is. But according to Kate, they’re in the middle of what she called a ‘soft opening.’ Meaning that the restaurant isn’t officially open yet. They’re still missing some tables and chairs and artwork, but the kitchen is up and running, and they’re testing recipes on Chanson foodie superfans. I guess Phillippe figured he was better off with a happy sous-chef than one who was freaking out about a broken knife.”

  “They are a rather dramatic lot, aren’t they? Much like those theatre people we had staying here in October. And from what I pick up, none of them like each other very much.”

  Maggie made a right turn onto the old road that ran alongside Crozat, then another right onto the Great River Road toward Pelican’s historic district, the centerpiece of the quaint Cajun village. The levee, swathed in green grass even in winter, blocked a view of the mighty Mississippi, but the road followed its undulating curves. “I can see why Kate and Becca have problems getting along,” Maggie said. “They resent each other’s relationship with Phillippe. Whitney and I were like that in the beginning, but we came to an understanding. Having Xander in the mix helped. We both put him first.”

  “I wonder why Phillippe and Kate never had children.”

  “I got a little insight into that from Dyer, who’s desperate to talk to someone who isn’t one of Chanson’s toadies. He said they both considered the restaurants their ‘children,’ which is why Kate’s still in the mix post-divorce. She’s the designer and brand manager of the whole Chanson group. She got him the book deals, the TV shows, the line of cookware. Kate is Phillippe’s good-luck charm. He’ll never let her go, which drives all his girlfriends—like Becca—insane.”

  “Now that,” Gran said, “is some excellent gossip.”

  Maggie made another right turn into the heart of Pelican. Centuries-old brick buildings with lacy iron galleries lined three sides of the town square. The straight line of Bayou Beurre completed the square. Maggie drove past Junie’s in search of a parking spot. Usually plentiful, they’d become scarce since Chanson’s soft opening. “If this is what it’s like before that place officially opens,” Maggie grumbled, “I hate to think what it’s gonna be like once it gets going.” After her third run up and down the main street, she gave up. “I’ll drop you off and find a spot on a side street,” she told her grandmother.

  “Normally I’d say, ‘I’m not an invalid; I can walk, thank you very much.’ But I’m wearing these high-heeled booties Vanessa helped me pick out. We wandered into a fancy shoe store on one of our furniture excursions.”

  Gran held up her foot, clad in a black, spike-heeled suede ankle boot sporting a large silver buckle on the side. Maggie frowned. “I’m not sure Vanessa’s the best influence on you.”

  “You’re just jealous because I saw them first.”

  “No, but let me know when you get sick of the pain from them pressing on your bunions and I’ll buy them from you.”

  Maggie stopped in front of Junie’s. Gran got out and made a show of sashaying into the local hangout. “See?” she called back to her granddaughter. “No pain.”

  Maggie, amused, shook her head. She left her grandmother and drove around until she finally found a spot several blocks away. She parked and started toward JJ’s, walking past the village’s tidy cottages and bungalows. She passed the parking lot for the Pelican Police Department. Pelican’s five-car fleet of patrol cars, lined up against the lot’s farthest wall, looked destined for a junkyard. Three were, two weren’t, despite their battered appearance. A recent storm had flooded the lot and pounded the cars with hail and heavy tree branches. Much to the department’s aggravation, their insurance company refused to total the whole fleet. Maggie’s step-grandfather, Lee Bertrand, owner of the town service station, had done his best to breathe life into the two vehicles the insurance company declared salvageable, but even his wizardry didn’t instill much confidence in the officers stuck behind the wheels of the beaters.

  By the time Maggie entered Junie’s cheerfully shabby portal, she’d worked up a sweat and a thirst. “I’m gonna go with an Abita Light,” she told Old Shari, the restaurant’s nonagenarian bartender.

  Shari pulled a tap and filled a mug. She handed it to Maggie. “Wisht you asked for somethin’ a little more fancy. I’m bored as anything.”

  Maggie scoped out the room, which was decorated for Valentine’s Day with JJ’s usual over-the-top, tongue-in-cheek flair. Glittery hearts hung from the embossed tin ceiling. Every table featured a centerpiece of a baby doll dressed as Cupid sitting on a bed of fabric red roses. The stuffed alligator, who’d been the odd pet of JJ’s late mother and now stood guard over the establishment from a perch above the bar, was clad in a T-shirt covered with candy-heart images and sayings. But while parking might be scarce, seats at Junie’s usually packed tables weren’t. There were only a smattering of patrons, all regulars Maggie recognized. As she headed to her friends’ table, Eula Banks, Pelican’s mayor, waved to her. “Hey, chère. Welcome home from that honeymoon of yours.”

  “Thanks, ma’am,” Maggie said with a smile.

  “When y’all gonna have a baby?”

  “When we’re ready,” Maggie said, the smile now forced.

  “You’re not getting any younger.”

  “Yes. You keep telling me that. Bo and I want to take a little time to enjoy married life. Especially since our dating life kept being interrupted by murders. Here’s hoping that’s over.”

  Eula used her cane to make the sign of the cross in the air, narrowly missing a customer heading to the bathroom. “Amen, amen.”

  Maggie reached her friends and took a seat between Gaynell and Sandy across from Gran, Vanessa, Lia, and Ione, Maggie’s friend and boss at Doucet Plantation, where the position of exhibit coordinator had recently been added to Maggie’s résumé along with her current title as art restoration specialist. “We went ahead and ordered, family-style,” Gaynell said.

  “We ordered way too much food, but we wanted to give JJ the business.” Ione delivered this under her breath.

  “Where is everybody?” Maggie said, in a voice equally low.

  “JJ can’t serve up Gulf oysters on account of the shortage, but Phillippe Chanson being who he is, managed to score some, and he’s selling them for fifty cents each.”

  The price was so low it elicited a gasp from Maggie. Freshwater from recent storms had inundated local oyster beds, killing off the crops and forcing restaurants to either import oysters or take them off the menu until the situation righted itself. Only a few high-end restaurants were offering Gulf oysters, and at exorbitant prices. “Fifty cents? How can he do that? He has to be losing a fortune on them.”

  Ione shrugged. “I guess what he loses on the cheap price, he makes up for by attracting new customers.”

  Maggie made a face. “Not me. Aside from the fact I’m Team JJ, I’m that rare breed of Louisianan who doesn’t find oysters appealing.”

  Gaynell put a hand on her heart and mock-gasped. “Whaaa? Say it ain’t so.”

  The others laughed, and a conversation about the merits and demerits of oysters ensued. “Hey, y’all, how about we put a pin in talking about slimy seafood and switch to something more fun, like, oh, I don’t know … Valentine’s Day?” Vanessa rubbed her hands together with unashamed avarice. “It’s my first as Mrs. MacIlhoney, and I’m looking for Quenty to pony up big-time. Maggie, you should do the same. Sandy, you got the bad l
uck to be Mrs. Rufus Durand. That is one cheap man. He squeezes a nickel tight enough to make the president on it cry from the pain. He still owes me a push present for baby Charli.”

  “You did give birth right after dumping Rufus at the altar, so there’s that,” Maggie pointed out.

  “Whatevs.” Vanessa patted her burgeoning belly. She’d recently shared with her friends that she was expecting a second child, this one fathered by overjoyed husband Quentin, who’d taken to adding #vasectomyfail to his online signature. “I can tell you that Quenty ain’t getting off that easy when I pop out this little one. Lia, you must’ve cleaned up, what with popping out three kids all at the same time.”

  “Kyle and I kind of assumed the triplets were our present,” Lia said.

  Vanessa groaned. “Honestly, y’all are hopeless.”

  “Not me,” Gran declared. “I’m with you, Vanessa. What is it they say now? Go big or go home.”

  “Preach, sistah!”

  Vanessa held up a hand, and she and Gran high-fived. Maggie wrinkled her brow. “Should I be worried about this relationship?”

  “Yes!” chorused Lia, Gaynell, Sandy, and Ione.

  “Dinner’s here, ladies.”

  JJ approached them carrying a tray laden with various dishes, his red chiffon caftan floating as he walked. He put the tray on a stand and transferred platters of food to the table. Maggie inhaled the rich scents emanating from the selection of Cajun and Creole dishes. “Phillippe Chanson may be pulling in customers off his name, but no way can he compete with you when it comes to cooking, JJ.”

  “I’m not worried,” JJ said, although Maggie thought the dark circles under his eyes belied this. “There’s room for both of us. I know it’s quiet now, but people’ll be back. Me and Abel’s Home Cookin’ are the only places around here with five-star reviews on that Tasteful app.” JJ pointed north toward Abel’s shack of a restaurant, a local haunt on the River Road that had been serving delicious po’ boys and fried-fish plates for decades. “Eat up, mes amis.”