by Ellen Byron
Maggie opened her bank app and scrolled through her most recent transactions. “It is. My paycheck didn’t clear.”
“What?” Ione said, incredulous. Her face darkened and she planted her fists on her hips, which where clothed in the gray silk antebellum gown she wore as her work costume. “That’s ridiculous. I’m calling the bank to find out what on earth happened. Don’t worry, we’ll straighten this out.”
Ione stalked off. Maggie, trusting she was in her boss and friend’s capable hands, swished her paintbrush in turpentine, then wiped it clean with a rag. She checked the water in the vase of roses and added the packet of flower food she found attached to another stanchion in the display. She was about to return to work cleaning one of the wedding portraits destined for the upcoming exhibit when her phone rang. Maggie checked and saw that the caller was her father. “Hey, Dad. What’s up? Everything okay?”
“Pretty much the opposite of that.” Tug’s voice was heavy with distress, sending a frisson of fear through Maggie. “We got a problem.”
“What?” she responded, alarmed.
“Your mother is in jail.”
Chapter 5
Maggie grabbed her purse. “I’m on my way.”
“I haven’t told you what happened.”
“Let me guess. It has something to do with calas.”
“Yes, how did you—”
“Leaving now.”
Maggie ran down the hall and into the gift shop, which also housed Ione’s office. “I’ve got to run into town. I’ll explain later.”
Ione nodded. “I’m on hold with the bank.”
Maggie sprinted to her car and shot out of the parking lot. She drove east over Veteran’s Memorial Bridge. Ten minutes later she pulled into a parking spot in front of the nondescript midcentury building that housed the Pelican Police Department. She threw open the double glass doors and rushed inside.
Tug was deep in conversation with Cal Vichet, who was manning the station’s front desk. Artie had a gentle hold on one of Ninette’s arms, which were clasped behind her back in handcuffs. Maggie approached her mother, who, next to the rotund police officer, looked even smaller than her just-shy-of-five feet. She wore an apron over her jeans, and her mess of graying light-brown curls were held in check by a bandanna. “Can I talk to her?” Maggie asked Artie.
“ ’Course you can—if she’s okay with talking to you without a lawyer present.” He motioned to a worn wooden bench. “Have a sit. I’ll stand right here.”
Maggie helped her mother sit down and then joined her. “This is about your calas recipe, isn’t it?”
Ninette pursed her lips. “I thought I’d make the calas as a breakfast treat for that cute millennial couple from Monroe staying with us. After one bite, the girl said, ‘Hon, don’t these taste just like the ones we had at the new place?’ And he said, ‘They sure do. Exactly like them.’ It’s all over town about Abel accusing Phillippe of stealing his catfish recipe, and I got a bad feeling about my calas, so I took myself over to Chanson’s place and ordered a plate of them.”
“You recognized your recipe.”
“That so-and-so stole it,” Ninette said, outraged. “I marched into the restaurant kitchen, grabbed the bowl of batter out of our guest Becca’s hands, and dumped it right on the floor. One of them, I don’t know who, called the police, and here I am.”
“I’m sorry, Mom. I was afraid this might happen. I didn’t want to say anything in case it didn’t, because you were so excited about Chanson liking your meal.”
Ninette looked down at the ground. When she spoke, her voice quavered. “I’m a simple person. And I’ve never minded that. A loving husband and daughter … a respectable home and business.… that’s all I’ve ever needed. And my recipes. They’ve been handed down from one generation to the next, like your wedding dress. We each make our little changes to get with the times, then pass them on down. They’re living history. There’s great comfort to be had in knowing that when we’ve moved on from the physical world, a part of us lives on, maybe forever.” Maggie pulled a tissue from her purse and wiped away a few tears that had rolled down her mother’s cheeks. “Thank you, chère. When I went into the Chanson kitchen, that sweet Clinton Poche tried to defend me. I hope he didn’t get in trouble for it. That’s the only thing I feel bad about. Otherwise …” Ninette rose to her feet and stuck out her chin, defiant. “I’m ready to do my time. I plead guilty to defending my calas recipe from that terrible man. Send me up the river. Throw me in the hoosegow. Where did that word come from, I wonder? Someone look it up on their phone. I believe I’ll have to surrender mine when they throw me in the slammer.”
“Nobody’s locking you up, Ninette,” said Bo, who had emerged from his office in time to hear his mother-in-law’s declaration. “I just got off the phone with Phillippe Chanson, who agreed to drop the charges against you as long as you promise never to set foot in his restaurant again.”
“I have no intention of doing that anyway. But what about my recipe?”
Bo gave a helpless shrug. “I can’t do anything about that.”
Artie removed the handcuffs from Ninette’s wrists. “I wouldn’t worry about it, ma’am. Everybody around here knows who the real star chefs in town are—you and JJ. The only thing that shady Chanson’s got going for him are Gulf oysters. I cannot lie, I am a big fan of those bivalve babies.”
Ninette grimaced as she rubbed her wrists. “I appreciate the support, Artie. I’m gonna make a nice meal tonight to celebrate my freedom. You’re welcome to join us.”
The officer’s face lit up. “It’d be an honor, ma’am.”
Tug took his wife’s hand. “Let’s get you home. It’s been one tough day and it’s barely half over.”
Tug led Ninette out of the station, almost colliding with Ione, who burst into the reception area. The woman, who was in a panic, still wore the top half of her costume but had thrown on pants instead of her hoopskirt. “It’s gone,” she gasped. “All gone.” She dropped her head in her hands and rocked back and forth. “Oh my lord, oh my lord,” she repeated over and over again.
Maggie grabbed her friend’s hands. “Ione. Calm down and talk to me.”
Ione raised her head. Maggie felt sick. She’d never seen such a look of despair. “Steve Collins, the executive board treasurer …”
“Yes?” Maggie prompted. “What about him?” While Ione had been promoted to executive director of Doucet, a nonprofit historical site, she reported to a board of directors. Steve Collins served as the board’s treasurer.
“He emptied the account. We’ve been wiped out. That’s why your paycheck bounced. Mine too. Everyone’s.”
Maggie closed her eyes. Her head swam. Bo quickly left his post and went to the women. “Artie, cover for me. Ladies, this way.”
Maggie, dazed, followed Ione and Bo down a hallway. Bo rapped on the captain’s door, then opened it. Rufus sat behind his desk. He was doing paperwork while eating a po’ boy. “Hey all.” He referenced the meal in front of him. “Picked this up from that new place, Chanson’s Cajun Kitchen. They were having a special. Tastes exactly like Abel Garavant’s catfish po’ boy.”
“We have a situation,” Bo said, sounding grim.
“Do we now? You got my attention. Pop a squat, ladies, and fill me in.”
Bo helped Ione, who was unsteady on her feet, into one of the two cold metal chairs facing Rufus. Maggie took the other seat, and Bo rested a comforting hand on her shoulder.
Rufus eyed the distraught Ione with compassion. “It’s okay, ma’am. You’re with friends. Relax and tell us what happened.”
Ione sucked in a shaky breath and released it. “I wish I knew. Doucet operates on a shoestring budget, mainly funded by attendance fees. We have enough to meet payroll every month, plus a small reserve for emergencies, like repairs. Maggie’s paycheck bouncing was the first red flag. Then mine did, and everyone else’s. I called Monnin National Bank to find out if it was a problem on their end. It’s not.
The money is gone. I straightaway called all the board members and talked to everyone but Steve. He’s the only board member with access to our account, so no one else had any idea something was wrong. Steve never called me back. I have a number for his wife, Georgia, so I called her, and Lord have mercy, the poor woman was in a state. He’d wiped out their bank account too and disappeared.”
Bo shot a look at Rufus, who responded with a nod. “Yeah. If he hasn’t left the state, he’s on his way out. I’ll put in a call to the FBI.”
“And I’ll start digging into any bank or credit card activity on Collins’ part,” Bo said.
Rufus addressed the women. “We got this. Y’all go do whatever you can to stop the bleeding. We’ll keep you posted on everything we find out.”
Ione wrung her hands. Apprehension etched deep lines in her dark skin. “What are we gonna do? I don’t know if Doucet can survive this.”
“Oh, it will,” Rufus said. “Nobody bilks a historic site and gets away with it on my watch.”
Once out of Rufus’s office, Bo pulled Maggie aside. “I’m gonna work until I trace this guy; I don’t care if it takes all night. I’ll be home when I’m home.”
“I love you so much.”
The couple stole a quick kiss; then Bo retreated to his office and Maggie exited the station for the parking lot. Ione was getting into her car. “I’m going home to call the staff and explain what happened.” Ione choked back tears. “I can’t bear to think about them going without money. A lot of the guides live paycheck to paycheck.”
“I know.” Maggie thought of the stress this put on her coworkers. “I’m going to call my accountant. I’ll see if he can free up any funds from the Dupois inheritance for immediate use.”
“We’ll pay you back as soon as Doucet rights itself.”
“No way,” Maggie said, adamant. “It’ll be a donation.”
Ione drove off. Maggie got in her car. She called her accountant, Craig L’Etoile, who’d been designated the co-executor of the Dupois estate, along with a probate lawyer. Maggie explained the situation to L’Etoile. “You took a hit with capital gains taxes,” the accountant said, “and you want to make sure you put aside an extra twenty percent for overages on the co-living space remodel. But let me take a look and see if I can work some money magic.”
“If anyone can, it’s you, Craig. Thanks.”
Maggie ended the call. She evaluated her next step, then got out of the car and headed over to Monnin National Bank. Robert Monnin, the bank president, greeted her warmly. “We were honored to have you switch your account over,” he said, leading her to his office.
“I decided I should be supporting a community bank, not a chain. Also, you got that app, which is helpful.”
“Yes. When my granddaughter joined the bank staff, she announced she was moving us into the twenty-first century.” Monnin didn’t sound too happy about this. He bent down and retrieved a tote bag from under his desk. The logo on the front read Bank Local: Make Money with Monnin. “I wanted to thank you with a little bank swag.” He pulled a pen out of the bag. “Look, it lights up.”
The banker clicked the pen on and off with childlike glee, then dropped the pen back into the bag, which he handed to Maggie. “Thanks, Mr. Monnin,” she said. “I wanted to talk to you about the Doucet situation.”
That wiped the smile off Monnin’s face. “Terrible,” he said, his tone somber. He lowered himself into his heavy wooden office chair, which rolled back slightly. He pulled himself forward. “I’ll help in any way I can.”
It occurred to Maggie that she had no idea what to ask the banker. While the visual acuity born of being an artist had proved usual in solving murders, embezzlement was new territory for her. This was truly a case for law enforcement. But there was something she could do. “It’s not confirmed, but it looks like the Doucet board treasurer absconded with the site’s funds, which were supposed to cover payroll. This means all the employees’ checks bounced. I know there’s a fee for returned checks, but given the circumstances, I’m hoping you’ll forgive them.”
“Absolutely. I’m happy to do that for any employees who bank with us. I can’t speak for the other banks, but I will get in touch with their branch managers, explain the situation, and ask them to join me in forgiving the charges. I am a bit of an elder statesmen in our little banking community.” Monnin did his best to affect modesty.
“Thank you so much.” Maggie rose and hoisted the tote over her shoulder. “And thanks for the swag. Love the pen.”
“As my granddaughter would say, it’s lit. Literally.”
Monnin accompanied the pun with a wink, and Maggie responded with the requisite polite laugh. As she left the bank, her cell rang. She saw the caller was her accountant, Craig L’Etoile, and answered it. “I moved a few things around and freed up some funds,” Craig explained.
The accountant named a figure. “That’s good,” Maggie said. “It will cover the last pay period. Luckily, it’s a small staff.”
“And you said it’s a donation, not a loan, which will help taxwise. I’ll release the money to your account, and you can write a check to Doucet.”
Maggie thanked him and ended the call. The donation was a Band-Aid over a serious wound to Doucet. A gala, she thought. And a silent auction. She texted the financial news, along with the idea of a gala fund raiser, to Ione, who responded with a long string of exclamation marks, hearts, and flamenco dancers, followed by GO FOR IT!
Buoyed by the enthusiasm, Maggie put together a mental list of possible members for a gala committee. Her stomach growled. She decided to combine dinner with a chance to invite JJ onto the committee and headed to Junie’s. She was stunned to find the front door locked. Then she saw a notice taped to the door at eye level, and her appetite disappeared. The sign read Notice of Closure for Violation of the St. Pierre Parish Health and Safety Code.
Her worst fears for JJ had come true.
Chapter 6
Maggie walked through the alley to the back of the building. She saw JJ’s car in the parking lot. Hoping he might be in the restaurant, she rapped on the back door. “Come in,” a beleaguered voice called from inside.
She found her friend in his tiny, cluttered office. He was stuffing paperwork into his briefcase. “I saw the sign,” she said. “What happened?”
“You know that old saying No good deed goes unpunished? You’re looking at living proof of that.” JJ maneuvered his large body through the sliver of space between his workspace and a tall, beat-up metal filing cabinet. He motioned to Maggie to follow him out of the restaurant. “Someone put in a call to the health department that forced an inspection. They found evidence of vermin. Vermin!” he repeated, outraged. “In my restaurant. Practically all my profits go into making sure I run the cleanest establishment with the freshest, best food around. Vermin, my keister.”
Maggie squinted as they exited the parking lot and faced the flare from the setting sun. “So you think someone did this on purpose? Like, planted … vermin feces?”
JJ gave a vehement nod. “I’m sure of it. I did the friendly thing and invited the Chanson folks over for a drink after they closed up. I keep bar hours and they keep restaurant hours, so I’m open later. It’s what us restaurant people like to do—visit each other, share intel on customers and meals. At least that’s what friendly ones do. I bet you every dime of my late papa’s loose change that fell out of his pockets and wound up stuck in Mama’s couch cushions that one of those Chanson people planted droppings in my kitchen when I was busy getting their drinks.”
Maggie hated to think that what JJ said was true, but knowing her friend as well as she did and his almost fanatical dedication to running a clean, healthy establishment, she had a terrible feeling he was right. “Did you tell the health inspector?”
JJ gave a derisive snort. “Yeah, and got a ‘That’s what they all say’ reaction. He also found a problem with one of the bathroom toilets. It backed up when he went to flush it.”
> “Do you think someone messed with it?”
“No idea. It’s an old toilet anyway. Wouldn’t be a bad idea to replace it.” JJ looked exhausted. Something else was different about him, but Maggie couldn’t put her finger on what. “But it’s gonna mean days of being closed for business. That includes tomorrow when Chanson’s Cajun Kitchen officially opens. I was counting on the overflow crowd from the event to make my nut for the week.”
Maggie impulsively hugged JJ. He had a good six inches on her five feet four and his girth made encircling his waist impossible, but the message came through. He responded to her affectionate support by returning the hug. “Thanks. If it weren’t for friends like you, I might just float out to sea on one of those Viking rafts they put bodies on and let ’em light me on fire.”
“No funeral pyre for you, my friend.” Maggie released him. “This is just a blip in the history of Junie’s. You will come back, and be careful what you wish for, because I predict crowds like you’ve never seen before once word gets out that there’s one true Cajun kitchen in town and it’s yours.”
“Don’t forget your mama. And Abel.”
“Well, Mama’s not running an actual restaurant, and Abel’s on the outskirts of town.”
JJ slapped his forehead. “Listen to me, niggling like this. Instead I should be sending a prayer up to heaven that you’re right.”
“I will be. And when you’ve got things under control here, I want to talk to you about a gala we’re going to throw for Doucet.”
“Happy to do whatever I can, once I settle this mess.” He planted a kiss on top of Maggie’s head. “Love ya.”
“Right back at ya.”
JJ hauled himself into his decade-old pickup truck and took off. Maggie wended her way through the alley back to the street. She was almost at her car when she realized what was different about JJ. He was wearing jeans. Maggie thought back to high school and all her visits home during her years in New York. She’d never seen him wear anything but caftans or tongue-in-cheek dramatic outfits. The jeans were a sartorial symbol of her friend’s worry and possible depression.
