by Ellen Byron
Someone called to her. She turned and saw Clinton. He jogged down the block to her. “Hey, I’m glad I saw you. I wanted to say how sorry I am about your mama being arrested and all.”
“She told me you stood up for her,” Maggie said.
“Yes, ma’am,” the teen said, puffing out his chest. “That Becca was making the batter for calas, and she kept getting on me to see if I knew the recipe cuz she knew I worked for y’all sometimes. Phillippe said it didn’t matter, he’d figured it out, like always. After they called the police on Mrs. Crozat, I got real mad and said some things I probably shouldn’t have, especially after Mister Famous Chef told me to leave and take my attitude with me. I was giving his kitchen ‘bad vibes.’ ” Clinton pulled a face. “I threw down my apron and walked out of there.” He held up his apron, a little sheepish. “But I picked it up, because it’s a good apron and my grand-mère would like it.”
Maggie knew Ninette would be devastated to learn that her impulsive act of anger had cost the teen his job. “Clinton, I’m so sorry about this. We’ll find you work at Crozat to make up for it.”
“Don’t worry about it. My mama would call this a learning experience. Cuz I learned that I do not want to be a chef, no I do not. Those people are crazy.”
* * *
Between the drama of her mother’s arrest, JJ’s restaurant woes, and Doucet’s financial debacle, Maggie found it impossible to fall asleep. Bo crawled into bed around two in the morning. “I’m awake,” she told him.
“That’s too bad. After today, you could use a good night’s sleep.” He slipped an arm under her back, and she snuggled close to his side. “But I have some news for you. The FBI came through for us. They caught Steve Collins at the Houston airport. He was about to board a flight to Mexico. They also made quick work of his financials. He wasn’t exactly a criminal mastermind. Turns out the guy had a second family in Houston. He’s been banking part of his paycheck in a separate account for years to pay for them. I don’t have all the details, but the feds got hold of the second wife, and she talked enough to fill a book. When she found out about the first wife thanks to a receipt for blond highlights she doesn’t get because she wears her hair dark, she was not happy, to put it mildly. She threatened to tell wife number one about family number two, and Collins panicked. He stole the money from Doucet, hoping to buy her off. She took it, spent it as fast as she could—and told wife number one anyway. He was trying to beat town to get away from both of them.”
“My takeaway from this story,” Maggie said, gloomy, “is that the Doucet money is gone.”
“The feds will try to claw back some of it from the guy’s assets, but I wouldn’t count on more than pennies on the dollar.”
Maggie released an exasperated sigh. “I kind of wish one of the wives had gotten to him.”
“He’s lucky they didn’t. They both know how to shoot and are licensed to carry.” Bo caressed Maggie’s arm. “Not a very sexy bedtime story, is it?”
“Oh, so not.”
Bo tapped an index finger against his lip. “Hmm. Well … maybe I can seduce you with an early Valentine’s Day present.”
Maggie affected a pout. “You can’t. My gift for you isn’t ready yet.”
“I hear it’s a painting.”
Maggie, miffed, sat up. “Who told you?”
“Chère, you’re painting a kid … who’s very good at keeping secrets. Charlotte let it slip.”
“My grandmother?” Maggie crossed her arms in front of her chest and harrumphed. “Figures that the eighty-three-year-old would have less self-control then the eight-year-old.”
“Don’t be mad at her, because my gift works with yours.” Bo pulled up to sitting. “I got you private lessons with Vi De Lavallade.” He beamed.
Maggie gasped. “No. You did? Oh Bo, that’s the best gift ever.”
She threw her arms around her husband, then kissed him. “I did good?” he asked, a little insecure.
“Good? You did great. Beyond great. Lessons with Vi De Lavallade.” Maggie bounced up and down on the bed. She shot a come-hither look at Bo. “Seduction accomplished, handsome.”
She wrapped her arms around him, and the couple melted into the sheets.
* * *
When Maggie showed up to the manor house kitchen early in the morning, she found Gran there, already plating breakfast for their guests. “Our regular guests are still sleeping, but the Chanson group is up, having some sort of meeting before their official opening tonight.”
“I’m surprised they’re still here. I figured they wouldn’t want to stay in a place where they had the owner arrested for disturbing the peace and vandalism.”
“They were perfectly civil when I brought them their coffee. Like it never happened. According to our friend Dyer, who’s desperate for an ear, blow-ups are the norm in Phillippe Chanson kitchens.” Gran pulled bowls and a large baking pan out of a cabinet. “The hot plates are already on in the dining room. Help me fill these.”
Maggie spooned scrambled eggs and bacon into separate bowls and loaded the baking pan with French toast. She speared a forkful of eggs. “This has to be the most boring meal Mom ever made. These eggs are blander than bland, and the French toast is made with white bread, not brioche. It’s like what they’d serve for breakfast at a nursing home.”
“I’ve breakfasted with friends at the Camellia Park Senior Village and it was far more interesting than this. Your mother made sure there was nothing here that might induce recipe thievery.”
“Mission accomplished.”
Gran wiped her hands on a dish towel. Maggie noticed a hint of sparkle on her grandmother’s ear. She moved closer to her. Gran instinctively pulled away. “What?”
Maggie gaped at her. “You got your ears pierced.”
Gran affected nonchalance. “So?”
“So,” Maggie said, “I’ve been trying to get you to do that for years. Nobody wears clip-ons, I’d say. Ladies my age don’t put holes in their ears, you’d say. Do we owe this to Vanessa too?”
“Sometimes outsiders get us to do what family members can’t,” Gran said. “How many times did I tell you to pay off your credit cards every month to avoid the interest charges? Did you listen to me? No. But you listened when Bo said it.”
“Personal finances and jewelry bling are two separate issues.”
Gran gestured to the food. “We need to put a pin in this conversation and serve our guests before the food gets irredeemably cold.”
“Fine. But we also need to schedule some grandmother-granddaughter time. I’m starting to feel disposable.”
Maggie took a bowl in each hand and hip-checked the swinging door that separated the kitchen from the dining room. She walked the bowls over to the centuries-old sideboard and placed them on top of the hot plates. Gran followed with the pan of French toast and placed it on top of a third hot plate. She disappeared back into the kitchen, but Maggie lingered, curious to hear the restaurant staff’s plans. She made a show of checking the jam jars and other breakfast condiments as she took a read of the room. Becca buzzed with tension, but that was to be expected, given that she was directly under Phillippe—professionally and physically, considering their romance. Scooter was also jumpy, but Maggie pegged that as a general condition for him. On the other hand, Luis was alert to every detail Kate imparted about the day’s schedule, making notes on his phone. Trick slouched in his chair, with one arm around the back of Kate’s. On the surface he seemed relaxed, but the free hand relentlessly drumming on his thigh indicated underlying strain.
Ghostwriter Dyer, whom Maggie had mentally nicknamed Dour Dyer, got up from his place and shuffled to the sideboard. “We lost some of our waitstaff, thanks to them taking the side of that idiot Poche kid,” Kate said. Maggie clenched her teeth, biting back an angry defense of Clinton. “Dyer, don’t write that down.”
The writer held up a bottle of ketchup and a plate of eggs. “There goes my plan of taking notes by squirting ketchup onto a pla
te.”
Kate ignored him. “They’re sending up fill-in waitstaff from the city, but that’s only going to work for a few days. So, if you know anybody …” She turned to Luis. “You’ve got local connections. Use them. But no illegals. We don’t need an ICE raid.”
Maggie saw Luis work his jaw. “I’ll see what I can do.” His tone was polite, but Maggie easily filled in the rest of the sentence. Which will be nothing.
Scooter stood. He grabbed a slice of French toast with his hand and stuffed it in his mouth, digging a trench in the rug as he paced back and forth. Maggie was beginning to wonder if his antsy nature was intensified by a drug problem. “We done?” he asked, impatient. “I gotta get with my oyster guy.”
“Almost,” Kate said, skimming her notes.
A motorcycle roared up outside. Becca lit up and jumped to her feet. “Phillippe.”
“He’s gonna kill himself on that thing someday.” Kate accompanied this pronouncement with an eye roll.
Maggie felt the tension in the room ratchet up a few degrees. Feeling a need to further justify her presence, she picked up a coffee carafe and circled the table to refresh everyone’s cups, but no one paid attention to her. Phillippe’s long, lean frame appeared in the archway separating the dining room from the manor home’s wide entry gallery. He wore a black bomber jacket and had his helmet slung over his forearm. He looks like the hot bad boy from a 1980s movie, Maggie thought. The chef ran a hand over his tousled brown hair. “What’d I miss?”
“All the boring stuff,” Becca said.
She planted a kiss on Phillippe that he acknowledged but didn’t respond to in kind. Becca’s lightly freckled face flushed, but she still threw a cocky glance Kate’s way. Kate glowered at her. Maggie noticed Trick’s arm drop onto Kate’s shoulder in a territorial gesture. “Awesome timing on my part,” Phillippe said, grinning. “We close at nine tonight. I want all customers gone by nine thirty. The fireworks start at ten.”
“Fireworks?” Maggie blurted without thinking.
She inwardly cursed herself, but rather than bothering the chef, her response triggered an ebullient, “Yeah! Awesome ones. I hired the guys who do the show for the Christmas Eve bonfires on the levee. And …” He dragged out the word to create suspense. “I’ve got a big surprise.” He slapped his hands together, startling Dyer, who dropped a forkful of eggs onto the floor. “To the levee, gang. Let’s go. Vamanos. That one’s for you, Luis.”
“Ha. I do speak English, boss.” Luis made a weak attempt to make this sound like a joke.
Maggie, overcome with curiosity, joined the restaurant employees as they filed out of the house and crossed the River Road. They climbed to the top of the levee and then down to the Crozats’ dock, usually used for tourists from the riverboat excursions who booked a tour of the historic plantation as part of their itinerary. A speedboat wrapped in a garish ad for Chanson’s Cajun Kitchen was tied to the dock. Phillippe raised his arms in a triumphant gesture, then ran to the boat and jumped in. “Anyone wanna join me?”
“I do!”
Maggie wasn’t surprised to hear this from Becca. The sous-chef bounded over to the boat and joined the chef. He released the boat from the dock and started the engine. He shot up the river and arced back, earning a warning blast from a pusher boat guiding a barge. Maggie winced. “This isn’t a great stretch of the river for pleasure boating,” she said to Scooter, who happened to be standing next to her.
“Nope,” the one other local in the group agreed. “But that’s Phillippe for you. And he gets away with it. Good old Nonstick.”
Scooter said this without a hint of affection. If anything, he sounded venomous.
“Playtime’s over,” Kate said. “We canceled lunch service today so you could get some rest, folks, so do it. We need everyone at the top of their game tonight.”
The group trudged up the levee back to Crozat. Maggie stood watching the star chef steer figure eights on the river, earning a few more warning horn blasts. Then she headed home.
* * *
Rest seemed the last thing on any of the Chanson employees’ agendas. Instead, the restaurant’s official opening set off a tsunami of drama. Maggie, who was helping her mother harvest the B and B’s organic garden, spent much of the day treading back and forth from the garden to the manor house. Every time she passed one of the guest quarters, she heard arguing. Kate and Phillippe; Phillippe and Trick; Kate and Becca; Becca and Phillippe. The last argument left the sous-chef in tears. She ran by Maggie, Phillippe in pursuit. He stopped to admire the greens in Maggie’s basket. “Good stuff. I could use another produce supplier.” Then he continued to chase down Becca.
A few hours later, Maggie was surprised to see the crew chatting and laughing together as they piled into Kate’s black Cadillac Escalade and headed to the restaurant. I do not get these people, she thought.
Out of deference to Ninette, the Crozats boycotted the grand opening of Chanson’s Cajun Kitchen. But Maggie and Bo succumbed to Xander’s pleas to see the fireworks with his pal, Esme. “We get to stay up late, we get to stay up late,” the little girl sang as they drove toward the Pelican town dock.
“And see fireworks,” Xander added.
“If I can find parking,” Bo muttered. Cars lined the road on both sides, while crowds gathered on top of the levee. A party energy filled the air. Music blared from speakers that a group of tailgaters had set up. They raised their bottles to Maggie and Bo and woo-hooed. “I’ll be holding a Breathalyzer to that crew.”
Maggie looked back at the group and noticed Rufus among them. “I think that last woo-hoo came from our esteemed police chief.”
“I’m gonna let y’all out and find a space,” Bo said. “Text me where you end up and I’ll meet you there.”
Bo pulled over. Maggie helped Xander and Esme hop down from the SUV, and then Bo drove off. She took each child by the hand and led them across the street. Esme literally bounced with excitement, hopping instead of walking to the levee side of the road. On top of the levee, Maggie recognized Vanessa’s zaftig silhouette, made more so by her baby bump. Maggie led the kids to Vanessa’s crew of Fais Dough Dough and Bon Bon employees, waving to Gaynell, who was leading the Gator Girls in an energic rendition of “Allons à Lafayette.” “I didn’t know the Gator Girls were performing tonight,” Maggie said to Vanessa when they finally reached her group.
“Can you believe all this?” Vanessa gestured to the celebratory scene. “Chanson really cranked up the local-flavor theme.”
“To an eleven,” Maggie said with a grin. She glanced around, taking in the carnival atmosphere. Friends and neighbors packed the levee’s crown. She couldn’t miss Ash Garavant’s lanky silhouette hovering over a small knot of people. Maggie remembered from their high school days that he was self-conscious about his height, which was north of six foot six, and hunched over in group gatherings to reduce himself by a few inches. She considered going over to him and commiserating about their parents’ mutual arrests, but before she could make the move, the Pelican Penny Clipper’s Little Earlie Waddell sidled up to her.
“Ain’t this awesome?” he said, elated. “We owe Phillippe Chanson for bringing some star power to this burg. We even got the lieutenant governor here.” He gestured with the phone he was holding to an amiable, barrel-chested, middle-aged man chatting with a teen wearing a sash that read Miss Pelican Penny Clipper. Atop her head sat a large tiara decorated with a newspaper front page made of rhinestones.
“That’s new,” Maggie said, indicating the teen’s outfit.
“Just growing my brand. And nothing grows a brand in Louisiana like a pageant queen with a kick-butt tiara.” A firework shot into the air and exploded into a shower of gold. The crowd cheered. “Ooh, it’s starting. I gotta record this for my YouTube channel.”
More fireworks exploded, filling the air with noise and the sky with a rainbow of colors. Esme bounced up and down, crying out “Yay!” at each burst of color, while Xander split his attention bet
ween his friend and the fireworks.
There was a brief lull while the smoke from the pyrotechnics cleared. Maggie heard a pop and looked toward the sound. A few feet away, the Chanson restaurant employees huddled around Kate as she filled plastic cups with champagne and distributed them.
Esme tugged on Maggie’s hoodie sleeve. “What’s the big boat doing?”
Maggie looked toward where Esme was pointing. A barge was making its slow way under the Sunshine Bridge, one of the iconic spans across the lower Mississippi. Painted in large letters on the barge’s starboard side were the words River Up. “That’s the river keeper’s barge,” Maggie told the kids. “They clean up the river by collecting trash that’s gotten in it.”
An engine’s roar rose below, competing with another round of fireworks. Maggie looked down and saw Phillippe Chanson piloting his speedboat up the river. He waved to the crowd, which hooted its approval. He responded by steering a figure eight, to more cheers. Then he suddenly shot ahead at full speed. “He’s going awful fast,” Vanessa said.
“Too fast,” Maggie said, concerned. “Give me your phone, Little E; I need to see something.”
“No. I’m working here.”
Maggie shot him a look, then pulled the phone from his hand, incurring an outraged squeak from the publisher. She peered at the phone’s screen as it continued to record, then zoomed in and saw Phillippe struggling to control the speedboat’s throttle. Something else in the boat caught his attention, but Maggie couldn’t make out what it was.
Little Earlie grabbed his phone back. “This is business. I gotta record this.”
He aimed his phone at the river. The was the sound of a crash as Chanson’s boat slammed into the fireworks barge. The horrified gasps and screams of onlookers were drowned out by another round of fireworks shrieking into the sky. A rocket went rogue, hurtling into the River Up trash barge and igniting its load.
