Cajun Kiss of Death

by Ellen Byron

  “How was the ferry ride over?” Maggie asked Ione once they’d all settled down with their snacks and beverages.

  “Waited over an hour for a ten-minute ride,” Ione reported with an eye roll. “But the ride itself was fine. We were all greeted by the captain, this Italian guy I swear was a hundred.”

  “That would be Antonio DiVirgilio, and he’s a few years younger than me,” Gran said with a hint of annoyance.

  “I’m sure it’s working in the sun that aged him,” Ione said in an attempt to placate the octogenarian.

  “Probably,” Gran said, graciously acknowledging the effort. “His family is from New Orleans, but he came up our way as a teen and has been working the river ever since. I heard they called him out of retirement to pilot the ship.”

  “I wanna take Charli for a ride on the boat, but it’ll probably involve a lotta hurling.” Vanessa patted her stomach. “On my part, not hers.”

  “Let’s get started,” Maggie said, eager to dispel images of throwing up, which were making her queasy. “I put together lists of duties for each category.” She handed out sheets of paper to the women. “I’ll email them too. I set up a groups.net page for us to communicate and plan through. We can store files there, databases, et cetera. Basically, everything we need.”

  The women examined the sheets, and Maggie and Ione answered all their questions until everyone felt clear on their specific assignment. “I’m so glad we’re gonna be in town for this,” said Gaynell, who’d been touring recently with her band. “I’ve gotten friendly with a lot of New Orleans and Lafayette musicians. I’m sure some of them would love to do a slot here.”

  “I’ve got a wonderful idea on how to fill a slot,” Gran said. “A senior citizen talent show.”

  There was silence for a minute; then the group recovered. Maggie responded with diplomacy. “We’ll see how the schedule lays out, but that’s definitely a possibility.”

  “Definitely a possibility?” Gran folded her arms across her chest and shot a look of reproach at her granddaughter. “That’s lip flap if I ever heard it. I don’t appreciate being patronized, chère. Nor do I appreciate what I’m sensing here is a whopping case of ageism. Just because someone is of a certain age doesn’t mean one should say RIP for their talent. Plus, the seniors in our small town far outnumber the youngsters. Those who aren’t living on a fixed income have disposable income, which is less true of the younger citizens, especially those with families. Seniors also have a respect for our town’s history which may not have trickled down to the next gen. All that adds up to a market waiting to be tapped. And in the case of Adelia Heloise, who was a Broadway chorus girl in the 1950s, some genuine tap-dancing.”

  Maggie looked to Ione, who responded with a slight nod. “Gran, I think I speak for everyone here when I say go for it. The gala’s entertainment will feature Gaynell and the Gator Girls, some other musicians Gaynell rounds up, and the Pelican Performers’ Senior Showcase.”

  “The Gator Girls better go first,” Gaynell said with a grin, “because that showcase will be one tough act to follow.”

  The women settled on the date of their next meeting, then relaxed. They chatted as they helped themselves to Ninette’s Gooey Pineapple Pecan Cake and handfuls of Lia’s brown-sugared pecans. “How are the Chanson’s people holding up?” Ione asked Maggie. “I hate to think what it must have felt like to see that accident.”

  “They all went to New Orleans for the funeral. I’m going there myself tomorrow, but not for that. Bo got me the most thoughtful Valentine’s Day gift—art lessons with Vi De Lavallade. The first one’s tomorrow morning.”

  “That is something,” Ione said, “I think that man of yours is a keeper.”

  “I drew the long straw,” Maggie agreed. Her face glowed with anticipation. “I can’t wait until tomorrow. It’s going to be a day I never forget.”

  * * *

  “Have you bought one of my paintings yet?”

  This constituted Vi De Lavallade’s greeting when Maggie arrived in her studio. “No,” Maggie said, trying not to sound as meek as she felt. “I want to more than anything. It’s not in the budget right now, but it will be.”

  “Well, don’t wait too long.” Vi took a chocolate from a large box on her desk and popped it in her mouth. “I’m in terrible health. I don’t take care of myself at all. You see this box of chocolates? I’d offer you one, but it’s all I plan on eating today. A palm reader once told me I have a short lifeline, and I’m doing my best to live up to that. I’ll be dead sooner rather than later, and the value of my paintings will go through the roof. I thought about faking my own death to take advantage of this and then moving to a Caribbean island under an assumed name, but it’s too much work. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  Maggie unwrapped the plastic protecting her painting of Xander and placed it on an easel. Vi creased her brow as she studied it. The skies had opened right after Maggie parked in a lot on the far edge of the Tulane campus. She’d managed to protect the painting as she ran to the artist’s studio in the university’s Woldenberg Art Center on the Newcomb Quad, but at the expense of herself. By the time she reached the gracious brick building, she was drenched. A student working in the dean’s office took pity on her and dug up a space heater. Maggie stood in front of the heater in the Advanced Painting Room, shivering from both the clammy cold of her wet clothes and anticipation of the renowned artist’s reaction to her work. Finally, Vi spoke. “Is this one of those custom paint-by-numbers kits? I’ve heard about those but never seen one before.”

  “No.” Maggie suddenly felt sicker than Vanessa on a ferryboat. “It’s all me.”

  “Oh.” The artist didn’t bother to disguise her disappointment. “Hmm.” Her cell rang. She answered the call. “Jermaine, hello.” She held the phone away from her ear and addressed Maggie. “My contractor in New York. I need to take this.”

  “Yes, sure.” Maggie took the hint and stepped out of the studio into the hallway. She couldn’t make out words but heard the artist speaking in an authoritarian tone, punctuated with a raised voice.

  After a minute or so, the door opened. Vi crooked a finger at her. “Come.” Maggie followed her back inside the studio. “I’m in the middle of my fourth divorce. Neither of us will leave our loft, so we’re building a wall down the middle of it.”

  Having spent twelve years living in uber-expensive New York City, Maggie didn’t find this strange. “I know a couple who lived in a one-bedroom apartment on the High Line. They were getting divorced and their lawyers told each of them that if they moved out of their apartment, they’d lose all claim to it. The woman woke up one night because her husband was trying to smother her with a pillow. She took out a restraining order against him—but they both still lived in the apartment.”

  “Ah, restraining orders.” Vi said this as if talking about an old, familiar friend. “Back to your work.” Vi crossed to Maggie’s painting. “Technically, it’s perfectly serviceable. But where’s the passion? The you-ness? By that I mean, what would make it something you and only you could paint? Where people would go, now that is a—what’s your name again?”

  “Magnolia Marie Crozat. Maggie.”

  Vi nodded with approval. “Wonderful name for an artist.”

  At least she likes something about me, Maggie thought glumly.

  Vi pointed at Maggie’s portfolio with her phone. “Let me see your other work.”

  Maggie, feeling the heavy pain of the condemned, unzipped her portfolio case. Vi thumbed through the enclosed artwork. “I wasn’t intending to show you these,” Maggie said, hating how apologetic she sounded. “I just used the case to transport the painting here.”

  “These would make a nice line of greeting cards.”

  “I do have a line of souvenirs with these images.” I hadn’t thought about cards, though. Not a bad idea.

  Vi pulled a sketch pad out of the portfolio pocket and handed it to Maggie. “No painting yet. Only sketching. I want you to
sketch until you find your it.”

  “Sure. Great.” Maggie hesitated. “How will I know when I find it? Not that it, the it.”

  “You’ll just know it. Not the general it.” Vi made a fist and thumped her heart dramatically. “The it.”

  I hate this conversation, was Maggie’s internal response.

  She spent an hour sketching halfheartedly, hiding her work from Vi whenever she happened to pass, which wasn’t often, fortunately. The artist seemed to forget Maggie was there as she ate chocolates and yelled over the phone at a litany of those in her service, from her divorce lawyer to her New York gallery representative. The session was finally, blessedly over. “I’ll be in touch about scheduling our next lesson,” Maggie lied to Vi as she headed out the door.

  “Stop,” Vi ordered. Maggie froze. The artist took her by the shoulders and stared down from her impressive height. “Do. Not. Give. Up. You will find it. Your it.” Vi accompanied this with another dramatic heart thump.

  “Oh … okay.” Maggie’s tone was weak. Darn. Now I have to come back.

  Traffic on I-10 was light, and Maggie made it home by lunchtime. Gran and Vanessa corralled her the minute she stepped out of the car. “They finished painting the guest room,” Gran said, excited. “Come. You must see it.”

  Maggie let the women lead her to the shotgun cottage she’d shared with her grandmother, where her former bedroom had been designated the guest room. The walls, once a soft white, where now a blinding yellow. Maggie searched for a response that wouldn’t telegraph her dismay. “It’s so … bright.” She tried her best to put a cheerful spin on this.

  “That was the plan,” Vanessa said with pride. “No matter how crummy the weather is outside, it’ll be a sunny day in here.”

  “It’s the color of the year,” Gran said. “Oh so trendy. Do you like it?”

  Ugh, no! Maggie thought. But beset by the insecurity of her disastrous session with Vi De Lavallade, she didn’t trust her instincts. So instead she responded, “Yes. I like it.”

  Maggie left the cottage and trudged home. She made herself a sandwich and pulled open a package of Zapp’s potato chips. Her cell phone rang as she sat down to eat. She saw the caller was Bo and hesitated. I need to spin my session with Vi, she thought. He can’t know that it was a big disappointment. She formulated a response to give him if he asked about the lesson. But he didn’t.

  “They completed the forensics on Chanson’s boat,” he said. “The report shows evidence indicating someone tampered with the thermostat. With deadly results.”

  “Meaning …” Maggie said.

  “That the accident was no accident.”

  Chapter 9

  “I know zero about boating,” Maggie said. “What happened to the thermostat on Chanson’s boat?”

  “It was installed backward, which means the heat-sensing part was on the wrong side. This led to the engine overheating and then the fire. The boat was inspected recently, and everything was up to code. Someone switched the thermostat post-inspection.”

  “So, it has to be someone who knows boats.”

  “Not really. All it takes is someone searching ‘How Fires Start on Boats’ on the internet. Apparently, it’s an easy mistake to make. Even the pros do it. Which is why whoever did this probably assumed it would be written off as maintenance failure.”

  “When I borrowed Little Earlie’s phone, I could see Chanson was distracted by something. It must have been the thermostat.” Maggie reached for a potato chip, then stopped as a thought occurred to her that put hunger on the back burner. “If that’s all it takes … it doesn’t rule out a lot of suspects.”

  “Nope.”

  “Which means the list of people with a grudge against Phillippe Chanson would have to include JJ. And my mother.”

  “Law enforcement will be looking at everyone who had any issue with him.”

  “Way to deflect, Detective Durand.”

  Bo sighed. “This is going to be a joint investigation with detectives from the parish sheriff’s department, the state police, the levee district police, the Coast Guard, maybe even the FBI—and us. Little Pelican PD. If you think all this man and womanpower means a quick resolution, you’d be wrong. I was on a couple of cases like this when I worked in Shreveport. It’s gonna take hella coordination on everyone’s parts just to keep from tripping over each other. Hey”—Bo’s tone lightened as he made a purposeful change of subject—“how did it go with Vi De Lavallade today?”

  “Great!” Maggie answered, hoping she didn’t put too much English on the spin of her response. “She’s a fascinating woman.”

  “Glad it’s working out.” Bo sounded pleased with himself. “I wanted to make the first Valentine’s Day present to my wife a winner.”

  “Oh, it’s a winner all right.”

  Maggie, realizing this came out totally snarky, cringed. Luckily, Bo didn’t pick up on the tone in her voice. “Not sure when I’ll be home, so don’t wait up for me,” he said. “Love you more.”

  “Impossible.”

  The couple blew kisses to each other, then ended the call. Maggie, plagued by a sense of doom, toyed with her food. Friends and loved ones had been murder suspects before. Maggie herself had been one. She knew the horror and anxiety of facing charges for a crime you didn’t commit, and the pain of people you considered friends suddenly doubting you. It was impossible to imagine Ninette resorting to such vengeful behavior. But JJ … if Maggie was totally honest with herself, she had to admit she could envision anger driving him to desperate lengths.

  The way friends once doubted her, she now doubted a friend.

  * * *

  In the morning, a blunt banner headline on the front page of the Penny Clipper delivered the latest development in Phillippe Chanson’s death to locals. “You’d think Little Earlie would come up with something a little cleverer than ‘Celeb Chef Death Ruled Murder,’ ” Gran said.

  “He doesn’t have time.” Maggie pointed to the kitchen television, where the publisher was once again being interviewed by a reporter from a national news show.

  “I hope all this attention generates enough money for him to hire a copy editor.” Gran held up the paper. “Abel’s restaurant has an ad for a Valentine’s Day special and it’s spelled Valentime’s.”

  Ninette pulled a tray of biscuits out of the oven. “The Chanson guests returned from New Orleans last night. I didn’t see Becca or Dyer, but Kate said she and Trick would take breakfast in her room. Would you mind bringing it to them? I don’t think my delivering it would be appropriate.”

  Gran grunted and tossed the newspaper aside. “Ninette, chère, you can’t possibly think they consider you a suspect in this case.”

  Ninette split open two biscuits, added tomato slices that she sprinkled with Cajun seasoning, topped each half with a fried egg, and smothered the dish in a creamy boudin gravy. “I was arrested for vandalizing their restaurant and disturbing the peace.”

  “So was Abel Garavant,” Gran said.

  “Then he’s a suspect too.”

  “I’ll bring them breakfast,” Maggie said, eager to end the conversation. “I’ll check on Dyer and Becca too.”

  “Dyer texted me that he’ll come by for his breakfast,” Ninette said. “But check on Becca. I worry for her. I can’t imagine how devastating it is to lose someone who was your mentor and romantic partner.”

  Maggie added a carafe of coffee to the breakfast tray, then headed to the carriage house. The building’s front door was open, so Maggie carried the tray inside. The carriage house had been divided into two suites. One was empty; the other housed Kate and now Trick. Hands full, Maggie used her head to tap lightly on the door to the suite. “Breakfast.”

  Trick opened the door. “Let me get that.” He took a deep inhale. “Smells fantastic.”

  For a moment, Maggie feared another stolen Ninette recipe. Then she reminded herself the person who might pilfer was gone.

  Trick set the tray down on the room’s smal
l, round antique dining table. He took a plate and began eating. Kate, immersed in paperwork, ignored the food. “Again, I’m so sorry about your loss,” Maggie said.

  “Thank you,” Kate said without looking up. “I’m a little distracted. We’re reopening the Cajun Kitchen tonight.”

  The news took Maggie aback. “Oh. Well … I’m glad to hear that. Will Becca take over?”

  “Not yet,” Trick said. “We’re bringing up Jerome Gravois, our sous-chef from Chanson’s in the Quarter. He’s set to take over there as executive chef in a couple of weeks. This way he’ll get some experience under his belt. Becca’s having a tough time emotionally.” This earned an eye roll and sound of annoyance from Kate. “She is, hon. Have a little pity on her. She was in love with Phillippe.”

  Kate threw down her papers. “What a waste of time on her part. He didn’t love her back. He didn’t love anyone but himself and his restaurants, and he probably got himself killed by one of his discarded exes.”

  The woman’s voice crackled with emotion. A shadow crossed Trick’s face. Maggie wondered if they were thinking the same thing—that Kate could count herself among those discarded exes.

  Kate cleared her throat. When she spoke, her tone was cold and businesslike. “Now it’s up to us to keep the Phillippe Chanson brand alive or go out of business. It can be done. Look at all the fashion houses that stay alive after their namesakes die. Chanel, Valentino, Dior, Saint Laurent …”

  “A little harder with a restaurant,” Trick said.

  Kate gave her head a vigorous shake. Her brunette, shoulder-length pageboy whipped back and forth. “I made sure every restaurant we opened included his name for branding. Even if the menu changed, the name always stayed the same. And here’s the good news. With Phillippe dea—gone, we can talk up your drink menu. Ooh, here’s an idea going forward. We separate out the bar from the restaurant and brand it on its own. Instead of mixology, we call it ‘Tricks-ology.’ Make you the face of it. We lean into that direction and slowly shift the chain’s focus.”