Cajun Kiss of Death

by Ellen Byron

  “We all do,” responded a sour-looking student who overheard her as he walked by.

  In an effort to emerge from her funk, Maggie spent the ride home reminding herself of the blessings she enjoyed. A wonderful family. A lovely home. A job that not only fulfilled her but preserved history for future generations. And the old Dupois manor house she had inherited that would eventually be home to economically challenged Pelican residents. If I have to come to terms with being a hobbyist rather than a true artist, so be it. There are a lot of ways to make your mark on the world. Comforted by the internal dialogue, Maggie answered her cell phone when it rang in a cheerful tone.

  “You sound in a good mood,” Ione said.

  “I convinced Clinton to go home and Quentin to be with him when he meets with Bo about the murder.”

  “Good job.” Ione paused. “You got more flowers.”

  Maggie’s good mood evaporated, replaced by an ominous sensation. “I did?”

  “Yes. When I was closing up tonight, I found them in the employee break room. No note. Only a piece of paper that said, ‘For Maggie.’ Typed, not handwritten. Still red roses, at least what’s left of them. They’re old and withered. A couple are full-on dead. And the bouquets seem to be shrinking. Maybe your secret admirer’s running out of money. Wait, there’s a note this time.”

  “What does it say?” Maggie heard Ione rip open an envelope, then suck in a breath. “Ione?”

  “It says, ‘Soon.’ In black marker. That’s it.”

  Maggie’s heart began to thump. “Are you near a calendar?”

  “I’ve got one on my phone. Just opened it.”

  “How many days until Valentine’s Day?”

  Ione counted. “Six.”

  “Now, can you count the roses? How many are there?”

  Ione muttered as she counted, then stopped. “Six.” The women were silent for a moment. Then Ione said, “These aren’t just flowers.”

  “I know,” Maggie said. “They’re a countdown.”

  Chapter 11

  “This whole thing is creepy,” Ione finally said.

  “Yup. I’d written the flowers off as either harmless or some kind of bad joke, but the note kicks this up a notch. With everything that’s been happening, I haven’t even mentioned the deliveries to Bo yet. I’ll talk to him about them tonight when he gets home from work.”

  “Who do you think might be sending them?”

  Maggie took the exit off I-10 for Route 22. She headed west through swamps, the only light coming from the other cars on the road. “I don’t have a clue. I’m an old married lady now.”

  “You’re not old, and you’re beautiful. But if it’s a local sending the flowers, you’d think they would’ve come out as an admirer a lot sooner. What about the restaurant people?”

  “Maybe,” Maggie said, sounding doubtful.

  “Run down the list.”

  “There’s Trick, the mixologist. He’s one of those general flirts, but he’s involved with Kate, and from what I picked up, he’s more into her than she’s into him. Scooter, the restaurant’s oyster guy and the only local on staff, is a hot mess. He’s got more baggage than a jumbo jet cargo hold. Someone put thought into organizing the flowers and deliveries, and I can’t imagine him having the focus for it. I sense zero romantic interest in me coming from Dyer, the writer working on Chanson’s ‘autobiography’—his sarcasm, not mine. The poor man’s just trying to survive. That leaves Luis, the garde-manger chef.”

  “The what-ma-what?”

  “Guy in charge of salads and cold foods. He’s quiet. A bit of a cipher. I get the impression he wants to maintain a low profile.”

  “Do you think he’s illegal? I don’t mean it as a put-down. I only bring it up because a lot of low-level kitchen workers are.”

  “He’s not low-level. I think the garde-manger guy is, like, third in line to the chef. But he might be undocumented.” Maggie made a right turn onto the River Road, following its curves as it hugged the levee. “What would you think about me telecommuting for a couple of days? I’m feeling like maybe I should stick closer to home. I can write up the exhibit descriptions and design the program, then email everything to the printer.”

  “I think that’s a good idea,” said Ione, who lived on the west side of the river. “I can pick up whatever you order. The printer is only a few blocks from me.”

  “That’s perfect. Thank you.” Maggie reached the side road next to Crozat and turned onto it. “I’m almost at my place.”

  “Good.” There was relief in Ione’s voice. “It’s probably nothing. The flowers. Some high school kid with a crush on you.”

  “Probably,” Maggie said, wishing she believed this.

  Ione signed off. Maggie parked and stepped out of the car. A text from Brianna, accompanied by hearts and kisses, let her know that Clinton was currently meeting with Bo at Pelican PD. Maggie headed toward the manor house. She stopped when she heard live music coming from the B and B’s party tent. Curious, she detoured to the tent. She found a group of senior citizen musicians playing “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy” while a group of female contemporaries—Gran included—dressed in ersatz Rosie the Riveter costumes performed a synchronized dance routine to the song. The dancers and musicians finished with a flourish to applause from Maggie.

  “Break time,” Gran called to the performers as they exited the dance floor with much huffing and puffing. “Union five. Help yourself to treats and sweet tea.”

  Gran pulled a tissue from her sleeve and patted her brow. She sat down to rest. “Brava, Gran,” Maggie said. “I’m assuming this is an act for the senior talent show.”

  “Mais oui. The Rosé the Riveter Senior Marching Club invited me to become a member. They were sucking up to me, of course, to try and get a slot performing at the gala. We’ll also be doing various performances for charities and events like Mardi Gras. I don’t know what took me so long to sign on. I’m already having buckets of fun. Sandy did a wonderful job choreographing the number.”

  Maggie looked in the direction Gran pointed, where she saw a stressed-out Sandy taking a slug from a flask. “I don’t think that’s sweet tea in there.”

  “Probably not. Trying to keep all of us in line is like herding geriatric cats.”

  Maggie looked askance at her usually elegant grandmother, now clad in a blue jumpsuit with a red bandanna wrapped around her hair. “Your new look is going to take some getting used to.”

  “It’s très patriotic. And I rather like the jumpsuit. It’s comfy. Like Dr. Denton pj’s.”

  Lee, a trumpet under his arm, delivered a cookie and a cup of tea to Gran. “Here you go, madame.”

  “Thank you, monsieur.” Gran took a dainty bite. “Now go rest.” Lee kissed his wife on both cheeks and did the same to his step-granddaughter. Then he went to join the other musicians. “Older musicians need a lot of downtime between numbers. Not enough breath control, especially with the smokers.”

  Maggie gave her grand-mère’s hand an affectionate squeeze. “I think it’s wonderful you’re advocating for your fellow seniors.”

  “Someone has to keep us from being written off as doddering our way to the grave. We still have talents, which brings me to another idea. Many of my peers are wonderful crafters. Needle arts, woodworking, sewing. I propose that we display their work for sale at the gala, with a fifty-fifty split of the proceeds between Doucet and the creator.”

  “Done. I love it.”

  Gran checked her slim gold watch, a long-ago gift from her late first husband, Maggie’s grandfather. She stood up and clapped her hands together. “Break’s over. Everyone on stage for ‘This Joint Is Jumpin’.’ ”

  Maggie heard a groan from Sandy and saw her take another swig from her flask.

  Hungry, Maggie headed to the manor house kitchen. She passed Dyer Gossmer, who was on the phone. He ended the call and fist-pumped the air. “Yes.”

  This was not the Eeyore of an author Maggie was used to seeing. “It loo
ks like somebody got good news.”

  “Fantastic news,” Dyer enthused. He made a show of tiptoeing over to her and spoke in a stage whisper. “This is a secret, but I have to tell someone. I just sold the book I really want to write about Phillippe Chanson for buckets of money. I’m off the Chanson dole. It’ll be the unauthorized but a hundred percent true story, as opposed to the fluff job they were paying me to write. I’ll let you know as soon as the contract is signed, and I can go public with it. I’ll be paying for my own stay here, so bill me directly.”

  “Until the news breaks about the new book deal?”

  “I’ll be sticking around after that for sure. I wanna see how this whole murder thing plays out. It’s the theme of the book. Who hated Chanson enough to kill him? I get to use my investigative skills again. I’m back, baby!” Gossmer conga-danced away, an odd sight that Maggie found disconcerting. There goes a man with a strong motivation for murder, she thought as she watched him shake imaginary maracas.

  Once in the kitchen, she joined her parents for dinner at the large trestle table. “The gumbo’s delicious, Mom,” Maggie said, polishing off her second serving and helping herself to a third.

  “Thank you. I was interviewed by a homicide detective from the St. Pierre Parish sheriff’s department today.”

  Maggie dropped the soup ladle into the pot, where it sank to the bottom. “What?”

  “I wondered where you were this afternoon,” Tug said to his wife. “You should have told me, chère.” He exchanged a worried look with his daughter.

  “It came up very quickly. I think they were hoping the element of surprise might throw me off. But the detective was quite respectful, I must say. When I told him how I calibrated the temperature of this oven and how I was a bit of a savant when it comes to climate control and our old thermostat, he was quite impressed.”

  “Mom,” Maggie said, alarmed, “please tell me you didn’t.”

  Ninette gave her daughter a look. “Of course I didn’t. But I saw that look between the two of you. Like you don’t trust me to take care of myself. I’m not proud of what I did at Chanson’s Cajun Kitchen, but I know enough not to blather myself into a worse position.”

  “Sorry, Mom,” Maggie said, sheepish.

  Tug echoed her apology. “When you marry the smartest, most beautiful woman in the world, you should have more faith in her.”

  Ninette gave him the side eye. “You saw me put a Sugar High Pie in the oven, didn’t you?”

  “I sure did, and I’m ready with more apologies if that’s what it takes for me to get a slice straight out of the oven.”

  “Me too, me too,” Maggie said, waving a hand in the air.

  Fortified by a hefty slice of pie, Maggie left the manor house for her apartment. She almost collided with Kate, who was leaving the spa below with a bag of products. “How are you doing?” Maggie asked the late Chanson’s ex-wife.

  “Great. I mean,” she added, backtracking, “great because of my facial with that woman, Mo. She’s a genius. And her masseur is a magician. He released every knot in my back and neck.” Kate circled her head, and Maggie heard crackling sounds. “Those are the calcium deposits he loosened up. I’m telling you, the pressure of losing our brand ambassador and switching from the face of Phillippe to the face of Trick—just thinking about it makes me want to march back into the spa and get another hot stone massage. But challenge that it is, it’s also, I don’t know …” She searched for the right word. “Invigorating. Yes. In the long run, I think the change will invigorate the brand.” Her voice softened. For a moment Kate looked like she might cry. “But it’s awful it took poor Phillippe’s death to make it happen.”

  “Not just death,” Maggie said. “Murder.”

  Kate paled. “That word. It’s hideous. I … I … I need to go.”

  She hurried toward the carriage house. Maggie watched her leave, then let herself in and hiked up the stairs to her home. Xander was with his mom and stepdad, so she had the place to herself. She wondered if law enforcement had interviewed JJ yet and made a note to check with him in the morning.

  She heard the downstairs door open. “Honey, I’m home,” Bo called, tongue-in-cheek.

  Maggie had a kiss waiting for him when he came inside the apartment. He pulled off his sport coat and tossed it on the couch, then sat down next to it. He rubbed his face with his hands. “Long day.”

  “You and me both.”

  Maggie sat next to him. Bo put an arm around her, and she rested her head on his shoulder. “Clinton and I had a chat,” he said. “With Quentin hovering over us.”

  “As he should be.”

  Bo pulled away and faked a frown. “Ouch. That was a little scold-y. But noted.” He chuckled. “Both of them watch too many TV police shows. Quentin was doing his best ‘I am a lawyer and should play one on TV’ act, and then Clinton announced with a lot of drama that he had a confession to make. I half expected a director to yell, ‘Cut!’ ”

  “Hoo boy. Can you tell me what he confessed?”

  “Yes. Apparently when he was fired, he told the staff they’d be sorry. He says he meant that he’d punish the restaurant by telling all his friends not to eat there. Which I believe.”

  “I’m glad. I love those Poche kids. They’re like siblings to me.”

  Bo rested his feet on the coffee table. “We got some other news today. CGIS—that’s the Coast Guard Investigative Service—established a timeline for when someone tampered with the power boat’s thermostat. The boat passed inspection before it was delivered to Chanson at two in the afternoon. There was a window between two and five when no one was in the vicinity, but from five PM on, people were going back and forth from the dock to the fireworks barge. They’ve all been interviewed, and no one saw any activity on the powerboat. So, if a suspect has an alibi that checks out for the hours between two and five, they’re off the hook.”

  “Here’s hoping my mom does. And JJ.” Maggie turned to face Bo. “Something else is going on that I haven’t had a chance to talk to you about. You haven’t been sending me flowers at work, have you? Red roses?”

  “No,” Bo said, his voice reflecting a sense of guilt. “Does that make me a bad husband?” He sat up and pulled his feet off the coffee table. “Wait—are you telling me someone’s been sending you roses? Anonymously?”

  Maggie nodded. “The first one came from with a note that said they were from a secret admirer. The others didn’t. And the arrangements are getting smaller. The last one only had six blooms. Valentine’s Day is six days away. It’s like—”

  “A countdown.” Bo’s expression darkened. “Chère, I don’t think you have an admirer. I think you have a stalker.”

  Chapter 12

  “Tell me everything you can about these deliveries,” Bo said.

  Maggie did so. “Ione knows more than me. They never seem to arrive when I’m there.”

  “Which I’m sure is intentional.” Bo stood up. “But everything is still at Doucet? Untouched by anyone except you and Ione?”

  “As far as I know.”

  Bo paced as he talked. “I’m getting Rogert on this,” he said, referencing the young detective he shared duties with. “I want him at Doucet first thing in the morning with another officer to collect the evidence. I’ll get on the horn to every florist in the region to track down where the flowers came from. I’m gonna put together a list.”

  He pulled out his cell phone and speed-dialed Detective Rogert. “I’m feeling kind of jittery now,” Maggie said. “I’m going over to the big house for a bit.”

  Her husband, already in conversation with Rogert, nodded, and Maggie left. She found Gran, still wearing her Rosie the Riveter costume, fixing herself a Sazerac in the manor house front parlor. “Lee’s sound asleep,” she said. “Blowing on that horn of his for a couple of hours knocked him right out.” Gran eyed Maggie. “Are you all right? You look perturbed.”

  “I’m perfectly fine except for one of our guests might be a killer, I ma
y have a stalker, Doucet is in trouble, and I’ve lost whatever artistic talent I once had.”

  “Hmm …” Gran pulled a bottle of bourbon from behind the bar. She poured a shot into a whiskey tumbler, considered it for a minute, then poured another shot into the glass. “Come.” She motioned for Maggie to follow her. The women took a seat on the room’s antique sofa, upholstered in a rich burgundy velvet, stepping over Gopher, who was splayed out in front of it. “Talk to me.”

  Maggie poured out her fears and frustrations to her beloved grand-mère, touching on everything from her worry about loved ones being suspects in Phillippe Chanson’s murder to the nerve-racking mystery of the red roses. “And there’s Vi putting down my artwork. I know that’s the least important thing going on right now. I’m trying not to let it bother me. But it does.”

  “I’m going to put a hard question to you.” Gran looked her granddaughter in the eye. “Do you think this Vi person is right?”

  Emotion welled up in Maggie. She closed her eyes and scrunched her face to keep from bursting into tears. Gopher, as if sensing his human’s pain, released a sympathetic basset howl. Maggie inhaled a deep breath, exhaled it, then opened her eyes and met her grandmother’s glance. “Yes. I do think she’s right.”

  “Well, then…” Gran took a sip of her drink. “…Let’s evaluate the situation. Or situations, as it were. When it comes to that poor chef’s murder, there are a bajillion, as the kids say, law enforcement agencies tripping over each other to solve the case, so I believe it’s best if you stay out of their way. As to Doucet, you’re doing everything humanly possible to save it. Regarding your flower-delivering fan—or fanatic, more likely—we know that handsome husband of yours will do everything humanly possible to ferret him out. Or her. You never know these days, do you? And as to finding your ‘it,’ whatever that means—I have no patience with those kinds of pretentious statements. The expression A watched pot never boils comes to mind.”