by Ellen Byron
“That expression never made sense to me. Watching a pot doesn’t stop it from boiling.”
“Focus, please,” Gran said in a stern tone. “What I mean is that obsessively thinking, ‘I need to be better,’ will not make you better. Let that go. Your ‘it’ will come to you, I promise. Instead of focusing on what you can’t do, focus on what you can do. Which is …” she prompted.
“Support my friends,” Maggie said with conviction. “I keep thinking I should check on JJ, but I haven’t done it yet. That’s going to the top of my agenda tomorrow.”
“There you go.” Gran raised her glass to her granddaughter.
Maggie rose from the sofa. “Bo’s going to be busy the rest of the evening. I’m on my own schedule for a couple of days, so I’ll spend tonight finishing work assignments and take tomorrow as a personal day.” She bent down to hug her grandmother. “I love you so much.”
“I love you more.”
“Impossible,” Maggie said with affection.
* * *
In the morning, Maggie was relieved to learn that Ninette’s alibi had checked out. “Thank goodness I got into that long discussion at the grocery store with the seafood department manager about how imported oysters don’t stack up to our local species,” Ninette said, while the family had their breakfast after serving their guests. “The market even has me on the security tape. If I’d known law enforcement would be looking at the tape, I would have put on makeup.”
After breakfast, Maggie texted JJ. Half an hour went by without a response. She followed up with a phone call. Still no response. Worried, Maggie decided a welfare check was in order.
The day was drizzly and overcast. Maggie put on fleece leggings, a mustard cable-knit tunic sweater, and a pair of purple fleece-lined boots and set out for her friend’s house.
JJ still lived in the homey cottage where he’d grown up, next to a grassy field that abutted Bayou Beurre. Maggie parked on the road in front of the house. A couple of mutts who lived next door ran over to her, barking the whole way. They stopped and engaged in an active sniff of her leggings and boots. After a minute, they grew bored and sauntered away.
Maggie walked up the stone path that led to the house and knocked on the front door. A breeze set the porch swing swaying back and forth. “JJ?” she called. “It’s me. Maggie.” She waited a few minutes, then knocked and called to him again. She was about to give up when she heard footsteps. The door opened.
“Hey,” JJ said. His round face was devoid of makeup and his short, light-brown hair lacked the usual accessories. Instead of jeans, he now wore sweat pants, indicating a further decline into depression. This is bad, Maggie thought. But she forced a smile.
“Hey yourself. I tried calling and texting but didn’t hear back, so I thought I’d take a chance and drive over.”
“I was on the phone with the insurance company. Come on in.”
Maggie stepped into JJ’s living room, a small, tidy space decorated with furniture that, as in so many Pelican homes, had been in the family for generations. JJ’s collection of Jazz Fest posters lined three walls, their bright graphics adding a contemporary touch to the room. A large flat-screen TV decorated the fourth wall. “Come in the kitchen. I’ll fix us coffee.”
JJ had recently remodeled the kitchen, updating the appliances to stainless steel while keeping the traditional white beadboard wainscoting. He poured himself and Maggie coffee. “I’m gonna get reimbursed by insurance for the bathroom repair at Junie’s, so I should be able to reopen in a few days.”
“JJ, that’s great.”
JJ gave a lackluster shrug. “Don’t know who’s gonna come back after what happened.”
“You know all the locals will.”
“I can’t survive on just locals. I need tourists too. And they’ll all be going to Chanson’s, even with him gone. Maybe because of that. The nosy factor. They’re adding music and a dance floor. Did you know that?”
“No,” Maggie said. Kate and Trick were certainly doing an aggressive pivot from the star-chef emphasis.
“I can’t compete with them.”
“Yes you can, JJ.” Maggie spoke with determination. “We’ll make sure of it.” She used her hands to paint a picture. “I see a grand reopening with special musical guests Gaynell and the Gator Girls. Your menu laid out buffet-style for the party. By invitation only, meaning anybody who didn’t get one will be dying to get in. Word will get out that”—Maggie did jazz hands—“Junie’s is back and better than ever!”
Maggie’s attempt to cheer up JJ didn’t work. He glanced down at his mug. “A detective from the sheriff’s office interviewed me. I don’t have an alibi for the time he was talking about. Sulking at home by myself don’t count.” He made a weak attempt to sound like he was joking.
“Lack of an alibi isn’t evidence against you, JJ.”
JJ put his untouched mug on the counter. “No, but this is. I got in a fight with Chanson in the alley. He was walking by when I was throwing out the rodent droppings. I called him over to look at them. I blamed him or his people; he laughed and said I must be high to think that. I got yelling, and he pulled out his phone to record me. I went for the phone. He pushed me off and stopped recording, but he got everything up until then. Including me saying if he ever came near Junie’s again, I’d make sure he’d rue the day. I was proud of myself for that one because I used the word rue, like it was roux. A play on words I made sure he got. I’m in trouble, Maggie.”
“You’re assuming his phone survived the fire.”
“The way the detective was talking to me, sure sounded like it did.”
“Well …” Maggie digested this; then a thought occurred to her. “I bet it was password protected. And had two-factor authentication. Everything does now. A password and a fingerprint or facial recognition. I think there’s a window that closes on being able to bypass those and get into a phone.” Maggie did a quick search on her own phone. “I’m right. There’s a seventy-two hour window. See? And Phillippe’s been gone longer than that.” She handed the phone to JJ.
“That would certainly ease my mind,” he said, reading. “Hold on. This article’s four years old. That’s Jurassic when it comes to technology.”
Maggie released a profanity. “Let me find a more recent article.” She took back her phone and entered a search. She scrolled through it with increasing annoyance, then let loose another profanity and gave up. “Why is it you can never find the one thing you’re looking for on the internet?”
“You tried. Thanks for that. It’s truly appreciated.”
Maggie pocketed her phone. “When I was going through a rough stretch in New York, I saw a therapist. I told her I was trying to do better, and you know what she said? ‘Try is a fail word.’ ”
“How so?” JJ asked, confused.
“Because it gives you an out. It implies you may not succeed. I don’t want to ‘try’ and help you, JJ. I want to do it. And succeed. Pelican needs Junie’s. And we all need our friend.” Maggie gently poked him in the chest. “Who is you.”
JJ managed a smile. “You’re a blessing, that’s for sure.”
“We’ll see about that. If nothing else, maybe I can suss out who tried to put you out of business.”
“You said ‘try’ is a fail word,” JJ said, showing a glimmer of usual sense of humor.
“And”—Maggie gave her friend another affectionate poke—“we’ll show them they failed.”
* * *
Now on a mission, Maggie headed into Pelican. Unable to find a parking spot in the village center, she parked blocks away and walked to Chanson’s Cajun Kitchen. She got a pang of sadness as she passed the shuttered Junie’s Oyster Bar and Dance Hall. The sight increased her determination, and her steps became more purposeful. She opened the door to Chanson’s, and the white noise of a crowded restaurant greeted her. Every table was taken, mostly by people Maggie didn’t recognize and assumed were tourists. She did see a few familiar faces, locals whose loyalt
y to their stomachs outweighed their support for JJ. She took in the restaurant’s layout and saw he was right; Chanson’s had carved out space for music and dancing.
“Need a table?”
Maggie turned in the direction of the question and saw Dyer seated at a two-top, a tablet with a keyboard and an empty plate in front of him. “Oh hi, Dyer. Thanks.” She took the seat across from him. “I didn’t expect the restaurant to be this crowded.”
“Lunch special.” The writer pointed to a postcard on a stanchion advertising a low-cost array of lunch choices. “Also, they’re short-staffed, so food’s coming out slower, meaning people are sitting longer.”
Maggie saw a frazzled Kate, a black butcher’s apron over her designer jumpsuit, deliver an order to a table, then move on to take an order. “Kate’s waiting on tables, so they must be super short-staffed. I don’t see her as someone who’d do that unless she was forced to.”
“Nope. She hates it.” Dyer leaned toward her and spoke in a whisper. “FYI, word’s not out yet on my new contract. Kate and crew think I’m still on Operation Whitewash Phillippe Chanson. But”—he lowered his voice even more—“I’ve got a lead on some possible criminal activity that could have led to his death if he knew about it.” He favored Maggie with a sly smile. “The money’s on me being the one who breaks this case wide open.”
The author’s arrogance concerned Maggie. “Dyer, be careful. Unfortunately for my family, we’ve had some experience with murder.”
“I know. I want your family’s story—make that stories, plural times however many bodies—to be my follow-up true-crime book.”
“Oh, a hard no on that. The thing is, trying to solve a murder is a dangerous business. Believe me, I speak from experience. Whatever you’ve uncovered, you should share with the police. Let them take it from here.”
Dyer released an annoyed breath. “Do you have any idea who I am? Or was, before the internet scorched-earth annihilation of the printed word? I’ve been embedded with troops in Iraq. Gone undercover to expose political corruption in DC. Been nominated for the Pulitzer Prize—twice. I think I can handle a couple of inbred deplorables running a scam in backwoods Louisiana.”
The writer rose, threw some money on the table, and exited the restaurant. That was insulting on so many levels, Maggie thought.
A very pregnant young woman came into the restaurant, accompanied by her attentive husband. Noticing an empty seat at the bar, Maggie gave them her table, which generated profuse thanks. She went to the bar and grabbed the one empty stool. Trick, who was pulling a draft beer, gave her a nod. “Hi. Didn’t expect to see you here.”
His tone was polite but with an edge that made Maggie nervous. Gran was right. She couldn’t interfere with law enforcement’s investigation into Phillippe Chanson’s murder. The only way she could hunt for clues that might steer the murder investigation away from JJ was to employ talents not utilized by the professional agencies. Chanson’s Cajun Kitchen was the most likely place to begin her search, but if she was going to spend time at the restaurant, she needed a good reason for doing so. She remembered the sketchbook in her purse and pulled it out. “I’m studying with the artist Vi De Lavallade. I’m supposed to be sketching, and I figured a restaurant’s a good place for people watching. And doing some sketches.”
To her relief, this explanation assuaged the mixologist. “Ah, got it,” he said, the edge in his voice gone. He delivered the beer to a patron, then took a whiskey tumbler and began measuring liquors into it.
“Why didn’t you expect to see me?” Maggie asked. “Because of my mom? She’s sorry she blew up like that. She knows it wasn’t appropriate.”
Trick added a block of ice to the tumbler and gave the drink a gentle stir. “Truthfully, I can’t say I blame her. Or the other guy who went postal on Phil. Stealing recipes was one of his less likable traits. Didn’t make him too popular with his fellow chefs, that’s for sure.”
“But you guys were friends for years.”
“Uh-huh,” Trick said, his tone vague. He finished stirring and pushed the glass toward Maggie and gave her a sexy smile. “The Cajun Country Mystery. One of my own recipes. Laissez les bon temps rouler.”
Maggie took a sip and coughed. Her eyes watered. “It’s good,” she gasped. “But strong.”
Another customer hailed Trick. Maggie pondered what she’d just learned. The mixologist hardly seemed broken up about his supposed close friend’s death. He’d highlighted the fact that Chanson’s itchy recipe fingers had made him many enemies. Was he trying to deflect attention away from himself? He was possessive of Kate, yet he’d definitely been flirty with Maggie. Was he the kind of guy who flirted with everyone, or was he in a relationship of convenience with Kate and shopping around? Maggie took another sip of her Cajun Country Mystery, choked, and decided sketching was a better option than day drinking. She did a desultory rendition of Trick as he exchanged sultry glances with a pretty twentysomething who had bellied up to the bar. But Maggie noticed he turned off the charm as soon as his back was to the woman, making it obvious that flirtation was the mixologist’s stock in trade. Judging by the tip the woman left behind after being served, the strategy worked.
There was a roar from the lunch crowd and then applause. Maggie adjusted her position and saw Scooter toss an oyster in the air, catch it behind his back, then open it with lightning speed. Maggie, fascinated, spent twenty minutes sketching the oyster shucker in action. Finally, Scooter threw his hands in the air like a triumphant prizefighter and took an exaggerated bow. “Thank you, thank you.” He pulled off his bandanna and used it to wipe off the sweat that poured down his face, making his neck tattoos glisten. “I’ll be back after a brief break. Rock on, peeps!”
Scooter disappeared into the kitchen. Kate approached Trick with a bar tray. “Two Pimm’s Cups, a Gin Fizz, and a club soda. Hi.” She directed the greeting toward Maggie.
“Hi. You look dead on your feet.” Maggie winced. “Sorry. Poor word choice.”
“Don’t apologize; you’re right. I am.” Kate blew a stray hair off her face. “Half our waitstaff quit in solidarity with that Clinton kid.”
Good for them, Maggie thought.
“I’m trying to hire replacements, but the local pool is small, as in nonexistent. I may have to bring a couple of waiters up from New Orleans, but that’s expensive.” Kate sounded near tears. “It’s a big problem.”
Maggie sat up straight on her barstool. The universe had dropped into her lap the perfect opportunity to ingratiate herself with the Chanson staff and do some high-level snooping. “I’ll do it,” she said. “I’ll waitress for you.”
Chapter 13
Kate eyed Maggie with skepticism. “I know I’m low on options, but I don’t have time to train someone. I need experience.”
“I wait on our guests at the B and B all the time.” This didn’t impress Kate. Seeing the opportunity slipping away, Maggie lied, “And I waitressed in college. In New York. Brooklyn. A tough crowd. Very tough.”
Kate relaxed. “Oh. Yeah, the Brooklyn customers can be rough. But don’t you have a full-time job?”
“I’m taking a couple of days off. If you need me after that, I can do the night shift here.”
A patron called to Kate for his check. “You’re hired,” she said to Maggie. “Apron is in the kitchen. There’s a tablet in the pocket.”
“A … tablet?” Maggie paled. She’d seen the tech device at restaurants, and they looked intimidating.
“Ugh, right, you waitressed back in the last century. Yes, a tablet. Order goes to a monitor in the kitchen, bill goes to Trick here.” Trick gave an amused salute. Kate craned her neck toward the door and uttered an epithet. “Party of six walked in. Go, go!”
Maggie scurried into the kitchen, where she donned her uniform of apron and tablet. She took a deep breath and marched onto the restaurant floor.
The next two hours were a blur of taking orders, delivering food, apologizing for delivering the wrong
food, delivering drinks, and apologizing for delivering the wrong drinks. Watching the kitchen staff in action gave Maggie a new respect for all of them. They worked at their stations without a break and with laser focus, producing dish after perfect dish. Finally, blessedly, lunch service was over, heralding a welcome break before dinner service. Maggie bussed a four-top, clearing it of a mess left behind by a couple with two hyperactive children. She picked up some loose change and cursed. “Seventy-five cents on a sixty-dollar check? I know these people. They’re getting a spitter on their next visit.”
Becca, who’d come out of the kitchen with the rest of the kitchen staff and was nursing a drink at the bar, gave a weary smile. “Working for tips is the worst. One of the waiters at our New York place once got left a MetroCard on a two-hundred-dollar check. He went to use it and it was empty.”
“Considering a new MetroCard costs a buck, he still did better than me.” Maggie brought her bin of dirty dishes into the kitchen for the dishwasher, then went back to the dining room and collapsed into a chair.
“Get some rest before the dinner shift,” Luis advised. He picked up an unused napkin. Pushing back his black hair, he swiped the napkin over his damp, dark skin. “I know that’s what I’m gonna do.”
Maggie, exhausted, drove home to follow Luis’s advice. The hectic afternoon gave her no time to commingle with her Chanson coworkers. She knew from JJ that restaurant staff often caught a drink together at the end of the night to unwind. She’d take a nap, serve dinner, and suggest a nightcap if no one else offered the idea.
As soon as she reached the apartment, Maggie fell into bed. Agile little Chi mix Jolie jumped onto the bed, snuggled into the curve of Maggie’s back, and passed out alongside her. Maggie woke up an hour later to the sound of a voice gently calling, “Chère? Chère?” She rubbed her eyes. Bo stood over here. “You all right? You’re not a big napper. Are you coming down with something?”
