Cajun Kiss of Death

by Ellen Byron

  * * *

  Worn out by her adventures in waitressing, Maggie slept late—late for her being eight AM. She woke up to an empty home, Bo having already left for work. She checked her phone and saw a text from Kate: Hired waitress. Thanks for helping. Maggie viewed the text with relief and skepticism. While she was happy to avoid further upending her schedule, she had a sense that Kate had moved quickly to replace her for reasons other than Maggie’s mediocre waitressing skills. Or, she had to admit, it was exactly for that reason. She showered and threw on black leggings and a stretchy teal-blue top, then ate a pear on the cusp of overripeness. Someday I have to actually go shopping instead of helping myself to the B and B food.

  Maggie checked the weather through the apartment’s large picture window and saw it was raining. She pulled an umbrella out of the stand in the entranceway and left for the main house to see if her parents needed her for any B and B duties. She detoured to the party tent and peeked in to see Gran in the middle of auditions. A handsome older gentleman in full Colonial regalia was in the middle of reciting Thomas Paine’s famous pamphlet. “These are the times that try men’s souls,” he orated with genuine feeling. “The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country; but he that stands by it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman.”

  Maggie listened, moved. He finished his abbreviated version of the pamphlet to applause from both her and Gran. “Bravo, Ian,” Gran said. “You’re in the show.”

  “Try men’s souls,” indeed. Maggie thought of the many things trying her soul at the moment, the most trying of which was her impending session with Vi De Lavallade. She found her parents in the kitchen having coffee with her step-grandfather, Lee. “There you are,” Tug said. “Your order came. Lee found it under the back door overhang, so it didn’t get wet.”

  “What order?” Maggie asked, confused. “I didn’t order anything.”

  This confused the others. “I figured you ordered an early Valentine’s treat from Fais Dough Dough,” Ninette said. “Whatever’s in there smells delicious.”

  She motioned to a flat white bakery box on the kitchen counter. Maggie examined the box. She pulled out a pair of the disposable gloves the family used when handling food and carefully opened it. Inside lay four heart-shaped doughnuts decorated with red frosting. Lee and her parents peered over her shoulder. “Four, huh.” Lee rubbed his bearded chin. “Odd number for a doughnut order.”

  “It’s not an order,” Maggie said, heart racing. “It’s a message.”

  Her stalker hadn’t been scared off. He’d merely recalibrated.

  Chapter 15

  “Stalker?” Her father’s voice was low, his tone dark. “Explanation,” Tug demanded. “Now.”

  “Someone’s been sending me flowers at work,” Maggie said, aiming for factual rather than fearful. “The number of blooms reflects a countdown to Valentine’s Day. Bo jumped on the situation, and I thought it stopped. But whoever is doing it bailed on the flowers and appears to have switched to doughnuts.”

  “Four because it’s four days to Valentine’s Day.” Lee stared daggers at the doughnuts.

  “The solution’s simple,” said Ninette, on the verge of hysteria. “You don’t leave the house between now and the day after Valentine’s Day.”

  Tug put a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Chère, calm down. We need a sensible approach. Lee and I will take turns being Maggie’s personal bodyguards for the next four or five days. We’ll take shifts so’s one of us is on duty all the time. Lee, get your shotgun.”

  “I’m on it,” Lee said, and he started for the door.

  “Whoa.” Maggie made a time-out gesture. “Simmer down, everyone. No one said my life is in danger. It crossed my mind someone might be pranking me, and that could still be the case. And remember, my husband, highly regarded law enforcement official Bo Durand, is all over this. Now, can one of you take a picture of the box and send it to him?”

  “I will.” Tug took his phone off the counter and shot a series of pictures. “I’ll text them to him and explain what’s going on.”

  “Good. I’ll put the box in a safe place to protect any clues that might be on it, although I doubt there’ll be any. Whoever’s doing this knows how to cover their tracks.”

  Ninette opened a cabinet door for Maggie. She placed the box on an empty shelf and closed the cabinet. Tug held up his phone. “Bo just got back to me. He’s in a meeting of all the agencies investigating the chef’s death, but he’ll call you soon as he gets out.”

  “I hate feeling helpless,” Ninette said, wringing her hands. “There has to be something we can do.”

  “We can ask the guests if they saw anything but in a way that doesn’t make them suspicious and lie, in case it was one of them,” Maggie said. “I know. We’ll say a gift was delivered for me but the card got wet in the rain, so we don’t know who it’s from.”

  “Good plan. I’ll make a list of our guests and divvy it up between us so we don’t ask the same person twice,” Ninette said. “That would be a red flag.”

  Ninette retrieved a pad and pencil from a drawer and began writing. Maggie saw an opening to wriggle out of her art session with Vi. “I was supposed to have an art class at Tulane today, but I better cancel and deal with all this.”

  This was met with a chorus of Nos and Don’t do thats. “Bo told us about that gift before he told you,” Ninette said. “He was so proud of himself for thinking it up. It was such a sweet gesture.”

  “Besides,” Tug added, “you’re better off in New Orleans than here right now. Benefit of being in a city. What do they call it? Hiding in plain sight.”

  “We’ll take care of the guests,” Lee said. “You take care of yourself. The lesson’s exactly what you need. Something to feel good about instead of something to worry about.”

  Trapped, Maggie faked a positive attitude. “Right. Yes. I’m off to New Orleans and Vi De Lavallade.” She held up a fist and added in a weaker voice than she would have liked, “Yay.”

  * * *

  Maggie was exiting I-10 onto Carrollton Avenue when Bo called. “Your dad texted some kind of garbled message about stalkers and shotguns and sent a picture of doughnuts. Is this what I think it is?”

  “Afraid so. My stalker’s back.” Maggie shared details of the morning’s developments. “Mom, Dad, and Lee are gonna canvass our guests to see if anyone knows anything but do it in a way that doesn’t tip the guests off.”

  “A trio of amateur sleuths,” Bo said, not happy about it.

  “I can’t see any of those three being suspected of ulterior motives. And guests will probably be more relaxed and open with them than if someone from PPD was grilling them.”

  “True,” Bo admitted. “But …”

  “I know. It’s like I told the others. Whoever’s doing this is working overtime to make sure they can’t be traced. I don’t think the Crozat Amateur Detective Agency will be able to dig up anything useful, although I give them props for trying. Mom and Dad have resisted putting in security cameras. The whole ‘violation of privacy’ issue. But I think the time has come.”

  “Oh chère, I love your parents, but that time came a few bodies ago. I gotta run, but have a great session with Vi.”

  “I’m so looking forward to it.” Maggie impressed herself with how sincere she managed to sound.

  Seconds after Bo signed off, Maggie’s Trombone Shorty ring tone alerted her to another caller. Maggie pressed the Bluetooth in her ear to answer. “Hey, Maggie, it’s Little Earlie.” She groaned. “I heard that,” he said, insulted.

  “Sorry, but there’s a history of your calls not being good news. What’s up?”

  “I hear you have a stalker.”

  “And there you go, proving my point. I’m not confirming or denying. But wondering where you heard this.”

  “From the girl I’m dating.”

  “You’re dating someone?” Maggie couldn’t hide the incredulity
in her voice.

  “Yes,” Little Earlie said, even more insulted. “I’m not a total toad.”

  “My bad,” Maggie said, feeling guilty. “That came out wrong.”

  “No it didn’t, it came out exactly how you meant it to. I may be vertically and hirsutely challenged, but like my mama always said, there’s a lid for every pot. And I think I found my lid.”

  Hearing the emotion in Little Earlie’s voice, Maggie softened. “I’m happy for you, Little E. Who are you dating?”

  “Ginny Parvenue. She’s a part-time tour guide at Doucet.”

  Maggie called up an image of Ginny, an amiable, slightly chubby, mid-twenty-something devoid of ambition. She could see the girl being a supportive match for Earlie. “I know Ginny. She’s good people. But I wish she’d kept her mouth shut. How’d she hear I have a stalker? Which, again, I’m not confirming or denying.”

  “She was working the gift shop counter and overheard Ione talking to you from her office. You might want to put this story out there, Maggie. The attention could scare him or her off or make a person recall seeing something they didn’t realize was suspicious at the time.”

  “Or,” Maggie posited, “if attention is what they’re looking for, the publicity is a gift.”

  “True, but—”

  “Can you put a pin in this, Earlie? At least for a while? I promise you’ll get the story when the story is ready to be told.”

  “All right. I’ll sit on it, but only for a few days. I’ll focus on the Chanson murder investigation. I got a great front-pager on that.”

  Maggie’s nerves tingled. “There’s a new development?”

  “A big one. JJ got brought in for questioning again, and one of the detectives from the sheriff’s department confirmed he’s not a person of interest, he’s the person of interest.”

  Maggie’s stomach churned. The authorities must have found a way to get into Phillippe’s phone. She made a mental note to check in with JJ after her session with Vi. “Do you know if any of Chanson’s employees alibied out?” She recalled the restaurateur besides her mother who’d been dragged off by police after confronting the recipe-stealing chef. “And what about Abel Garavant?”

  “Aside from your mama, I haven’t heard about any alibis being established. Which doesn’t mean they haven’t been; it only means I haven’t been able to dig up dirt on it. There’s some tight-lipped folks at the Coast Guard and parish agencies. It’s not like Pelican PD, where I can wheedle info out of an officer with a box of pralines from Bon Bon. I got one more question for you.”

  “Oh boy.”

  “Relax, this one’s personal. Me and Ginny have only been going out about six weeks, but I wanna do something special for Valentine’s Day. I’ve never had a girlfriend I could celebrate with before. I don’t wanna do too little. Or too much.”

  Maggie heard the insecurity in the publisher’s voice and felt for him. Little E managed to be annoying yet endearing, and dealing with him always engendered a seesaw of emotions. “Take her out for a nice dinner,” she advised. “If you want to give her a gift, like jewelry, keep it simple.” She flashed on the rows of earrings that marched up both of Ginny’s earrings, ending in cartilage piercings. “Maybe earrings.”

  “Awesome. Thanks a ton, Mags.”

  And there was annoying Little Earlie. “Oh, no, no, no, no. Never ‘Mags.’ ”

  “Maggie. ’Bye. Keep me posted on the stalker sitch.”

  “Will not do,” Maggie said, burying the not in a mutter.

  Maggie pulled onto the Tulane campus. She shelved concerns about JJ and focused on parking, lucking out when she located a metered spot on Newcomb Place near the art department. She retrieved the portrait of Xander from her back seat, along with the bottle of Four Roses Single Barrel Bourbon she’d hijacked from Crozat’s supply. She girded herself for her rendezvous with Vi and got out of the car.

  To her relief, she found Vi in a particularly good mood, which Maggie hoped boded well for their session. Fresh paint stains coated the woman’s artist’s smock. Maggie noticed that she’d changed her hairstyle. Instead of wearing it natural, she now had a tall bun of microbraids atop her head. “Four Roses,” Vi said, taking the bottle from Maggie and admiring it. “Excellent choice.”

  “I’m glad you like it. You changed your hair. I love it.”

  Vi patted the bun. “Thank you. I’m celebrating. I fired my divorce lawyer and used the money I’m saving on that shyster to buy my ex out of our loft. Start painting. I’ll watch.”

  Vi’s abrupt conversational shift threw Maggie, but she placed her painting on an easel, angling it to take advantage of the light pouring through the large, north-facing windows. As she painted, she thought about how Vi’s hostile divorce contrasted with Phillippe and Kate’s cozy relationship as exes. Or was it that cozy? Civil divorces did exist. Bo’s relationship with his ex-wife Whitney offered an excellent example of one. But the Chanson team went into overdrive when it came to convincing people how well Kate and Phillippe got along post-breakup. Maybe it’s a facade, Maggie mused. A way to allay investors’ fears that the business would take a hit from the dissolution of their marriage.

  “Stop,” Vi ordered, startling Maggie, who’d forgotten she was there. “Sit.” The artist patted the desk chair next to her. “Let’s talk.” Maggie took a minute to clean her paintbrush, then took the seat Vi offered. “I spent time studying you closely today. Your technique is excellent.”

  “Thank you,” Maggie said, buoyed.

  “But I can’t reach inside of you and pull out an artist. I’m going to refund your money.”

  “What? No.” Overcome by humiliation and frustration, it came out of Maggie as a wail. “You can’t. It’ll break my husband’s heart.”

  Vi shook her head. “I don’t know what I was thinking when I agreed to do this. Yes I do—I was thinking, I have an expensive lawyer I need to pay. But it was a mistake. It’s not in my nature to give painting lessons to privileged white housewives.”

  “Housewives?” Maggie, furious, jumped up from the chair, knocking over a jar of paintbrushes. “Privileged? Are you kidding me? My family has a business that could go under any minute. Between my husband and me, we barely make ends meet, and let me tell you, I do not make up for that with ‘housewifely’ duties.” She grabbed a tube of paint and shook it in Vi’s face. “I’d rather eat this paint than ever clean my house, and if it weren’t for leftovers from the B and B, Bo and I would starve to death because I can’t cook to save my life. Oh, and speaking of saving my life, I’ve found dead bodies and almost ended up one myself, one of my best friends might go to jail for a murder I know he didn’t commit, and I have a stalker who’s scaring the hell out of me. You want passion? I’ll give you passion.”

  Maggie, pulsing with anger, took a paintbrush coated in black paint and slathered Xander’s portrait with violent, angry strokes. Then she froze. “Oh my God.” She stared at the ruined painting. “What have I done?”

  She dropped the paintbrush and, head in hands, began to sob. Vi put a hand around her waist and led her back to the chair. “It’s okay, honey. You can do better than that painting.”

  “Argh!” Maggie screamed, shaking her fists and stamping her feet in frustration. “You’ve spent every second of our time together telling me I suck!”

  Vi sat back and appraised Maggie. “Because you’ve been phoning it in. No connection to your work. No passion. Just … painting. That’s why I decided to watch instead of teach. Your mind drifted, didn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Maggie admitted through sniffles.

  Vi leaned into Maggie. “Make yourself worth my time, Maggie. And yours. Leave whatever’s going on in here”—she pointed to Maggie’s head—“out there.” She gestured to the window. “If you can do that, I won’t refund your money. Can you?”

  Maggie held Vi’s glance. “Yes,” she said with determination.

  Vi picked up the bottle of bourbon. “Let’s drink to that.” She handed Maggie
a tumbler.

  “It’s not even noon,” Maggie said.

  “Honey, it’s New Orleans. We should be on our second drink by now.”

  * * *

  The relationship tide turned for Maggie and Vi. Instead of painting, Maggie casually sketched while she and Vi chatted and drank—Vi bourbon, Maggie, cognizant of the drive home, water. Vi listened enraptured to Maggie’s tales of life in Pelican, from its quirky citizens to its spate of bizarre murders. She roared when Maggie shared the story of her family holding a funeral for Tug’s beloved cast-iron pot, handed down through generations of Crozat men. “That’s it,” she declared, slapping Maggie’s knee. “Your it. Pelican, the place and especially the people. Get inside them. Find their purpose, and then find a special way to convey that.” She gestured to Maggie’s portrait of Xander. “If you want to paint this for your husband, start fresh. Or get him a wallet.”

  Maggie laughed. “He could use a new one. His is so beat-up it looks like it was in a wallet prizefight.” She finished her water and brought the empty glass to the studio’s sink. She washed the glass and placed it on a drying rack. “Vi … I don’t know if this would interest you at all, but I’d love to have you come to Crozat B and B as our guest sometime.”

  “I believe I’d enjoy that very much,” Vi said with a smile warmed by the women’s connection … and her third bourbon. She checked a wall clock. “I’ve got a class coming in a few minutes. Let’s put one last session on the books before my residency ends.”

  “Great.” Maggie dug her phone out of her purse and opened the calendar app. “To be honest, it’ll be the first session I don’t dread.”

  Vi made a wry face. “You and me both, honey.”

  They set a time and hugged good-bye. Maggie practically danced back to her car, thrilled that if Bo asked how the session had gone, she could respond “Great!” and mean it for a change.