Cajun Kiss of Death

by Ellen Byron

  Insecure, Tan posed this as a question. Bo responded with a nod. Encouraged, the doughnut maven continued. “I’m not sure about their height, because they hunched, like this.” Tan illustrated. “You know, seeing how desperate they were, I thought they might be an addict. Driving around to all the stores because you’re jonesing that much for a doughnut? Who does that? Except they didn’t want just any doughnut. They specifically wanted heart-shaped ones. Which takes more thought than what an addict would put into getting a sugar rush.” Tan looked worried. “Am I in trouble for taking the money from them?”

  “No, not at all,” Bo assured him. “But if you still have the hundred dollars, I would like to borrow the bills to test for evidence.”

  “Sure. I was going to take the money to the bank to split into smaller denominations so I could share the tip with the crew, but I haven’t had time to do it yet. Money’s in the safe.” Tan got up, then stopped. “I just thought of something I forgot to tell you. They were wearing gloves. Short, thin black ones like you get at the dollar store. I thought that was strange, because it wasn’t too cold last night.”

  Maggie and Bo left with Tan’s mysterious tip money and a second box of doughnuts. On the ride home, Maggie couldn’t resist sampling a raised doughnut with a peanut butter–and–bacon glaze. “So, that was something. Doughnuts and dirt on the stalker. I just wish there were a positive gender ID so we could land on a pronoun.”

  “I’m with you on that,” Bo said with a vigorous nod. “Let’s review what we learned. Perp wore nondescript black hoodie and gloves, glasses to try and hide eye color, helped by the fact the exchange with Tan took place at night. Purposely neutral behavior. Tried other shops first, looking specifically for heart-shaped doughnuts. When we get home, I’m gonna call Baton Rouge PD and bring them into this. They can canvass the other doughnut shops. Maybe some of the old-timers will be less politically correct and more willing to commit to a gender.”

  “I appreciate that Tan cares. And he makes a great doughnut.” She fed Bo a bite and he mmmed agreement. Maggie deliberated as she finished the pastry. “Little Earlie wanted to do a story about my stalker, but I told him no. Now I wonder if it might be a good idea to publicize it. What do you think?”

  “I need a bite of the German chocolate doughnut before I come to a decision.” Maggie pulled out a chocolate-cake doughnut slathered with coconut-pecan frosting and fed it to Bo. “Much better,” he said. “It’s a good idea. Little E can interview me for the article, as a detective on the case. I’ll share enough to make this creep know we’re onto him but not enough to scare him off, because I wanna capture the SOB.”

  “I’ll call Little E in the morning.” Maggie noticed a piece of coconut on the side of Bo’s lip. She took a napkin and gently wiped it away. “Thank you for tonight. For at least a couple of hours, all I had to think about were baked goods and my man.”

  Bo faked a frown. “Hmm, not sure I like the order you put those in.”

  “Sorry, but these are really exceptional doughnuts.”

  * * *

  Bo left early in the morning to drop Xander off at school before heading in to work. Maggie shared her story with the Pelican Penny Clipper scion, who was beside himself at landing exclusive interviews with both Maggie and her detective husband. Reliving the unnerving incidents with the publisher/reporter/editor left Maggie feeling apprehensive. She helped her parents check out a few guests, and then Tug and Ninette departed to run errands, leaving her alone in the capacious manor house.

  She was cleaning out the B and B’s inbox when she heard footsteps. Maggie froze. The footsteps stopped—and then resumed. They grew louder, indicating an insidious approach to the office. Maggie, heart in her mouth, grabbed a letter opener with a sharp tip. She could hear the steps stop at the office door. The knob turned, and the door began to open with a creaking whine. Deciding the best defense was a good offense, Maggie threw the door open with a warrior’s scream and brandished the letter opener as a weapon. She was met with a louder scream. Grand-mère dropped an armful of carpet samples to the floor and staggered into the room, where she collapsed into a wingback chair, clutching her heart.

  Maggie dropped the letter opener and ran to her grandmother. “Gran, I’m so, so sorry. I thought you were my stalker.”

  Gran gasped for air. “Water, please.” Maggie ran to a carafe and poured a full glass. She brought it to Gran, who downed it. She fanned herself, trying to recover from the shock. “That was no help at all. Two fingers of bourbon. Neat.” Maggie opened the doors of a Victorian curio cabinet and removed a tumbler and bottle of bourbon. She poured the drink and handed it to Gran, who took a few slugs. “Much better.”

  Maggie rubbed her forehead, hoping to forestall a headache that was beginning to take root. “I’ve been working from home because stalker-person was sending me flowers at work. But they sent the last ‘gift’ here, so maybe I’m better off going to Doucet today.”

  “I second that. At least you’d have distractions. You wouldn’t consider every sound a harbinger of doom.”

  “It didn’t sound like you. Your footsteps were heavier than usual.”

  “My arms were full of carpet samples. They’re heavy and made it hard for me to walk. I was hoping for an opinion, not a heart attack.” Gran finished her drink. “You can make up for that early push into my grave by picking out your favorite.”

  “Yes, sure. Again, sorry.” Maggie picked up the samples and laid them out on the room’s coffee table. She studied them. “I like this one best,” she said, pointing to a square of beige carpet with a textured loop finish. “It’s neutral, and the loop finish makes it sturdier and less likely to show stains.”

  “Good choice. It was on the top of my list. Vanessa was pushing the one at the end on the left.”

  Maggie checked out the sample in question, which had an impractical velvety pink plush pile. “It’s perfect for Barbie’s Dream House.”

  “Which appears to be the direction in which I’m being steered. It’s time for a come-to-Jesus talk with my interior design consultant.”

  This gave Maggie a feeling of satisfaction that she immediately felt guilty for having. “The last decorating Van did was Charli’s bedroom. She’s probably still a little stuck in pretty, pretty princess mode.”

  “I’ve always thought of myself as more of a diva than a princess,” Gran said, flicking stray carpet fibers off her navy wool slacks.

  Maggie graced her grandmother with an affectionate smile. “To me, you’ll always be the best grand-mère in the universe.” She kissed her on both cheeks. “I’m off to Doucet. Hopefully, I won’t have to wait long to catch the ferry.”

  Maggie lucked out on that score. She arrived at the ferry landing on an off hour, so there were only a few cars ahead of her waiting to board. Captain Antonio rested against the railing of the staircase that led to the pilot deck. He watched as the deckhands directed the cars onto the boat. Maggie waved to him. He waved back and gestured for her to join him. She parked and trekked past the cars behind her to Antonio. “Ciao, mia amica,” he greeted her amiably. “Haven’t seen you in a couple of days. Thought you might have the cold that’s going around.”

  “No, I’m healthy, thankfully. At least physically.” The ferry captain gave her a quizzical look, and Maggie regretted the blurt. She noticed Antonio rubbing a rosary between his thumb and forefinger and took advantage of this to shift the conversation. “That’s a beautiful rosary. I’ve never seen one like it before.”

  “Grazie.” Antonio held it up for closer inspection. Each bead featured a violet glass rose enclosed in a bright-green glass bead. “Belonged to my mama. It’s Murano glass. She got it at Vatican City. The medal is St. Nicholas, patron saint of ships and sailors. Mama gave it to me when I started working the river. I’ve had it with me ever since.”

  “My father has a medal of St. Martin de Porres, the patron saint of innkeepers,” Maggie said. “Dad always wears his. It’s like his talisman.”


  Talismans. Maggie felt a frisson of excitement. She repeated the word to herself. Talismans—objects people kept close to them for spirituality. Support. Comfort. A saint medal. A wedding ring. Or, in a broader sense, whatever was dearest to a person … and even helped define them. “Antonio, would you mind if I sketched you on the ride over to the west bank?”

  “Mind?” The elderly man’s wide smile revealed a few missing teeth. “What, are you kidding? I feel like a movie star.” He started up the stairs. “I gotta get this old gal moving. Come on up to the bridge with me.”

  Maggie followed Antonio up to the pilot’s deck. She took her sketch pad out of her purse and worked quickly. As she drew, a painting formed in her mind. Antonio, black and white, in shadow; his talisman, the beautiful glass rosary, in vivid color. The ferry slowed as it approached the west bank landing. Maggie, spirits buoyed for the first time in days, pocketed the sketch pad. She had found her “it.”

  Once at Doucet, Maggie shared her talisman brainstorm with Ione, who loved it. “Mine is this charm.” Ione fingered the tiny hula dancer that hung around her neck on a simple gold chain. “It was the last gift from Pascal before he died,” she said, referencing her late husband, who had died from cancer twenty years prior. “He bought it for me on our bucket-list trip to Hawaii. I wear it to remember him. I almost never take it off.”

  “Ione, that’s beautiful.” Maggie imagined a black-and-white silhouette of her friend— the charm, gold and glistening, providing the portrait’s color.

  “What’s your talisman?” Ione asked.

  This brought Maggie back to reality. She considered the question. “I don’t know,” she had to admit. “Which is embarrassing. I have to think about it.”

  Planning the gala and mounting the wedding dress exhibit scheduled to open on Valentine’s Day filled Maggie’s schedule, and she reluctantly shelved her talisman project for the time being. She finished the day relaxed and with a sense of accomplishment. There had been no new deliveries from her stalker either at work or at home, according to her parents when she called to check in. Little Earlie’s interview with Bo for the cover story in the Pelican Penny Clipper also helped ease her fears. Bo hyped the measures Pelican PD was taking to hunt down the stalker and asked for witnesses who might realize they’d seen something suspicious to come forward. On Maggie’s ferry ride home, her detective husband called to share a new avenue of investigation. “Rufus and I were talking about motivation,” Bo said, “and it occurred to both of us that there’s a lack of sexuality to this modus operandi.”

  “Huh?” Maggie said, not following.

  “Stalkers are usually motivated by an obsession, a passion even, for their victim. But this guy’s approach—and I’m committing to a gender here—is methodical. He’s getting his kicks from scaring you and throwing you off-balance. I’m not ruling out Ash or someone like him. You know, not a crazed admirer. More like a spurned lover.”

  “That’s a very short list. Ash might be the only one on it, and I think if he heard himself called a ‘spurned lover,’ he’d laugh like a hyena.”

  “Stop selling yourself short. But Rufus also brought up people you helped incarcerate who could be counted on to hold a grudge.”

  Maggie recalled the half dozen or so murder suspects she’d assisted Pelican PD in IDing. “There are a lot more of them than jilted boyfriends in my past.”

  “Yup. We’re looking into the whereabouts of everyone arrested and/or convicted of murder in a case that involved you over the last couple of years.” Bo paused. “There’s also news on the Chanson case. I hate saying this, but the law enforcement agencies that aren’t the kinder, gentler Pelican PD are building their case against JJ. An arrest could come in the next couple of days.”

  “No,” Maggie protested. “You can’t let them do that.”

  “We’re doing our best to pivot the investigation in other directions, but it’s rough without a clear alternative suspect.”

  On this downer note, Bo signed off. Maggie got out of the car and walked to the side of the ferry. The wind, coming across the Mississippi from the east, whipped her chestnut hair away from her face. She shivered and zipped up her hoodie. The east bank landing loomed, so Maggie returned to her car. The ship docked. Maggie was the last car off. She was about to make a right on the River Road towards home when she had an idea. She made a left, heading into town instead. She parked and forged ahead toward Chanson’s. It was only four PM, an hour before the restaurant opened for dinner. The staff would already be there, prepping for the evening crowd.

  Maggie pulled open the restaurant door. To her surprise, the Chanson employees were milling around, champagne glasses in hand, as if at a party. Scooter, who had returned to work, held his glass with his unbandaged right hand. Trick handed Maggie a glass of champagne. “Hi, Maggie. We’re celebrating. Come join us.”

  Maggie took the glass, noting with satisfaction that her brief waitressing stint had accomplished the goal of establishing her as a Chanson insider. The demanding job had precluded much investigation. But Maggie had come up with a new plan that would offer the observational opportunities she needed to ferret out clues pointing to any suspect besides JJ. “What are we celebrating?”

  “Kate hired me an immigration lawyer,” Luis said. “He’s gonna find me a path to citizenship.” The young chef’s voice, though soft, radiated happiness. “Phillippe kept saying he would but never did.”

  “You know it wasn’t personal, Luis,” Becca said. “He was like that.”

  “Like making promises he never kept?” There was an edge to Luis’s tone. “Promises that played with someone’s life?”

  “Hey.” Kate held up a hand. “Let’s stay in the moment, ’kay?”

  “Yes, sorry.” Luis held up his glass. “To Kate. I’ll never forget this.”

  Kate waved him off. “I’m doing this for me, not you. I can’t stand the thought of having to break in someone new if you got shipped back to Guatemala.”

  “Back sounds so strange to me,” Luis said, “considering my mother brought me here when I was two.”

  Maggie polished off her champagne, then got down to the reason for her visit. “I didn’t mean to crash your party, although I appreciate the champagne. I came by because I’m working on a new portrait series and would love to include all of you.”

  This got everyone’s attention. Nothing flatters like being told ‘I want to paint you,’ Maggie thought. She explained the talisman concept, ending with, “All I need is a sketch of each of you with what you would consider your talisman. I could probably get it done in one night, two at the most. I promise to stay out of the way. I want you to forget I’m even here.”

  “Talisman.” Scooter wiggled his eyebrows. “Can it be a body part?” This elicited groans and hoots. Scooter held up his hands, his injured hand still encased in a bandage. “I was talking about these.”

  “No you weren’t,” Becca scoffed. She pondered the concept. “I’m trying to decide what my talisman would be.”

  “Mine would be my chef knife,” Luis said.

  “Yeah,” Becca said. “Mine would be too.”

  “First, you gotta learn how to use it,” Luis teased.

  Becca gaped at him. “This from someone who almost chopped off a finger.”

  “Only because you bumped into me.” The teasing tone was gone from Luis’s voice. Tension permeated the air.

  “Speaking of chopping, party’s over,” Kate said. The tension dissipated. “Maggie, do what you need to do. If I like the series, I might buy it from you for the restaurant.”

  “That would be great,” Maggie said, genuinely delighted. The thought that she might produce something she could actually sell hadn’t occurred to her.

  Since Kate and Trick drew blanks trying to land on their personal talismans, Maggie spent the evening focusing on Luis, Becca, and Scooter. Luis was a machine, repeating each cold dish with a precision that made him easy to sketch. Becca worked well with executive
chef Jerome, but Maggie could see where Luis’s jab about her knife skills might sting. Considering Maggie’s only knife skill was spreading peanut butter on white bread, she wasn’t one to judge. Still, she sensed Becca lacked Luis’s fluidity with the vital tool of their trade.

  While her hours of observation produced some great sketches, nothing sparked as a clue to who killed Phillippe. Maggie’s hand ached from drawing. In need of a break, she transitioned from the kitchen to the dining room, where Scooter performed a modified version of his oyster-shucking act for a rapt audience of diners. He tossed and juggled oysters with brio but made sure to open each bivalve with more care than he had in the past. Maggie resumed sketching and continued until the restaurant emptied out. She paged through her drawings, looking for expressions or interactions she’d captured that hadn’t seemed significant at the time but would pop as clues upon further examination. Nothing did, although she gave herself credit for a particularly good rendering of Scooter juggling four oysters.

  Discouraged, Maggie threaded her fingers together and stretched her arms over her head. She got up and was about to leave when she heard yelling coming from outside the restaurant. She glanced out the window and saw Kate screaming at Dyer Gossmer. Kate lunged for him, but Trick pulled her back.

  “What’s going on?”

  The question came from Luis. Maggie turned to see him and Becca standing behind her, taking in the argument outside.

  “I think,” Maggie said, “Dyer just broke some very unwelcome news to Kate.”

  Chapter 18

  Trick dragged a steaming-mad Kate back into the dining room, where the entire staff had gathered. They peppered her with a chorus of questions until the businesswoman threw her hands in the air and yelled, “Shut up!” She paced the room, slamming her fist into her palm as she marched back and forth. “That—” She unleashed a stream of invectives to describe Dyer that even gave Scooter, a foul-mouth himself, pause. “I swear, I’ll kill that idiot. Instead of the simple, basic autobiography of Phillippe the SOB was hired to write, he returned the advance and signed with a publisher to do a tell-all.”