by Ellen Byron
“I bet,” Maggie said, amused.
The three walked out of the spa, chatting with each other. They were greeted by a sight that stopped them in their tracks. The path leading from the building to the B and B manor house was strewn with red rose petals. Bile rose in Maggie’s throat. She clutched Bo’s arm. “No,” she said in a whisper.
A vein in Bo’s forehead pulsed. He was about to respond when Tug approached them from the parking lot, carrying an armful of roses. “Happy Valentine’s Day, y’all,” he said in a cheerful voice. “You like my surprise for Ninette? We’re the one old married couple at Crozat this year, so I wanted to do something special for her to compete with all the newlywed energy going around. The path leads from the house to the spa. Guess what we’re gonna do?”
“Get a couple’s massage?” Gran asked.
“Yeah,” Tug said, a bit deflated.
“It’s a great gift, Dad,” Maggie, relieved, assured her father. “So, the rose petals. That’s from you? For Mom?”
Tug, cheery again, nodded. He held up his armful of flowers. “I ran out of petals, so I had to go buy more roses.”
“I’ll help you distribute them,” Gran said. “I have a little time before I need to be at the ferry landing.”
“I’ll get our overnight bags,” Bo said to Maggie. “See? Nothing to worry about.”
“Yup, nothing to worry about,” Maggie responded with a confidence she didn’t feel.
While waiting for Bo to return with their luggage, Maggie helped her father and grandmother build a soft path of petals for Ninette, who gasped with delight when Tug summoned her from the house. Maggie watched fondly as her parents embraced. She saw a vision of herself and Bo years hence, still filled with the kind of love and respect for each other that had sustained Tug and Ninette’s thirty-five-year marriage.
Bo showed up a few minutes later, and everyone trooped off in their various modes of transportation to the ferry landing. A crowd had gathered. As the ferry crossed from the east to its landing on the river’s west bank, they could see it was festooned with red hearts, some as large as a man, and could hear Lee’s band of seniors performing a jazzed-up version of the song “My Funny Valentine.” Quentin and his fellow Fryboys, decked out in red flannel shirts and red bandannas, marched to the front of the ship. The band stopped midsong and switched to their version of the classic Elvis Presley tune “All Shook Up,” to which the Fryboys performed a synchronized dance routine. When they were done, their delighted audience reacted with hoots and hollers. The Fryboys then formed the lines of a singing chorus and performed an a capella version of “Love Me Tender” so sweet and lovely that Maggie found herself tearing up. Bo clutched her hand. She glanced at her husband and was touched to see his eyes glistening as well.
The ferry docked. Wives and girlfriends rushed onboard to commingle with their loved ones. “Ready to pass a good time in N’Awlins?” Bo asked Maggie with a grin.
Maggie pumped a fist. “Laissez les bon temps rouler!”
Bo had made the couple a reservation at their favorite New Orleans eatery, Gumbo Ya Ya. Housed in what was once a nineteenth-century stable, the restaurant had the building’s original slate floor. Every wall featured faded murals of life two centuries ago. Maggie loved to inhale the muggy cloud of herbs, meats, seafood, and spices that hung low over the patrons. Bo was disappointed to learn that Gulf oysters still weren’t available, but a shared bowl of chicken and andouille sausage gumbo, followed by a Creole combination platter featuring generous servings of jambalaya, red beans and rice, and blackened catfish helped ease the pain. He and Maggie topped off their meal with café brûlot and a pecan sundae.
Stomachs full, the couple agreed they needed a walk, so they wandered the French Quarter for half an hour, reveling in the unseasonably warm and dry evening. Eventually they made their way to the Reveille Orleans hotel, where Maggie’s high school friend Lulu Colombe worked as the general manager. Lulu greeted them with warm hugs and her usual bubbly energy. “I put y’all in our best suite for the price of our cheapest room,” Lulu said. She held a finger to her lips. “Don’t tell my boss.”
Maggie mimed zipping her lips. “Thanks so much, Lulu.”
“Consider it part of my wedding present. Let me get you a couple of key cards.” She went behind the desk and set up the cards. “Oh, I never got back to you on that email you sent about Scooter Pitot and Ash Garavant.”
“I figured you didn’t know them,” Maggie said.
Lulu’s preternaturally cheery face darkened. “Oh, I knew them. Scooter was trouble. Ash was real sweet but had problems. That’s all I’m gonna say.” Her chipper demeanor returned as she handed Bo the key cards. “There you go. Have fun, you two.” Her blatantly suggestive tone made Maggie blush.
The suite proved stunning, a perfect blend of traditional French provincial furniture and modern touches, like a black marble floor and a sleek bathroom featuring a two-person Jacuzzi tub. As the suite was situated on the top floor, the windows provided a picturesque view of the Quarter’s centuries-old garrets and slate roofs. “Nice to have friends in high places,” Bo said, referencing a bottle of champagne that sat chilling in a brass bucket on top of a round, silver-gilded table in the center of the suite’s sitting room. He pulled his phone out of his jeans back pocket and tapped it a couple of times. Marvin Gaye’s sexy classic “Let’s Get It On” began playing. “Settin’ the mood,” Bo said, mimicking a Rico Suave type of character, much to Maggie’s amusement. He removed the champagne bottle from the bucket. “A bit of bubbly for madame,” he said, switching his imitation to a French accent. He was about to pop the cork when a phone call interrupted Gaye’s sultry crooning. Bo checked his phone. “It’s Rufus. I gotta take it.”
“I’ll go change.”
Maggie took her carry-on bag into the bedroom. She extracted a wedding shower present she’d received from Vanessa, a barely-there lacy beige negligee meant to be removed as quickly as possible. Maggie held it up to herself in front of the bedroom’s full-length mirror. Props to Vanessa for some spot-on boudoir shopping, she thought, admiring the image.
Maggie was about to disrobe when Bo appeared in the doorway. The look on his face caused her to drop the negligee back into her suitcase. “Chère, breaks my heart to tell you this, especially after seeing that nightie. But we have to get back to Pelican.”
“What’s wrong?”
When Bo spoke, there was no hint of Rico Suave. He was all grim detective. “They found Dyer Gossmer. Or what’s left of him.”
Chapter 22
Maggie plopped down on the edge of the bed. Bo sat next to her. “Well, that is all kinds of bad. How did they … find him?” she asked.
“A guy took his girlfriend out for a romantic pirogue ride on the bayou. He was gonna propose. The boat got stuck on a log. Only it wasn’t a log.” Bo paused. “It was Gossmer’s leg.”
Maggie winced. “Ouch. Talk about a mood killer. I assume the leg was attached to enough of Dyer to identify him?”
“There was a gator—”
Maggie held up a hand to stop Bo from talking. “No need to give me the gory details. Just nod.”
Bo nodded. “So, we need to get home. I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about.” Maggie kissed Bo. She stroked his cheek. “You gave me a wonderful Valentine’s Day. We’ll finish celebrating when everything settles down.”
Lulu understood the situation and banked their reservation. They made it back to Pelican in less than an hour. Still, it was close to midnight by the time they got home. Bo dropped Maggie off and went to inspect the crime scene, which was located on a stretch of Bayou Beurre halfway between Crozat B and B and the Pelican village center.
Maggie tried to sleep but found it impossible with her nerves buzzing from this new development. She checked the nightstand clock. It read 12:15 AM. She felt a weight lifted from her. Valentine’s Day had come and gone without a memento or visit from her stalker. Maggie had to assume he�
�or she—had finally been scared off. She wriggled out from under the colorful heirloom quilt from Bo’s side of the family that decorated their king-size bed and stuck her feet into a pair of low-rise sheepskin boots. She slipped each arm into a sleeve of her purple terry cloth bathrobe and belted it, then strode into the living room.
Gopher and Jolie lay fast asleep on their fluffy dog beds, the basset hound snoring like a hockey player with a deviated septum. Maggie went to her desk and picked up her sketch pad, which lay on top of a pile of papers. If I can’t sleep, I might as well be productive. She thumbed through the sketches, searching for one that might inspire a painting. She reached a sketch of Scooter Pitot juggling oysters. Maggie wasn’t one to admire her own work, but she had to give herself credit for capturing the oyster shucker’s showboating style. She gave her artwork another onceover and did a double take. Am I imagining this? Maggie peered at the sketch more closely, then tore it out of the sketchbook. She flipped through the pages to find another sketch she’d done of Scooter in action and held the first sketch next to the second. Holding the drawings side by side confirmed her instinct, but to be absolutely sure, she put down the sketches and hurried to her laptop. An internet search yielded the additional confirmation she needed.
When Bo finally made it home an hour later, he found his wife pacing the room, wired with excitement. “Scooter’s serving two kinds of oysters.”
“Oh-kay,” Bo said, confused.
“There’s only one type on the menu. Gulf oysters. But he’s serving another type too.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. Look.” Maggie held up the first sketch. “This was the first time I sketched Scooter. See how I drew all the oysters exactly the same size?” She held up the second one. “But here’s the second one I did two days ago. Some of the oysters are large, others small, and they’re not shaped the same way. I looked up oysters on the computer.” She dragged her weary husband to her secretary desk. She held the second sketch next to the screen. “The smaller ones are West Coast oysters. Kumamotos from Washington.”
“Locals would instantly know the difference.”
“But a lot of visitors wouldn’t. Except foodies. I think Scooter eyeballs the clientele and makes sure the wrong oysters go to the right customers. He’s taking a chance, but if someone complains, he probably has a couple of apologies and explanations ready for them.”
Bo scratched his chin, where stubble had sprouted. Almost forty, his beard was starting to lean more gray than black. “I’m not sure what the fine is for false advertising, but right now the expression bigger fish comes to mind.”
“I think there’s a bigger fish issue here,” Maggie said. “Scooter had plenty of Gulf oysters on day one, which is highly suspicious when you think about how hard they are to come by these days. And Phillippe was selling them for only fifty cents each, an insanely low price. But on the second day I drew him …” She waved both sketches in the air. “Something happened between these sketches that led Scooter to try and stretch out his supply of Gulf oysters. And somewhere in that time frame, Dyer Gossmer switched from ghostwriting a suck-up ‘autobiography’ to a Chanson exposé. He told me he’d uncovered criminal activity. Then he disappeared.”
“You think there’s a link between oysters and Gossmer’s murder?”
Bo’s tone was so filled with skepticism that Maggie wavered. “Yes.” She said this loudly, half to reinforce her own conviction. “It’s not the worst idea in the world,” she added, much less emphatically.
“It’s an idea.”
Bo’s acknowledgment was weak, but Maggie clung to it as affirmation that she might have dropped a few bread crumbs on the trail to the writer’s killer.
* * *
On the way to her car in the morning, Maggie passed Trick Costello sitting on the wrought-iron bench outside the carriage house, finishing a phone call.
“Kate has family pictures of him,” he was saying. “Some from when he was a kid. I’ll have her email them to you … Sounds good … You too.” He ended the call and noticed Maggie. “The Food Channel is doing a memorial segment on Phillippe. Death hasn’t dimmed his star. At least not yet.”
“That’s an interesting way to put it.”
Trick shrugged. “It’s realistic. The memories of everyone fade, except for the most famous. The single-namers like Marilyn. Elvis. Kobe. That’s what we want for Phillippe. To be iconic. If his fame goes, it’ll take the restaurant group with it, unless we find a successful way to rebrand.”
“How’s everyone at Chanson’s feeling? Any better?”
“Some yes, some no. Jerome and Becca are still down for the count. But Luis is taking over until they’re back. And maybe after. It’s a great opportunity for him.”
“He seems like a good guy. I hope it works out for him.” She adopted a gossipy tone. “Did you hear they found Dyer? Or what’s left of him,” she added, borrowing the line from Bo to see if the shock value might elicit a reaction.
Trick’s body tensed. “I’d heard they found him, but not how. What exactly does ‘what’s left of him’ mean?” Maggie told him, and the mixologist reacted with horror. “Dear God.” He was speechless for a moment. Then he recovered his composure. “I’ll have Luis take the alligator po’ boy off the menu tonight. It might push buttons for anyone who heard how Dyer died.”
“Smart move.”
Maggie left Trick putting in a call to the restaurant. She drove toward town. The Say Yes to This Dress exhibit had opened the day before without her, per Ione, who’d insisted Maggie celebrate her newlyweds Valentine’s Day. Maggie had given in but decided to thank her coworkers with an assortment of baked goods from Fais Dough Dough. As she drove, she replayed Trick’s reaction to the news of Dyer’s grisly death. His investment in keeping the Chanson brand alive gave him a motive to get rid of a nosy writer determined to profit from a tell-all that might destroy Phillippe’s reputation. But the mixologist’s horrified reaction at the thought of Dyer being alligator chum seemed sincere, although he’d made a quick transition to the business of adjusting the menu accordingly.
She parked in the small lot behind the bakery and its sister candy shop. A bell tinkled when she opened the back door, alerting employees to a customer entering via the parking lot. She walked through the bakery’s kitchen into the storefront. “Hey, Kyle,” she greeted her cousin Lia’s husband, who was behind the glass counter filling a large brown paper bag with the football-shaped loaves used for local po’ boy sandwiches.
“Hey. Be with you in a minute. I’m filling a standing order.”
“No rush. How was your Valentine’s Day?”
“Perfect. We went out to dinner at a new place in LaPlace with a view of Lake Pontchartrain. Kind of a drive, but we hired the Poche kids to babysit and wanted to take advantage of the break. Don’t get too many of those with triplet infants.”
“I bet. When you’re done there, I’ll take a dozen assorted croissants and Danishes.”
“You got it.”
The bell over the shop’s front door tinkled, indicating the arrival of a customer. The newcomer was Ash Garavant. Maggie’s contemporary appeared to have aged overnight. His red hair was flecked with gray. Wrinkles had taken root in his cheeks and forehead. His normally bright blue eyes were cloudy and dulled; the pockets beneath them sagged. “Ash, hi,” Maggie said. She felt a rush of concern for him. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, totally fine,” he said. The nervous tapping of his foot betrayed him. “Got our rolls, Kyle?”
“Here you go. I’ll put it on your account.” Kyle handed Ash the brown paper bag.
“Thanks.” Ash started for the door and then stopped. He approached Maggie. “Is it true?” he asked in a low voice. “About the guy who was writing the book? They found him? His body?”
“Yes,” Maggie said. Ash grimaced and released a choked whimper. “Did you know him?”
Ash gave his head a vigorous shake. “But he came into our place and I hear
d him on the phone, talking about how he was onto a big case tied to Chanson’s. Oh man. Oh man, oh man, oh man.”
Maggie placed a hand on Ash’s arm, hoping to calm him. “Ash, if you know anything, you have to go to the police.”
Ash brushed her off. “I can’t. I gotta get outta here.”
He bolted out the door. Maggie chased after him. “Ash, don’t run,” she yelled. “Please.”
He ignored her. They reached his car. Ash yanked open his car door and jumped in. Maggie dove out of the way as he rapidly accelerated in reverse, hitting a puddle and splattering Maggie with mud. Then he screeched off, disappearing down the road at high speed. Maggie removed her phone from the back pocket of her jeans and placed a call that went to voice mail. She left a message.
“Bo, it’s me. I just had a strange convo with Ash Garavant. He knows something. And whatever it is scares him.”
Chapter 23
Maggie washed herself off in the Fais Dough Dough restroom. She collected her pastries from Kyle and set off for Doucet. Rather than backtracking to the ferry, she drove up the River Road to the nearest bridge. Either way, it was a longer-than-usual ride. She arrived at Doucet forty-five minutes later, where she and her pastries were beset upon by Ginny and intern Aileen in the break room. “Thanks for stuffing her mouth,” Aileen said, indicating Ginny. “It gives me a break from listening to”—she switched from her own voice to mimicking Ginny’s—“how awesome her Valentine’s Day was.”
“Well, it was.” Ginny chomped down on her pecan bear claw. “Little Earlie brought me flowers and took me out to dinner in Baton Rouge. And he gave me this.” She pushed back her curly brown hair to reveal a delicate hoop earring in her cartilage piercing. “He’s the best boyfriend ever.”
Maggie grinned, pleased the pugnacious journalist had taken her advice. “I’m glad it’s working out with y’all.” She placed the remaining pastries on a platter. “I’m gonna see which of these Ione wants. I’ll bring back what’s left.”
