by Ellen Byron
The restaurateur didn’t bother with niceties. “You’re all here? Good. Sit.”
The others exchanged curious looks but followed her order. She pulled a file from her black leather tote bag. “It took a while, but I finally wrangled a copy of Phillippe’s will from his lawyer.” She held up the file to illustrate. “Nothing was more important to Phillippe than his restaurants. Not our relationship. Not yours.” She said this to Becca, who acknowledged it with a sigh. “Because the restaurants were the true loves of his life, he provided for them in his will. For example, I know Jerome left already, but Phillippe willed him twenty percent ownership of Chanson’s in the Quarter.”
“Phillippe was always a generous guy,” Trick said, with a tone Maggie couldn’t quite place.
“He also had a plan for this place that he thought would guarantee its success,” Kate continued. She extracted a pair of reading glasses from her tote, put them on, and read from the will. “ ‘To ensure the future of the newest addition to our restaurant family, Chanson’s Cajun Country, I bequeath twenty percent ownership to a protégé who constantly impresses me with their commitment, devotion and talent …’ ” The room waited, holding a collective breath. Kate looked up. “ ‘Luis Alvaro.’ ”
There was a sharp intake of breaths. “A share of the restaurant?” Becca said. Her stunned reaction turned to anger. “Not just a job but a share? To Luis?” She closed her eyes as she processed this, then snapped them open. “Oh my God. That’s why Luis killed him. He wanted him out of the way so he could take over the restaurant.”
Luis jumped up with such force he knocked over his chair. “Liar,” he yelled, lunging for Becca.
Scooter pulled the young chef back. “Dude, chill.” He spoke in a calm voice but kept hold of Luis’s arm.
“I didn’t know, I swear,” the young immigrant said, on the verge of tears.
“Who’s lying now?” Becca shot back at him.
“Shut up, both of you.” Kate’s dark tone caught everyone’s attention. “Do you remember how I made Dyer record all his interviews? He was old-timey that way. He insisted on using the microcassette recorder he used to use as a journalist. I had to send the tapes to a transcription service in New York. The police requested the transcripts for the investigation into Dyer’s death and discovered something interesting.”
Maggie watched for reactions from the staff members as Kate reached into her purse and brought out a small, worn cassette recorder. She placed play, and Phillippe’s energetic voice filled the room. Becca whimpered at the sound of her ex-boyfriend’s voice. “… The thing about running a successful restaurant is sometimes you have to be brutal. Even when you care about someone, you gotta be honest with them. They may be a great person and all that crap, but if they ain’t got what it takes, they ain’t got it. But breaking the news can get ugly.”
Dyer’s voice came on the tape. “How’d it go in this case?”
There was a mirthless laugh from the chef. “Oh man, it put the ugh in ugly. I tried to frame it in a nice way. ‘You could be an executive chef somewhere else. A chain. A hotel even. But not for the Chanson Group. I’m sorry, Becca.’ ”
The room was dead silent, so quiet that Maggie could hear the faint strains of music coming from Junie’s, where Gaynell and the Gator Girls were playing a late-night set. Becca opened and shut her mouth a couple of times, but nothing came out. She finally found her voice. “He never told me. He says he did, but you don’t have proof. And I’m not the one who poisoned the staff to try and get ahead. I’ve never been so sick in my life.”
Maggie finally spoke. “Which was kind of brilliant on your part—making yourself sick too. You knew Luis wouldn’t eat the pastalaya because of his gluten intolerance and that not eating it would make him look like the prime suspect. Except you’re the one who had the monkshood.”
“That’s a crock,” Becca scoffed.
Maggie held up a detailed, colorful charcoal pencil sketch of Becca in the Chanson kitchen. She pointed to a small spot of a bluish-purple color. “See the flower peeking out of your pocket? You can only see the smallest bit of it, but I’m really proud of how I captured the color. It’s so unique. Very few flowers are the color of monkshood—if any.”
Becca flushed. She stood up and began backing out of the room—right into the arms of Bo, Rufus, and other law enforcement officials, who had quietly positioned themselves in the doorway, unseen by the presumed murderess. She cried out as Detective Shawn Holahan cuffed her. “Becca Wittenberg, you’re under arrest for the murder of Phillippe Remy Chanson.”
“I want a lawyer,” she spit out, furious.
The lone patron at the bar turned around, revealing himself to be Quentin MacIlhoney. “And you shall have one,” he said with a flourish. He hopped off his barstool and trailed the captured woman out of the restaurant, stopping to say to Maggie, “I should really have you on a retainer, my friend.”
The room devolved into a wall of sound as employees expressed their shocked reactions to what they’d just witnessed. Rufus put two fingers in his mouth and emitted an ear-piercing whistle. People winced and covered their ears, but he got their attention. “The artistic stylings of our talented friend Magnolia here clued us in to some additional criminal activity.”
Maggie noticed Trick and Kate exchange a nervous look. Rufus ceded the floor to Bo and stepped aside. Bo held up Maggie’s sketch of Scooter juggling oysters. “As an artist, Maggie has an eye for detail that a lot of people don’t, and she noticed something was off about this drawing.”
Scooter grew rigid. Kate examined the sketch. “I don’t see anything—wait. The oysters aren’t the same.”
“Yup,” Bo said. “Because they’re two different varieties. We now know why Chanson’s was able to get Gulf oysters so cheap. A Baton Rouge gang’s been stealing them from productive oyster reefs and selling them to the restaurant.”
“An oyster gang?” Maggie said in disbelief. Even she hadn’t been expecting this development.
“Just one branch of their criminal enterprises. People make the mistake of thinking gang members are dumbbells. A lot of the bottom feeders are, but some of the leaders could run corporations. Seems this crew tried to sell their wares to Ash Garavant, with a few threats attached. He was able to avoid doing business with them by hooking the gang up with Scooter here instead. His sketchy friend from high school.”
“This is total BS.” Scooter crossed his arms in front of his chest. He glowered at Bo. Maggie saw he was clutching his oyster-shucking knife and telegraphed this with her eyes to Bo, who turned to face him.
“You forced Ash into being the middleman on the oyster scheme with threats to share that he helped plan the Park ’n Shop robbery that landed you in jail,” Bo said. “He chickened out when it came to going through with the robbery, though. That’s what your fight was about. The one that got you both arrested.”
The oyster shucker cocked his head. “Y’all planning to turn this into a book? Cuz it sounds like fiction to me.”
“We have a witness. Your former friend, Ash.” Bo picked up Dyer’s tape recorder, which Kate had placed on a table. “We also have a detailed trail that Dyer Gossmer was following. I can see why he won so many awards for his reporting. His research was meticulous. And vetted. But he couldn’t resist dropping a few braggy hints that he was onto your scheme. The gang pulled back on deliveries, which is what forced you to fill in with West Coast oysters that you only served to tourists, figuring they wouldn’t notice the difference like locals would. You confronted Gossmer, and it didn’t go well for him. As the stab wound shaped just like that”—Bo gestured to the knife in Scooter’s hand—“in what’s left of Gossmer’s body indicates.”
“Huh.” Scooter assumed a thoughtful expression. Then he released a guttural yell and lunged at Bo with the knife. But Bo was ready for him, as were Pelican PD officers Artie and Cal. The three tackled the man and took him down. He fought back, but the officers subdued him.
�
�Nobody messes with my Gulf oysters, you SOB,” Artie hissed into the criminal’s ear. He and Artie dragged Scooter out of the restaurant.
Bo snapped on latex gloves. He picked up the oyster knife and dropped it in an evidence bag. He kissed his wife on the cheek. “Nice work, chère. See you at home.” Bo followed his fellow officers out the door.
There was a pause. Then the room dissolved into a cacophony of conversation as the employees attempted to process the whipsaw of events. Trick positioned himself behind the bar, where Maggie and Kate joined him. “For a minute, I was afraid your husband was gonna bust me for watering down drinks,” the mixologist said.
Maggie gave the bourbon he’d poured her a suspicious glance. “Are you?”
“No. Well,” Trick admitted with a sheepish expression, “sometimes. But only when someone orders a third round. We don’t want anyone driving drunk from here. Which is a poor segue to me offering you a drink. I know I could use a belt of something right now.”
“Thanks,” Maggie said, “but I’ll pass. My stomach’s a mess of nerves after what all went down tonight. You did a great job, Kate.”
“It helped knowing the police were right outside, on alert.” Kate cast an apologetic glance at her boyfriend. “The setup was Maggie’s idea. I’m sorry I couldn’t clue you in to what we were doing, hon. We thought the less people who knew the truth, the better.”
“I get it,” Trick said.
“We hoped the will might break Becca, and then we’d seal the deal with the recording,” Kate said.
“It almost did break her,” Maggie said. “She recovered better than I expected. But hearing you had important news worked for motivating people to stick around after closing, Kate. And it sure ratcheted up the tension.”
“Did it ever,” Trick said. “I’d bet good money my blood pressure was off the charts—and I was only watching.” He hesitated, then said to Kate, “If it’s okay with you, I’d like to see Phil’s will.”
“Here.”
Kate handed Trick the folder. He opened it. There was nothing inside. “There’s no will?”
“Oh, there’s a will. I got it the day after Phillippe died. And he did share his faith in Jerome and Luis in it. Aside from that …” Kate stopped, overcome with emotion. Maggie, sympathetic, put a reassuring arm around her. “Phillippe left everything to you and me. A fifty-fifty split.”
Trick worked his jaw. When he spoke, his voice was husky. “Like I said … he was a generous guy.”
Chapter 26
Stomach issues, which Maggie attributed to the stress of the last couple of weeks, laid her out for the next few days. She awoke after a late-afternoon nap that wound up lasting ten hours to find Bo by her bedside. Shafts of sunlight striped the wooden bedroom floor. The bright gold rays made Maggie blink.
Bo gently stroked her hair. “How do you feel?”
“Much better.” Maggie released a loud yawn, then sat up and stretched. “Any updates?”
“Why am I not surprised that’s your first question?” Bo said with an affectionate grin. “Yes, a variety of them. But the one you’ll be most happy to hear about is what’s going on with Ash. I know that at the end of the day you still think of him as a friend.”
“I do. I feel for him. And Abel. He’s so proud of his son. This has to be breaking his heart.”
“There’s some good news. Since Ash is willing to testify against Scooter Pitot, the DA is dropping the charges against him for aiding a criminal enterprise, especially given that he was threatened into it. Ash also revealed that Phillippe Chanson knew Scooter was coming by the Gulf oysters illegally and didn’t care. If anything, he encouraged it. I’m guessing that was a combination of wanting to see Chanson’s Cajun Kitchen succeed at all costs and getting off on the hotdogging thrill of a little illicit activity.”
“I can see that with Chanson. It was obvious he liked to think of himself as a rebel. But really, he was mostly just cocky and arrogant.”
“I gotta say, that ex-boyfriend of yours is making himself useful.”
“Agh,” Maggie said, peeved. “Will you stop with that? I wish I’d never told you about Ash.”
Bo shot her a devilish grin, then continued. “We finally know who trolled JJ on that website Tasteful and vandalized his trash and bathroom.”
“Scooter?”
“Affirmative. He bragged to Ash that Chanson paid him good money to torpedo the competition.”
“Dyer did tell me that for all Chanson’s grandstanding, he was worried about his business.”
“Enough to break the law.”
Maggie thought about what poor JJ had endured thanks to his ruthless competitor. While she’d never condone murder, it was hard to summon sympathy for Phillippe Chanson. “What’s going on with Becca?”
“Based on Gossmer’s recordings, we were able to establish a timeline between when Chanson broke the bad news to her that she didn’t cut it in his kitchen and when she messed with the boat’s thermostat. Somewhere between breakfast and the dinner shift on the restaurant’s opening day.”
Maggie thought back to that day. “I remember I saw Becca crying and Phillippe chasing after her. I bet that’s when he broke the news. She seemed fine when I saw her a little later. She must have formulated her plan to remove him as an obstacle to her career. But how did she know what to do with the boat?”
“As with everything, from building a bomb to a mass poisoning, you can find directions on how to install a thermostat on the internet—correctly or incorrectly. Incorrectly can lead to a fire. The combination of that plus the crash into the barge triggered the explosion. We got a warrant for Becca’s laptop and found a bunch of searches for what might cause a powerboat to explode. Her family had a summer place on a lake in New Hampshire and she was big into water-skiing as a kid, so she was already familiar with them.”
“Representing Becca will be a challenge. Which, knowing Quentin, will thrill him.”
“His defense will probably be that she never intended to kill Chanson, only scare him. She swears she thought the boat would simply catch fire and he’d jump out and be rescued.”
“Do you think she’s telling the truth?”
“I do. She completely collapsed and it feels real, not like she’s acting.” Bo shrugged. “Bottom line, though, a man is dead and she’s responsible.”
“True dat.” Maggie tossed off the covers and planted her feet on the floor. “Now I need to be a functional human being. We have our final gala committee meeting at Doucet.”
Bo’s cell phone suddenly erupted with a blizzard of alarms. “What the—” He checked and let out a profanity.
“What?” Maggie asked, her stomach knotted with worry.
Bo held up a hand as he continued to read the flurry of messages. Fury colored his face. “Scooter Pitot escaped.”
“When?” Maggie said, stunned. “How?”
“Just now. Cal and Artie were transporting him from Pelican to Plaquemines Parish to face charges for stealing from their oyster beds. They were driving one of the patrol cars that the dang insurance refused to total, and it died en route. Artie couldn’t figure out the problem, so Cal called for backup but then stepped out of the car, which was a mistake on his part, because it left Pitot alone in the car. The partition between the front and back seats is loose, thanks to the car’s damage. Pitot’s such a bag of bones he was able to wiggle the partition open and get out through the front side door. Artie and Cal had the hood up, which blocked their view of him making a run for it.”
“Oh no.” Once again, Maggie’s stomach roiled. “What happens now?”
“The good news is that Cal and Artie had crossed into Ville Blanc when it happened, so Ville Blanc PD is all over it. They need a win after coming off like fools during the Halloween murders.”
Maggie shared a knowing grin with her husband. “I bet.” The larger and way more arrogant VPD had embarrassed themselves by considering Maggie the prime suspect in a murder in the fall, completely ignori
ng clues that led to the real killer.
Bo favored his wife with a gentle smile and caressed her cheek. “My job is to rearrest the suspect. Yours is to feel better.”
He kissed Maggie, his lips lingering on hers. “Well, that sure helped,” she said with a wink when they finally pulled apart.
Maggie opted for an intestinal-soothing cup of chamomile tea, then showered and dressed for work. On the ferry ride across the river, she accepted Captain DiVirgilio’s invitation to join him on the bridge. She was happy to see her sketch of him standing in a frame on a small worktable. “The Baroness Pontalba and I are going back into retirement soon,” he told her. “The bridge’ll be up and running again in a day or so.”
“I should say ‘Good,’ but I’ll miss you.”
A smile lit up the old man’s craggy face. “Right back at ya, my young friend.”
The two gazed at the river before them in companionable silence. “I owe you much thanks,” Maggie said after a short while. “That saying you shared about people who are offended writing on stone clued me in to who might have been offended enough to kill.”
DiVirgilio, keeping his eyes on the watery road, acknowledged this with a slight nod. “We Italians have a lot of good sayings. I’ll see if I can come up with a couple more for you before I go.”
Maggie looked at him askance. “You’re teasing me, aren’t you?”
“Yes. And no.”
The ferry ride ended too quickly for Maggie, who’d come to view the relaxing trip as meditative. At Doucet, the gala committee convened in the gift shop. Ione led the group through the manor house and grounds, explaining where party events would be set up. The party tent used for wedding bookings would house most of the activities: buffet stations, entertainment, dancing. The silent auction would be held in the special exhibit gallery, giving attendees a chance to admire the Say Yes to This Dress display. “We’ve also added a VIP feature,” Ione said. “For an extra fifty dollars a person, I’ll lead small groups on a personal tour of Doucet where I’ll share any insider info I can come up with to make them feel like they’re getting their money’s worth.” As Maggie listened to Ione, it occurred to her that when Doucet treasurer Steve Collins’s secret second wife spent every stolen dime he’d given her in a failed attempt to buy her silence, the infuriated woman had also written on stone.
