Fatal Cajun Festival

by Ellen Byron

  Maggie bucked the fleeing fairgoers and ran to the stage. Officer Cal Vichet lifted the police tape he was stringing to let her duck underneath. Bo was in the middle of an intense conversation with the potbellied roadie who’d mocked Pony’s obsession with Tammy’s mic. She heard hysterical weeping and saw Tammy surrounded by members of her band, who seemed to be in shock. Valeria, Tammy’s backup singer, also in tears, was being comforted by Bokie, the band’s drummer. Sara, the superstar’s assistant, stood planted in place, a stunned expression on her face. The Gator Girls, looking lost, had formed their own huddle. “I told you the electrical system was messed up,” Tammy yelled to the roadie.

  “And as I’m telling this officer here, the stage was on a different circuit than the lights,” the roadie yelled back at her. “No way they caused this.”

  The EMTs gave up on the defibrillator and placed a sheet over Pony Pickner’s body. Tammy saw this and screamed. Her knees buckled, but Sara caught her before she hit the ground. Tammy’s assistant waved to the paramedics. “Over here, we need help!”

  Curious but not wanting to interrupt the investigation, Maggie moved closer to the stage. The electricity powering the festival had been turned off. Artie and Cal were directing underlings on where to set up the police department’s own floodlights. Bo, Rufus, and the roadie were examining the area around Tammy’s mic stand.

  “It’s wet,” the roadie said.

  Bo bent down and touched the mat under the stand. He pressed down on it and water squirted up.

  Rufus frowned. “Water and electricity. Not a good match.”

  “Nope,” the roadie said, shaking his head. “It couldn’t have been there before the chick’s set. My guys would’ve checked for it.”

  Bo and Rufus conferred. Bo nodded and headed toward the knot of musicians. He stopped when he saw Maggie.

  “Hey,” she said. “This is awful. Do you need me? Can I do anything?”

  Bo gestured with his head toward Tammy and the others. “I need to ask some questions. You hover and watch. Let me know if you pick up any reactions I should know about. I can’t look at everyone at the same time.”

  Maggie nodded. Her intuition and artist’s eagle eye for details had proved useful to Pelican PD’s cash-strapped, undermanned department, helping them solve several recent murder cases. She followed Bo to the VIP area but hung back to get a full view of the group. Tammy pulled away from her assistant. She stood up to her full height of five feet plus six-inch heels and got in Bo’s face. “I don’t care what that guy says, the system here is effed up. You need to arrest someone for malpractice.”

  “Okay, first of all, malpractice doesn’t apply to this situation.” Maggie admired Bo’s calm tone. She would have instantly lost it with the singer. “And what Benny, that roadie, said is true. The stage’s system was separate from the lights so that they wouldn’t overload one circuit. But we did find water under the mic stand. Anyone spill something onstage?”

  He directed this at all the musicians, who shook their heads as one. “Never,” said East, Tammy’s guitarist. “Too dangerous. If one of us had, we would’ve said something.”

  Tammy gasped. “Oh my God. I could have been killed. Do you think someone spilled it on purpose? Did someone want me dead?”

  Bo’s phone pinged a text. He read it and then looked up. He took a step away from the group, motioning for Tammy to follow him. Maggie took a discreet step closer to them while keeping an eye on the others. “That was the police chief. He talked to the roadie who moved your mic stand so you could prance around stage.”

  “It’s not prancing,” Tammy said, insulted. “We pay a choreographer buckets of money to come up with those moves.”

  “Whatever. The guy swears there was no water on the stage when you were performing. He would have felt it under his feet.”

  “So what are you saying, no one was after me?” Tammy sounded disappointed. Apparently, an attempt on a star’s life was the ultimate badge of honor.

  “Was it well known that your manager was in charge of your mic?”

  “I guess, I mean, at least in the music business. We get very attached to our microphones. We develop a relationship with them. It’s like … what’s that thing where people think of animals or other stuff like people?”

  “Anthropomorphic.”

  “Yeah. It’s like that.” Tammy furrowed her brow. “Wait. Are you saying you think someone wanted to kill Pony?” Bo didn’t respond. Tammy’s brow cleared. Her eyes widened. “Oh my. Oh my, oh my, oh my.”

  “Someone come to mind?”

  Tammy nodded, her expression grave. She wrung her hands nervously. “I don’t want to get anyone in trouble.” Maggie tensed. Then Tammy said exactly what she feared the singer would. “There’s this girl I know from high school. Her name is Gaynell Bourgeois. I had her meet with Pony because she’s so talented. But Pony’s kind of a dog when it comes to girls, even though he’s like fifty or something.” Tammy said this as if fifty was a hundred. “He kind of hit on her, and she did not take it well. She threatened to feed him to the gators. It’s not just me; we all heard it. Even her.”

  Maggie froze as Tammy wheeled around and pointed at her.

  “I’m not talking to her right now, I’m talking to you,” Bo said, rescuing his fiancée. “Why don’t you tell me exactly what happened?”

  Bo put a hand under Tammy’s elbow and guided her toward a chair. As he did, he glanced back at Maggie and mouthed the word Go.

  She followed his instructions and hurried away from the stage, back to the Crozats’ booth. She sunk below the window so no one could see her and sent a text to Gaynell: WHERE ARE U?

  HOME, Gaynell wrote back. WHY?

  THINK PONY PICKNER WAS MURDERED, Maggie texted. TAMMY TOLD BO ABOUT YOUR FIGHT W HIM.

  Gaynell responded with a line of shocked emoji faces and exclamation marks, followed by a plaintive question: WHAT SHOULD I DO???

  Maggie felt for her friend. She texted back: NOTHING NOW. BE HONEST IF THEY TALK 2 U.

  Gaynell sent back a thumbs-up emoji followed by several sad faces. Maggie retrieved her purse from the box where the Crozats stored valuables during the festival and put away her phone. She pulled out her car keys, and then hesitated. Tammy had basically accused one of Maggie’s best friends of murder. There was no way sweet, kindhearted Gaynell could be pushed to that extreme, even by a lecher like Pony.

  Maggie stuck the keys back in her purse and stood up. Contrary to Bo’s instructions, this wasn’t the time to go. It was the time to start figuring out, if Gaynell didn’t kill Pony … who did?

  * * *

  Maggie texted Bo to let him know she was sticking around but planned on maintaining a low profile. She needn’t have worried. The Pelican PD’s mobile evidence van, usually relegated to hauling floats during Mardi Gras, was parked on the field, its crime scene technicians scouring the stage for evidence. All the available officers had been drafted to interview anyone around who was affiliated with the festival, be they guest, roadie, or band member.

  Except for the area lit up by police lights, most of the grounds were dark, making it easy for Maggie to wander around unnoticed. Unfortunately, the moonless, cloud-filled night made it tough to find clues. Maggie gave up looking for them. Instead she eavesdropped on a few police interviews until Rufus, who was taking notes while talking to a Tammy fangirl, caught her in the act. “You need something, Magnolia Marie?” His tone told her he knew darn well she didn’t.

  “No, I’m good. I’m just, you know, poking around.” Maggie cringed at her lame response and tried to cover. “And looking for Bo. Mostly that. If you see him, tell him I took off.”

  Rufus tapped on his pad. “Little busy. I hear there’s an invention where you can type out a message and it flies through the air to a person. Might wanna try that.”

  “Will do.” Embarrassed, Maggie fled. She glanced around and saw Bo finish an interview with Tammy’s bandmember, Toulouse. As soon as the redheaded fiddler
and accordionist left Bo’s company, a roadie replaced him. It was going to be a long night for the force.

  * * *

  Maggie took Ru’s advice and messaged Bo she was leaving. By the time she got home, it was three AM. She fell into bed with her clothes on, and woke up four hours later feeling like she hadn’t slept at all. Maggie went into the living room, where she was surprised to find Little Earlie Waddell videoing her grandmother with his cell phone. “Is there anything else you’d like to share about the tragic events of last night?”

  “Yes.” Gran spoke to the phone. “Again, our hearts go out to Mr. Pickner’s friends and family. We’ve hired the best commercial electricians in the state to check and double-check the festival electrical system. They were there at dawn this morning and have assured me that the problem with the lighting equipment has been solved and this awful accident had absolutely nothing to do with it. The accident was the result of human error.”

  “Error?” Little Earlie flipped the video so it recorded him instead of Grand-mère. “Or intentional? Station PPC will keep you up to date, live-streaming what will surely be an interesting investigation by the Pelican Police Department.” He turned off the phone. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Maggie folded her arms across her chest. “Going the sensationalism route as always, Little E.”

  “Hey, it’s what sells. You like my call letters?”

  He was so proud of having utilized the Pelican Penny Clipper for his online channel that Maggie’s annoyance faded. “Very clever. But I hope Station PPC keeps bringing us human-interest stories. Those twenty-seven piglets were adorable.”

  Little Earlie packed up and headed out to search for more scoops. Maggie collapsed onto the antique, velvet-covered sofa next to Grand-mère. “How are you doing this morning? Are you okay?”

  “Comme ci, comme ça.” Gran picked up a mug from the coffee table and took a sip. “So-so. Not exactly how I envisioned the kickoff to our little shindig. But as Oscar Wilde so famously said, the only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about. And Lordy, are we being talked about. It’s just a bit after seven AM and I got a text that ticket sales are through the roof.” She took another sip of her coffee. “Lee was so sweet. He stayed outside the cottage in his car most of the night to make sure I was all right.”

  “He adores you.”

  “Adore is a strong word. Especially for two geriatrics like us.” Gran drained her mug. “What about you? What happened after I left?”

  “Nothing good,” Maggie said, her tone grim. “Little E will be happy to know that it doesn’t look like this was an accident.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “Worse than that, Tammy pointed a finger at Gaynell.”

  “What? That’s absolutely ludicrous.”

  “You and I know that, but Gaynell had a run-in with Pony right before the show. Hopefully she has an alibi for where she was after that.” Maggie stood up. “I need to get ready. I have to make a boatload of pralines for the booth.”

  Gran handed Maggie her coffee mug. “Would you mind getting me a refill first?”

  Maggie sniffed the cup. “This isn’t just coffee, is it?”

  Gran patted her perfectly coifed silver hair. “A bit of bourbon happened to fall in. And I wouldn’t mind at all if that happened again.”

  * * *

  Maggie sent Gaynell a message, then prepared for the day. She checked her phone; there was no reply. She left the cottage for the manor house, where she discovered her mother knee-deep in a variety of breakfast meals. “Not to be callous or anything, but I thought with Pony’s diet off the table—literally and figuratively—you’d have less to do.”

  Ninette shook a frying pan with one hand and flipped pancakes bubbling on a skillet with the other. “Oh, how I wish. Tammy insisted on Gigi and Narcisse spending the night, which of course I understand. She’s been through something very traumatic and needs her family around. They requested Cajun comfort food. So, my banana pancakes with brown sugar butter for Gigi, cheese grits and boudin for Narcisse, shrimp and grits for that Sara girl, and a veggie omelet for our resident celebrity.” She pointed to the broiler. “And your father’s making himself a steak. He’s gonna be on the Paleo-whatever diet until we use up all that food.”

  Maggie began pulling praline ingredients out of the B and B’s large pantry. “Unfortunately, I need to commandeer a burner. I have to make more pralines.” She placed containers of baking soda and brown sugar on the counter, then retrieved buttermilk and two sticks of butter from the refrigerator. She took a large copper pot off the hanging rack and placed it on the stove. She measured out milk and poured it into the pot, then dropped in the butter and added a spoonful of baking soda. “Were you up when Tammy and her group came home last night?”

  “Yes,” Ninette said, trying not to elbow her daughter, which was impossible since Maggie was left-handed and her mother right-handed. “That’s how I learned about what happened. Terrible.” Ninette turned the heat off under the frying pan and negotiated the narrow space between the stove and the kitchen table. “According to Gigi, Tammy was an absolute wreck at the festival. But she calmed down by the time they got back here. It was pretty late. They may not even be up for breakfast. All this may be a waste of time and food.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about Gigi and Narcisse missing out on free eats.” Maggie had pegged the two as a couple of moochers especially after learning that Gigi had convinced her husband he should adopt her surname of Barker as an “homage” to Tammy. More like an opportunity to name-drop and get freebies, Maggie groused to herself.

  Her mixture came to a boil. She inserted a candy thermometer to make sure it had reached the firm-ball stage. It had, so Maggie took it off the stove, added vanilla, and beat the ingredients until they were a creamy beige. She added cups of pecans, then searched for an empty spot of counter where she could roll out parchment paper. “You’ll have to do that in the dining room,” Ninette said. “There’s not a bit of room left in here. And chère, I love you more than life itself and I know you’re doing us a big favor taking over the praline sales, but you’re gonna have to make those somewhere else next time. I need every spare inch of space for as long as our guests are here. If the cottage kitchen is too small, ask a friend.”

  “Got it.”

  Maggie retreated to the dining room with her pot and a roll of parchment paper. As she dropped spoonfuls of the praline mixture onto the paper to harden, she thought about Tammy and her entourage. Any number of people—music pros, hangers-on, and fairgoers—had probably heard Pony insist that no one except him touch Tammy’s mic. But how many held a grudge against the manager? Maggie was sure that limited the field of suspects to Tammy’s immediate circle.

  There was a knock at Crozat’s massive oak front door. Maggie covered the drying pralines with a second sheet of parchment paper. She strode down the hall and opened the door. Bo stood there, dressed in his standard detecting outfit of jeans, jacket, white button-down shirt, and cowboy boots. “I have to say, I miss the uniform a little.”

  “I don’t. That thing’s uncomfortable.”

  “You sure looked better in it than Ru did in his dress uniform.”

  Bo gave her a blank look. “We have a dress uniform?”

  “Apparently.” Maggie held the door open, and Bo followed her into the high-ceilinged, wide front hallway of the manor house. “You haven’t kissed me.”

  “This is business.”

  Maggie got a knot in her stomach. “I was afraid of that.”

  “Can we talk somewhere private?”

  She nodded and led her fiancé to the front parlor. She sat on the room’s Victorian-era black walnut settee, upholstered in a rich rose damask. Bo sat opposite her in a chair that was the settee’s mate.

  “Well, this isn’t too awkward,” Maggie said.

  Bo snorted. “Tell me about it.” He pulled out a small pad and pencil. “I need you to tell me everything you saw last night regarding Pony P
ickner’s interaction with anyone.”

  “Is this now an official murder investigation?”

  Bo gave a grave nod. “Ben, the head roadie, noticed someone removed the safety ground connection from the sound system. This energized the mic shell. Pony, standing in water, pulling the mic out of the stand with both hands … you couldn’t ask for a better electrocution setup.”

  “That would take someone who really knows how you set up for a concert.”

  “Maggie, come on.”

  “What?” she said, feigning innocence.

  Bo pulled his chair toward her. He rested his hands on his knees. His look bore into Maggie; she could have sworn he didn’t blink once. She’d never felt so nervous and uncomfortable. He’s really good at his job, she thought.

  “I heard Pony order the crew not to touch Tammy’s mic” Maggie crossed one leg over the other, trying to affect a casual pose. “Pretty much everyone who was there at the time heard that.”

  “But not everyone had a motive.”

  “He wasn’t a nice guy. I’m sure he ticked off a lot of people.” She had a brainstorm. “Maybe someone who came to the festival just to get rid of Pony. That really widens the field of suspects. Y’all are gonna be working hard.”

  Bo ignored her attempt to sidetrack him. “Tell me about the dustup between Pony and Gaynell.”

  “I wouldn’t call it a dustup. Just some words. Which he deserved, by the way. But nothing happened that would make Gaynell a suspect, believe me.”

  Bo sighed and sat back. “Chère, I know you’re trying to protect your friend. But right now, not only is Gaynell a suspect, she’s the suspect.”

  Maggie balled up her fists. “It’s because of Tammy. She’s trying to get Gaynell arrested; it’s part of her crazy jealous vendetta. I told you she had it in for her, I told you, I—”

  Bo interrupted her. “It’s not because of Tammy. Gaynell’s the number-one suspect because of this.” Bo took out his cell phone. “Little Earlie sent it to me.” Bo opened the photos on his phone and played a video clip of Gaynell’s heated exchange with Pony.