Fatal Cajun Festival

by Ellen Byron

  “Whoa. I had no idea Grand-père was so poetic.”

  “Nor did I,” Gran said with asperity.

  Maggie took a sip of her sparkling water to hide a smile. “You sound jealous.”

  “I am, a bit. I’m getting the impression that your grandfather wore himself out in the romance department with this Carina woman. He was wonderful to me, but a bit less starry-eyed.” Gran’s cell phone pinged a text. She picked up the phone and read it. “Lee’s been badgering me to go to the festival so he can ‘show me off.’ After the bruising my ego’s taken from these love letters, that sounds like a good idea.”

  “I need to be there with pralines by three. Luckily, I stored a bunch in the freezer so I don’t have to make any today.” Maggie held up her hands. “I’ve got calluses from stirring.”

  “You’re a trooper for manning the praline fort. I’ve been so absorbed in your grandfather’s romance, I’ve barely thought about what’s going on outside this room. How’s that poor boy who was attacked at Belle Vista?”

  “His prognosis has improved, but he’s in for a long recovery.”

  “That’s terrible. Is Pelican PD eyeing any suspects?”

  Maggie shook her head. “Not that I know of. But it makes Gaynell much less of a suspect. Pony’s murder has to be linked to the attack on Bokie, and I’ve spent more time with that drummer than Gaynell has.”

  “Ah yes, your faux breakup. I’ll have to remember that at the festival if anyone asks about it. How’s that little scam going?”

  “Harder than I thought,” Maggie admitted. “Flirting with other guys feels really uncomfortable. But it’s worse knowing women are into Bo. Like, big time.”

  “No surprise there.”

  Maggie pulled away from her grandmother and shot her a look. “Way to make me not feel better.”

  “I’m sorry, chère. I’m a little edgy right now. Trust that Bo is yours and you are his.”

  “That’s beautiful, Gran.”

  Gran held up a letter. “I’m paraphrasing your grandfather, who wrote to Carina, Trust that I am yours and you are mine.” She put down the letter and picked up a tall glass. “Do your grand-mère a favor and doctor up this Coke.”

  Maggie did so, then retired to her bedroom. She lay on the bed, eyes closed, clearing her mind of all thoughts. The women in her family possessed a well-developed sense of intuition, but tapping into it took intense focus. Maggie ran through a list of potential suspects: conflicted East, smarmy Uffen, weirdo The Sound, user Narcisse, clingy Gigi, ambitious Sara, ruthless Tammy. Am I missing anyone or anything? she thought.

  Maggie woke up from a deep sleep an hour later. She jumped out of bed, then took a quick shower and threw on jeans and a fresh Cajun Country Live! T-shirt. “Ugh,” she muttered at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Her hazel eyes were shadowed underneath, her pale skin slightly paler. She gently patted concealer under her eyes, then applied foundation, blush, and mascara. “Much better,” she told her reflection. Maggie wasn’t one to obsess about her looks, but with Bo “available” and single women swarming him, she wasn’t taking any chances.

  She went over to the manor house kitchen, where Ninette was supervising her husband as he packed up a dozen to-go lunches. “Chère, can you help your father deliver these to Tammy and her crew?” Ninette asked. “They’re all individually labeled, so it shouldn’t be confusing.”

  “Sure.” Maggie opened the freezer. “I just need to take out today’s batch of Pelican pralines.” She removed a few boxes and placed them on the counter to defrost, then stacked her arms with the lunch boxes.

  “Allons-y,” Tug said.

  They left the kitchen for the party tent, where Tammy’s band members had joined the others. The dancers were milling about aimlessly while East and the other musicians set up a drum kit. “We’re auditioning drummers to replace Bokie,” East explained. “A couple of the girls can sing, so they’ll cover for Val.”

  “How’s he doing? Any word?”

  “A little better. But wow. It’s just … wow.”

  Maggie gave a sympathetic nod.

  The day was relatively comfortable for south Louisiana, with the humidity index on the lower side. Tug had turned on the tent’s modular cooling system to help cool it off, but the combined body heat of a dozen performers was giving the machine a workout.

  “Lunch,” Maggie called to the group. The dancers responded with cheers and abandoned their positions to grab the boxes. The musicians followed suit. Gigi, who was working a sewing machine in the corner, jumped up and ran over. “I’ll get mine and Tammy’s.” But Sara beat her to Maggie, grabbing her lunch and the singer’s.

  “Get mine while you’re there,” Narcisse called to Gigi without looking up from his phone. She scowled but did as she was told.

  Maggie helped her father set up ten-gallon coolers of water and sweet tea for the assemblage. Tammy, clad in a multicolored sequined bodysuit that was a far cry from her folksy Daisy Dukes look, waved a hand to get everyone’s attention. “Y’all, Gigi’s going on a coffee run if anyone wants something.”

  Gigi looked up from her lunch. “I am?”

  “Just give her your orders,” Tammy continued.

  “But … I’m supposed to finish mending your practice dance skirt.”

  “No worries, coz; you can do that when you get back. Or tonight.”

  The dancers and a few of the musicians surrounded a nonplussed Gigi, peppering her with a list of complicated coffee drinks. Once they placed their orders, the crowd dissipated. Gigi, a furious look on her face, held up a middle finger to Tammy’s back. Maggie was surprised by the venomous gesture but had a little more respect for the superstar’s put-upon cousin.

  Toulouse poured himself an iced tea, then lingered by Maggie. She wondered why, but simply asked, “Can I get you anything else?”

  Toulouse shook his head. “I was just wondering if there were any updates with Miss Gaynell?”

  “She’s okay. Toulouse … just so you know, she and her boyfriend are pretty serious.”

  “Everything is in the Lord’s hands.” Toulouse looked upward. “I give my life to Him and let Him show me the path.” He returned his gaze to Maggie. “Let Gaynell know I’m thinking about her and praying on everything.”

  The ginger-haired accordionist left the tent to join the other musicians at a picnic table. Maggie poured herself a cup of tea. She was tempted to doctor it up with a splash of Gran’s bourbon. The interaction with Toulouse disturbed her. Was he simply a kindhearted, God-fearing country boy? Or was he a zealot?

  Maggie checked the time on her cell phone. Not due at the Crozats’ festival booth for two more hours, she decided to treat herself to a stint of painting. Losing herself in a new piece of artwork always had a calming effect. She left the tent, passing by a few dancers who were sunning themselves on the B and B’s lawn while eyeing the musicians at the nearby picnic table. “I’m so over dating guys in the business,” a thin, stunning blonde said to an equally thin, stunning brunette. The other thin, stunning girls nodded vigorously in agreement.

  “Tammy said there’s a detective in town who just broke up with his girlfriend,” the brunette said to a chorus of lascivious ooohs. “I know, right? If he’s as hot as she says he is, he can handcuff me and read me my rights, uh-huh!” She jumped up and twerked to screams of laughter.

  Maggie bit her lip to keep from blowing up and stomped through the woods to her art studio, housed in the plantation’s former schoolhouse. A murderer had once set fire to the place with Maggie in it, but locals had donated their time and services to repair the quaint old building. Now it sparkled with new paint and gleaming windows that allowed natural light to pour into the room. Paintings in various stages of creation rested against the walls. On a small easel sat a half-finished painting of a kitten that combined childlike innocence with a mature eye for detail. The artist behind the painting was Bo’s son Xander, not Maggie. He came to her for weekly art lessons. Teaching the seven
-year-old prodigy was one of the great joys of her life.

  Maggie took out her cell phone, pulled up her playlist of favorite Cajun and zydeco tunes and pressed the PLAY arrow. C.J. Chenier and the Red Hot Louisiana Band’s “Zydeco Cha Cha” blasted out of her wireless speaker in all its rambunctious glory. Chenier—the son of the king of zydeco himself, Clifton Chenier—worked his accordion magic, and the tune’s blend of African Creole, Cajun, funk, and rhythm and blues filled the room with up-tempo energy. Maggie put an apron over her clothes and dabbed paint onto a palette. Then she got to work on the portrait she was painting of Gaynell in her outfit as capitaine of a Courir de Mardi Gras, the traditional Cajun Mardi Gras run. Behind Gaynell were Mardi Gras—in Cajun Country, the term was a proper noun as well as a noun—dressed in costumes and masks that were a riot of colors and textures.

  As usual when she painted, Maggie forgot the world around her and lost track of time. Luckily, she’d set an alarm. As soon as it dinged, she cleaned up, turned off the music, and headed to the manor house to retrieve the batch of defrosted pralines. The party tent was empty and the B and B quiet. Maggie breathed in the warm-but-not-too-warm late-afternoon air, feeling relaxed for the first time in days. Lee’s pickup was parked next to the shotgun cottage. Maggie hoped his affection for Gran would help her get past her late husband’s love letters to another woman.

  She grabbed the boxes of pralines from the kitchen and strode to her car, where she balanced the boxes on one knee as she pulled car keys from her pocket. She noticed some scratches she’d never seen before on the car door around the key area. That’s strange, she thought. Then she saw the door was unlocked and her nerves tingled. She peered through the driver’s-side window, pressing her face against the glass to get a better view of the car’s interior.

  Suddenly, a large snake on the driver’s seat uncoiled. It reared its head, hissing and baring its fangs as it attacked the window. Maggie shrieked and fell backward. The boxes of pralines fell with her, their contents shattering as they hit the ground.

  “Snake,” she screamed to anyone who could hear her. “Snake!”

  Chapter 16

  Maggie’s screams brought her family running. Tug and Ninette burst out of the manor house while Gran ran from the cottage, Lee on her heels. “Maggie, what happened; are you okay?” Tug, winded from running, gasped for breath at the end of the sentence.

  Maggie, heart racing, pointed inside her car. Tug peered through the window, and the snake reared its head with an angry hiss. Ninette and Gran shrieked as Tug stumbled away from the creature.

  Lee strode over to the car. “Lemme take a look and see what we got.” He rapped on the window, eliciting fury from the snake.

  “For the love of God, Lee, be careful,” Gran cried out.

  “It’s all right, Charlotte. Our friend here can hiss all he wants, but he can’t break through the window.” The eighty-something mechanic studied the reptile. “My family had some land where we farmed sugar cane. Think it was part of Belle Vista way back in the day. When I was a kid, I’d help my great-uncles harvest, and they trained me on what critters to watch out for. This fella’s not a copperhead or a cottonmouth, which you’re most likely to find around here. Doesn’t look like any kind of rattler either.” He turned back to the others. “I think he’s an import.”

  Maggie stared at him, not comprehending. “What do you mean? Like, he’s from another country?”

  Lee nodded.

  “Then what’s he doing here? And in my car?”

  The look on Lee’s weathered face was grim. “That, chère, is a good question. Someone best give Pelican PD a call. And Animal Control. Make sure they send a snake wrangler, not a dogcatcher.”

  * * *

  A half hour later, officers Artie Belloise and Cal Vichet had joined the Crozats and Lee in the family’s parking area. The group watched as a snake-removal expert coaxed the unwanted guest into a trap. “Maggie, you sure you didn’t leave a window open?” Artie asked. He stood a safe distance from her car.

  “Positive. Also, I keep my car locked, but the driver’s-side door was unlocked.”

  “Downside of a vintage auto like yours. I could pick that lock with my pinky nail.”

  The snake expert, a tattooed man in his fifties who looked straight out of a wildlife reality TV show, held up the trap. “Got him.” The others gave him a wide berth as he sauntered over to his van and secured the trap inside. “Love to know how a Mexican pit viper made its way to these parts.”

  “Could it have gotten here by itself?” Cal asked.

  The expert shook his head. “Not likely. Probably smuggled across the border by an exotic animal dealer to sell in the States.”

  Maggie put her head in her hands, trying to make sense of what was happening. “So, someone put a venomous snake in my car. To scare me? To kill me?”

  The man shrugged. “Maybe both.”

  After a brief confab with Artie and Cal, the snake handler took off. “We need to interview all of you and whoever else is here,” Cal said. “Find out if anyone saw anything suspicious.”

  Artie pointed to the ground. “That’s a sad, sad sight.”

  Maggie’s box of pralines lay where she’d dropped it, littering the ground with broken sweets. Gopher and Jolie were investigating the candy with interest, but Maggie shooed them away. “Chocolate’s not good for dogs, you two.” She bent down and began picking up the candy, now ruined. The others helped. “I guess I’ll be closing the booth early tonight. Like that’s my biggest problem.”

  “I’ll throw these out, chère,” Ninette said, taking the box from Maggie. “Don’t give the booth a thought. You had a scare, a bad one. We all did.” She shuddered.

  Artie crooked a finger at Maggie. “A minute?” She followed him away from the others. “I know you and Bo broke up, but I texted him the details of what all happened. He’s handling security at the festival today, but I thought he’d want to know. I’m sure you two still have some kind of connection.”

  Given her run-in with a deadly animal, Maggie didn’t have to fake being overwrought. “We do. It’s been a rough day, and I appreciate you getting in touch with him.”

  Artie hiked up his pants, which would never be in danger of falling off given a girth born from a love of all things edible. “We need to interview everyone at Crozat, starting with y’all. Cal, why don’t you hunt around for guests and I take the family?” Artie called this to his partner, then addressed Ninette. “Ma’am, what would be a comfortable location? I’m thinking maybe the kitchen?”

  Ninette knew the drill. “Good idea, Artie. I can put together a plate of some afternoon snacks.”

  Artie beamed. “Sounds like a plan.”

  “Artie, do you mind starting with me?” Maggie asked. “And can we do it here? I need to get to the festival.”

  Artie frowned but nodded. The others traipsed toward the manor house with Cal behind them. “All righty, Magnolia,” he said, taking out a pad and pencil, “walk me through your day so far.”

  “I went for a jog, met our new guests, napped for an hour, then served our guests lunch. After that, I went to my studio and painted for a while, then got the pralines and went to my car. I didn’t see or hear anything unusual.”

  “So between eleven and now, your car was unattended, just sitting parked here in the way back.”

  “Yes.”

  Artie furrowed his brow and tapped his pencil against it. “This’ll take some work. You can go to the festival. Let me know if you think of anything else.”

  “For sure.”

  Artie took off for the manor house kitchen at a fast clip. Maggie circled the Falcon warily, then ran into the shotgun cottage, emerging with her set of keys to the B and B minivan. She adored “Vince,” as she’d once nicknamed the convertible, but needed a day or so to put the image of the snake out of her mind before driving the car again. She climbed in the van, but checked her phone before starting the engine. Bo had sent a barrage of text messages. S
he responded: I’M OKAY. CAL AND ARTIE WILL FILL YOU IN. Maggie hesitated, then added a string of X’s and O’s.

  * * *

  Maggie was still on edge when she showed up at the festival booth. She deposited a small box of pralines in front of Clinton and Brianna. “There was an accident with the bigger batch,” she told them, “and these aren’t fully defrosted. We’ll sell the few we have left from yesterday, and if these aren’t ready to go by then, we’ll close early.”

  Clinton flashed a wide grin. “Or not.” He reached down and pulled up a basket filled with individually wrapped pralines the color of burnt umber. Each displayed a label featuring a smiling sweet potato holding a sign that said POCHE SWEET POTATO PRALINES.

  “Clinton, this is fantastic,” Maggie said. “They’re adorable. And look delicious.”

  “He was up real late making the labels. He said they had to look fancy.” This came from his unimpressed sister. “You’re such a girl.”

  “Shut up; you are.”

  “Well, yeah, I’m supposed to be.”

  Maggie held up her hands to referee. “Enough. Clinton, great job. Brianna, lay off him. Both of you—move the goods.”

  Since the Chulane pralines hadn’t survived the fall from her arms, Maggie put aside two extra-large sweet potato ones for Xander. But she knew in her heart that potatoes were no substitute for chocolate with the under-ten crowd and was relieved when Whitney texted that Xander was skipping that night’s festival.

  Clinton’s pralines did prove to be a big hit with the over-ten crowd. Maggie stepped back to let the teen enjoy his success. She chatted with customers browsing her souvenirs and even sold two paintings, but found it hard to focus. Her mind kept wandering back to the pit viper in her car. Wrangling a poisonous snake had to require some experience. Rock stars sometimes used snakes in their live performances, albeit the less lethal kind. She pulled out her cell phone and texted Bo: CHECK MUSICIANS FOR SNAKE EXPERIENCE.

  A middle-aged woman wearing a T-shirt that read BOURBON STREET BABE in bedazzled lettering approached Maggie. “Excuse me; that girl says you’re the artist who did this drawing.” She held up a mouse pad decorated with an illustration of the Doucet’s manor house. “Would you autograph it for me?”