Fatal Cajun Festival

by Ellen Byron

  “Of course. Thank you so much for asking.”

  “It’ll make it worth more when I sell it online. Autographs really boost the price.”

  “Really?” Maggie said. “Too bad I’m not a dead artist. The price would skyrocket.”

  Oblivious to the sarcasm in Maggie’s voice, the woman gave a vigorous nod, which sent her large shelf of a chest bouncing up and down. “Good point. I’ll hold on to it for a little while. Ya never know what could happen, right?”

  She chortled, gave Maggie a thumbs-up, and moved on to another booth. Maggie tamped down her annoyance and checked her cell. No response from Bo. She scanned the festival grounds, then scowled when she realized why he hadn’t gotten back to her. Her “hot detective” was surrounded by Tammy’s dancers. Even from a distance, Maggie could tell they were in a contest to out-flirt each other. She sucked in a breath, then exhaled, trying to blow the jealousy out of her system.

  Bo pulled his cell phone from a pocket and answered a call, then politely disengaged from the fawning performers. His face darkened, and he strode off the field, still on the call. His walk turned into a run.

  Maggie considered a course of action. She punched in the numbers for Cal Vichet’s cell. He answered on the first ring. “Cal, hi. I just saw Bo take a call and then go running off. Did something happen? Was there a break in Pony’s case, or Bokie’s?”

  “Yeah, something happened.” Cal’s tone was terse. “Gaynell Bourgeois was just arrested for murder and attempted murder.”

  Chapter 17

  “What?” Maggie said, her emotions vacillating between shock and fury. “Bo’s the lead detective on those cases. Did he give the go-ahead to arrest her?”

  Cal sounded nervous. “I really don’t wanna say too much, but I can answer that with one word. No.”

  “Rufus.” Maggie spat out the name like it was poison.

  “I need to go now.”

  Cal ended the call. Maggie let loose a string of epithets that brought forth some shocked gasps and a few tsk-tsks as she stormed past festivalgoers. She threw herself into the B and B van and rocketed out of the parking lot to the Pelican PD station. The spots in front of the building were taken up by a couple of news vans. Reporters were already in position on the building’s steps. She saw Little Earlie, a small man, maneuver his way around the others and score the prime position outside the front door.

  Maggie parked a block down from the station and hurried over, dodging the reporters as she took the stairs two at a time.

  “Hey, Maggie,” Earlie called to her. She whipped around, and before she could unload on the pushy journalist, he shrank back, turning from pit bull to puppy. “Never mind.”

  She threw open the heavy glass front door and marched into the station just as Rufus came out of the hallway that led to offices, interrogation rooms, and a holding cell. With him was a plainclothes officer in his late twenties. Maggie planted her fists on her hips and glared at the police chief. “What do you think you’re doing having Gaynell arrested?”

  “My job.”

  “Since when is your job throwing innocent people in jail? Or did you have Bo do your dirty work?”

  “No, I had Rogert here do it.”

  “I just got promoted to grade-one detective,” Rogert, now ID’d as the plainclothes officer, said. “This was my first assignment post-promotion.” The sandy-haired newbie didn’t look happy about it.

  “Magnolia, why don’t we talk in private?”

  Rufus beckoned to her. She followed him down the hallway to his office, a dreary room populated with beat-up, circa-1950s metal office furniture. He sat down behind his desk. She remained standing. “Let me give you a little backstory,” Rufus said. “That’s what they say in the movies, right? Anyhoo, the ADA on the Pickner case is Jace Jerierre, which rhymes with derriere, which is what he is. I’m sharing his nickname with you because it’d chap his actual derriere, which gives me much pleasure. The reason for Gaynell’s arrest is that there was an unexpected development in the drummer’s case. Security footage from Belle Vista puts Gaynell at the resort within the time frame that Bokie guy was attacked.”

  Now Maggie sat down. Or more like fell into a rickety metal chair. “Why? Why was she there?”

  Rufus gave an I dunno shrug. “All she told Rogert is that she wanted to talk to the guy. Then she stopped talking and started crying.”

  “No. Poor Gaynell.”

  “That, coupled with her activities concerning Pickner, amounted to strong circumstantial evidence according to Derriere, I mean Jerierre. He accused me of showing favoritism to Gaynell and went and got an arrest warrant.”

  Maggie crossed her arms in front of her chest. “You know she didn’t do this, Rufus.”

  Rufus leaned back in his chair. The shirt of his uniform strained at the buttons. “Here’s the thing, Maggie. I don’t know that. I know I like Gaynell. I know she and her family are good people. I know it’s hard to imagine her doing this. But I don’t know that she didn’t. I’ve arrested a lot of people I never would have suspected of doing bad things. And they were flat-out guilty. You don’t know what’s going to push someone over the edge. Even a nice person like Gaynell.”

  Maggie searched for a response. Then she said, “I want to argue with you. But I can’t. If there’s one thing these last few months—and murders—have taught me, it’s that people can surprise you in horrible ways. Still, every fiber in my being tells me Gaynell didn’t kill or attack a soul.”

  “Believe me, I’d love to pin this murder on anyone else. That’s why Bo’s out there chasing down clues about who put that snake in your car. I’m really hoping it’s one of those musician man buns. I wish I could arrest guys just for that butt-ugly hairstyle. But until there’s evidence, them and their hideous hair is free.”

  Maggie managed a slight smile. “At least we’re on the same page when it comes to man buns. You’re sure the security cameras didn’t reveal anything else? Or anyone?”

  “Give us a little credit for knowing how to do our jobs, Magnolia. There was no camera where this Bokie guy got conked. Either the perp did some homework or got lucky.”

  Maggie looked contrite. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m grabbing at anything. Can I talk to Gaynell? Maybe I can get some new information out of her.”

  Another voice answered Maggie’s question. “I’d have to say no to that.”

  Maggie turned around and saw Quentin MacIlhoney standing in the doorway. He was dressed in a bespoke charcoal suit, crisp white shirt, and red tie with dark-blue stripes. Maggie scrunched her eyes and saw that the stripes comprised a sentence: VOTE FOR QUENTIN MACILHONEY. “Tie’s a little out of date, Quentin.”

  “I spent a fortune having my tailor make it for me. I figure I’ll run again for office sometime and it doesn’t hurt to start building brand awareness with the general public. To quote the late governor, Earl Long, when I die I’m going to be buried in Louisiana so I can stay active in politics.” He removed a folder from his genuine-alligator briefcase. “Back to your question. Nobody talks to my client before I do.”

  Rufus glowered at his former mayoral competition. “Figures she’d hired you.”

  “Ms. Bourgeois won’t be paying me a dime. This is a pro bono case. Let’s go, Rufus.”

  Rufus grudgingly got up and went to the door. Maggie stopped the defense attorney before he followed the police chief out. “Thank you, Quentin.”

  “This one’s a gimme. The whole town’s pretty much behind her. I’ll look like a hero for a change.”

  “Tell me that’s not why you’re doing it,” Maggie said. Quentin’s unabashedly selfish motives exasperated her.

  “Who cares why I’m doing it? Point is, it’s getting done. And by the best defense lawyer in the state, if I do say so myself. Which I do.” Quentin handed her a gold metal pen. “Press the top; it lights up.”

  He took off after Rufus, leaving Maggie with the pen. She pressed the top and the barrel lit up with yet another s
logan: ‘Mac’ A DIFFERENCE. VOTE MACILHONEY.

  * * *

  Maggie dodged the reporters on her way out of the station. Little Earlie managed to stop a few who pursued her. “She’s a scary one,” he warned them. “You push her, she might get violent.” His assessment was overly dramatic, but it allowed Maggie to drive away in peace.

  She took a few detours in case all the reporters hadn’t been intimidated. While she drove, she tried to understand why Gaynell would have gone to Belle Vista to talk to Bokie, a man she barely knew. Maggie couldn’t come up with a scenario that made sense.

  By the time she got home, Crozat was dark. The B and B’s guests were either asleep or out. Maggie guessed it was the latter. Relieved that she could avoid dancing around the hot topic of Gaynell’s arrest, she slipped into the shotgun cottage and crawled under the covers of her bed.

  She felt like she’d barely fallen asleep when her alarm shrieked a wake-up call. Maggie stumbled out of bed, showered, and put on black leggings. She was about to throw on an extra-large Cajun Country Live! T-shirt, then changed her mind. She pulled a man’s denim button-down shirt from her closet. It belonged to Bo; he’d lent it to her one night when she was wearing a summer dress and the evening temperature suddenly dropped. Whether unintentional or unconsciously, she’d yet to return it. She held the shirt to her face and breathed in Bo’s scent. Then she put it on, rolled up the sleeves, and left the cottage for the manor house.

  Ninette and Tug were leaving the house as Maggie approached. “I was going to help you with breakfast for the guests.”

  “Not necessary,” Ninette said. “None of the dancers eat it, and the others just wanted coffee and croissants, except for that Narcisse fellow, who’s eating like a bear going into hibernation.”

  “Or a cheapskate trying to load up on free eats while he can,” Tug grumbled. “I was looking forward to some of that Paleo steak and eggs for my morning meal, but that mooch ate it all.”

  “He did us a favor,” Ninette said. “The way you were plowing through all that red meat, your blood pressure was like to set off the kind of alarms you hear when a tornado’s coming.” She put on a light-pink cotton sweater as she addressed her daughter. “We heard about Gaynell and were on our way to the courthouse to support her during the arraignment. Your grand-mère left with Lee a little while ago. She wanted to make sure she got an up-front seat in the courtroom.”

  “That’s where I’m headed too. I’ll see you there.”

  Ninette and Tug left for the courthouse. Maggie retrieved a croissant and left the house for her car. She circled the convertible before getting inside, examining it for unwanted visitors. She yanked open the driver’s-side door and jumped backward in case she awakened an angry snake. Maggie used her key chain flashlight to carefully check under the car’s bench seats, and then, confident that the car was empty of everything except Park ’n Shop burrito wrappers and empty sushi containers, she hopped in and headed for the courthouse.

  The St. Pierre Parish clerk of court offices were housed in a gracious, white-columned Greek Revival edifice that dated back to the late 1800s. It was located on the far corner of the village square, and Maggie often wondered if Pelican’s forefathers had positioned the building in a way that sent the message it was keeping an eye on the town.

  She parked on a side street and kept her head down as she passed news vans and a knot of reporters surrounding Quentin MacIlhoney. The fact that Pickner and Bokie were attached to singing star Tammy made Gaynell’s arrest a national story, which Maggie hated. Little Earlie and Rufus were engaged in a little dance on the courtroom steps, with the journalist trying to corner the police chief and the police chief trying to dodge him, which he finally did. Quentin, on the other hand, headed straight for the Pelican Penny Clipper editor and one-man publishing band. Little Earlie barely got out a question before Quentin launched into a spiel about the invaluable role a defense attorney played in society, ending with, “There are few crimes greater than sending an innocent man or woman to prison, and my life’s mission is making sure that fate never befalls a Quentin MacIlhoney client.” A journalist began to applaud, then remembering he was supposed to be impartial, stopped midclap.

  The group moved en masse into the courthouse and then the courtroom, with Maggie bringing up the rear. She was moved to see that every spot on the worn wooden benches was claimed by Gaynell’s friends and family, including Ione, Kyle, Vanessa, and Sandy. She knew the CLOSED sign must be hanging from Junie’s Oyster Bar and Dance Hall front door, since JJ sat squeezed between several Doucet tour guides and an unexpected attendee—Toulouse from Tammy’s band. Then again, Maggie thought, given his feelings for Gaynell, why am I surprised he’s here?

  The court bailiff entered the room from a side door. “All rise,” he announced, and everyone did so. “Court is now in session, the honorable Oliver Gaudet presiding.” Judge Gaudet, whom Maggie recognized from her father’s occasional Texas Hold’em parties, entered and took his seat. The attendees sat as well.

  Maggie was too far back to hear much of what was going on, so she threaded her way through a clog of people on the far side of the room until she was closer to the lawyers. Gaynell sat on one side, next to Quentin, who was standing. A balding man in his forties with a skeletal build stood at a table on the other side of the aisle. Maggie assumed he was ADA Jace “Derriere” Jerriere. “The state believes this young woman purposely caused the death of an esteemed member of the music industry and caused grievous injury to a victim currently hospitalized in critical condition.”

  Quentin snorted. “I’ve been a defense attorney for thirty-five years, and I can say without any hesitation that the state’s case is based on the most circumstantial evidence I’ve ever seen.”

  It was Jerriere’s turn to snort. “You say that every time I bring a case against one of your clients, MacIlhoney. I believe a jury will disagree after assessing our evidence. State requests bail be set at one million dollars.”

  There was a collective gasp from the room. “Your honor, that’s outrageous,” Quentin protested. “If you put together all the salaries of everyone in this room, it wouldn’t add up to a million dollars. Not including mine, of course.”

  “Considering the severity of the crimes, I think I’m being pretty generous,” Jerriere shot back.

  “I’ve known the defendant since she was a sprout,” Judge Gaudet said. “So far in this young lady’s life, her biggest crime is selling me too many Girl Scout cookies.” He patted his portly belly. “Like to make me prediabetic. I tend to agree with MacIlhoney on this. It’s a pretty flimsy case. You’re lucky I’m not dismissing it entirely, Jerriere. Bail is set at fifty thousand dollars. The defendant is to remain within the county, stay in contact with law enforcement, and surrender her passport.”

  “I don’t have a passport.” Gaynell spoke up for the first time. “I’ve never even been out of the state.”

  “All the better.”

  “Wait, I lied.” Gaynell said this with a note of panic. “When I was little, I went to Dallas for a great-uncle’s funeral. Am I in trouble?”

  “Only if you try to bribe me with a box of Thin Mints,” Judge Gaudet responded with a chuckle.

  The ADA, fuming, took a step toward the bench. “Your honor, we’re talking about a second-degree murder charge. Fifty thousand dollars is loose change for a charge this serious.”

  “If you think fifty grand is loose change, maybe we’re paying you too much,” someone called from the back of the room, to a chorus of agreement and a smattering of laughs.

  “For my client, fifty thousand dollars might as well be a million dollars,” Quentin said. “But we’ll work on making it.”

  “I’ll post her bail.”

  The courtroom grew noisy with reactions to this announcement. Everyone strained to see who had made it. People crowding the center aisle parted, revealing Tammy Barker. Behind her stood Gigi, Narcisse, and Sara. Tammy was dressed in a sleek black suit, white silk blouse,
and black stiletto pumps. The outfit screamed expensive name brands. The singing star’s hair was pulled back into her ubiquitous high ponytail; Maggie noticed no seams, indicating an extension touchup. “Your honor, it would be my honor and civic duty to put up the bail for Ms. Bourgeois. There is no price too high for freedom in these our United States.”

  Tammy delivered this odd speech with such commitment that Maggie wondered if the singer had confused her appearance in the courtroom with an audition for a TV procedural drama. Judge Gaudet seemed to feel the same way. “Is this being filmed or something?” he asked, looking around.

  “It better not be,” Jerriere said, annoyed. He thumbed in Quentin’s direction. “But knowing this clown, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  The defense lawyer held up his hands. “I plead not guilty. But we will take Ms. Barker up on her generous offer. I’ll make payment arrangements immediately.”

  Judge Gaudet brought an end to the proceedings, and the courtroom started to empty out. Maggie fought against the current and eventually wound up by Gaynell’s side. Her friend’s face lit up when she saw her. “You came,” Gaynell said, and hugged her.

  “Everyone came.” Maggie gestured to the crowd. “I can pretty much guarantee that there wouldn’t be this kind of turnout for me if I was falsely arrested.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short,” Gaynell said. She managed a smile, but the traumatic events had taken a toll on the young woman. Her vibrant blue eyes had dulled and were encircled by dark shadows. She’d lost more weight. Her conservative outfit of beige skirt and bow-necked blouse, Quentin’s obvious attempt to make her look as respectable and nonthreatening as possible, hung loosely.

  Maggie spoke to her in a low voice. “Gay, I have to ask. What were you doing at Belle Vista? Why did you want to see Bokie?”