Fatal Cajun Festival

by Ellen Byron

  “Shoot, I have to go. I’m late to the festival and short a teenager.”

  “Okay, I’ll touch base with you later.”

  Maggie quickly finished dressing, then dashed to her car. She caught every green light and made it to the booth in ten minutes. She was surprised to see Gaynell helping Clinton sell his sweet potato pralines to enthusiastic customers. “Hey,” her friend said. “Clinton was swamped. Hope you’re okay with me pitching in.”

  “I’m thrilled,” Maggie said. Concerned, she added, “But are you okay? I know you wanted to lay low.”

  “I did,” Gaynell said. “But I’m feeling way braver after what all happened at the courthouse. I figure, if all those people can show up to support me, I can show my face around town.”

  “I’m so glad, Gay. For you and for me, because we could use the help tonight.”

  Maggie set out her boxes of fresh pralines. “We’ve got plain, chocolate, rum, and coconut. Let’s sell these babies. And if you can move any of my art merchandise, even better.”

  The top of young Xander’s head popped up in the booth opening. He placed his hands on the counter, stood on his toes, and the rest of his head appeared. “Hello.”

  “Hi, Xander,” Maggie said with an affectionate smile. “What can I get you?”

  “Two chocolate, please.”

  “Two, huh?” She saw Esme, Xander’s crush, standing behind him with a small cluster of his classmates. “Here you go. On the house.”

  Xander grinned, showing newly missing upper and lower baby teeth. He took the pralines and offered one to Esme. “No thank you,” she said, then turned her back to him. The boy flushed and dropped his head, disconsolate. He dragged his feet to the nearest garbage can.

  “Xander, no,” Maggie called out as she ran from behind the booth. She took one of the pralines from Xander, then bent down so she was eye level with Esme. “Honey, are you sure don’t want this? It’s chocolate, not pecan, and it’s pretty darn yummy.”

  The girl’s brow creased; then she repeated what she’d said to Xander. “No thank you.”

  “But—”

  A boy half a head taller than Esme, but with the same white-blonde hair, spoke up. “She can’t. She’s real allergic to nuts or anything that comes near ’em.”

  “She is?” Maggie said. “I’m so sorry.” She felt foolish that this hadn’t occurred to her. “Are you her brother?”

  The older boy nodded. “Our mom taught her to say ‘No thank you’ whenever anyone offered her something that she didn’t know where it came from. It’s easier than explaining.”

  “Of course.” She turned back to Esme. “You did the right thing, sweetie.” Maggie pulled a five-dollar bill out of the back pocket of her jeans. She handed it to Xander. “There’s a vegan booth toward the end of this row. I bet they have some snacks Esme can eat.”

  Xander brightened. “Come on,” he said to his friends, and the kids took off on their mission.

  “That’s two romances saved today, yours and Xander’s,” Gaynell, who’d been watching, said with a grin.

  “His could use a little nudge. I’ll think on it.”

  Maggie returned to the booth, and for the next couple of hours business was brisk, some of it stimulated by locals who wanted the latest gossip on “Bomag,” the clunky name mash-up for Bo and Maggie’s relationship. Maggie politely accepted the good wishes and occasional snarky comment from a single who’d gotten her hopes up when she’d heard Bo was back on the market.

  The evening’s crowd was the largest yet, which Maggie attributed to the fact that it was the second-to-last night of Cajun Country Live!. The mood was festive, with people dancing in the grassy path between the two rows of food booths to a lineup of Cajun, zydeco, and cover bands. Brasstopia, a band comprised of a half-dozen trumpet, trombone, sax, and sousaphone players, marched down the midway playing “When the Saints Go Marchin’ In,” followed by a second line of fans holding decorated umbrellas and waving handkerchiefs as they sang along.

  Meanwhile Maggie, determined to learn more about Toulouse’s background, kept an eye out for the young musician. She’d sensed the Cajun performer was emotionally stunted, but his arrest showed he might also be volatile. Any conversation would require a cautious approach. She caught a break when the presence of a TV crew from Entertainment Now presaged Tammy’s arrival for the evening.

  Sure enough, the singing star showed up a few minutes later, entourage in tow, musicians dragging behind. She wore her country duds of jean shorts, tight T-shirt, and high-heeled cowboy boots; Maggie assumed she was saving her blingy new costumes for the sneak-peek pop music set she planned to spring on Jazz Fest.

  Gaynell ducked down out of sight. “I’m grateful to Tammy, but I don’t want her to see me and drag me onto some TV show.”

  Tammy autographed a program for a fan as she chatted with the TV show’s segment producer. Maggie recognized the autograph seeker as the rude customer who planned on selling her signed mouse pad on the Internet. “There you go, honey,” Tammy said to the woman. “I better not see that autograph being auctioned online, ha-ha. Where was I? Pony, right.” She put a hand on her heart. When she spoke, her voice quavered with almost theatrical emotion. “I don’t want to think about his death; I want to focus on his life. Each time I sing, it’s a tribute to him, which is why we added a set tonight, in addition to closing the festival tomorrow. Now, I’d best be getting to the VIP area so I can rest my voice before we go on.” Competing for the honor of escorting Tammy to her trailer, Gigi, Narcisse, and Sara ending up tussling with each other as the group walked away from the food booths.

  “Coast is clear,” Maggie told Gaynell. She then spotted Toulouse buying a pasta dish from a booth across the way. “I’ll be right back,” she said, and headed straight toward the accordionist.

  He waved at her with a plastic fork. “Hey there.” He motioned to his bowl. “I’m working my way through all the copycat Crawfish Monica stands,” he said, referencing Jazz Fest’s most legendary dish. Its ingredients were one of Louisiana’s best-kept secrets and had spawned a raft of imitators trying to come up with their own successful version of the recipe. “So far I been to Crawfish Tomica, Johnica, and Hanukah. That one was a surprise. They said it’s kosher, whatever that means. It’s not made with real crawfish cuz they can’t have shellfish. How can you live in Louisiana and not eat shellfish? I feel sorry for those poor people.”

  “That’s the Metzes’ booth, and they’re a very nice, very happy family. Toulouse, I wanted to thank you for coming to the courthouse today. Gaynell needs all the support she can get, and getting it from someone in the band, someone who knew Pony, is extra important. It shows you have faith in her.”

  Toulouse nodded vigorously. “I do. All the faith in the world.”

  “Bless you.” Maggie cringed inwardly at her pious act but continued. “And bless you for changing your life like you did. I’m sorry, I probably shouldn’t have brought that up. My grand-mère’s the nosy type—sorry for throwing you under the bus, Gran—and she’s fascinated with y’all, so she looked up the whole band on the computer.”

  Fortunately, Toulouse was more amused than annoyed by this intrusion. “Grannies and grampies do like looking stuff up on computers, don’t they? Must be cuz they don’t have much else to do and it beats thinking about their end being so near.”

  “Yeeessss … So she told me about what happened with that girlfriend of yours.” Not wanting to put words in Toulouse’s mouth, Maggie stopped there.

  “You’re talking about the arrest,” he said. Maggie nodded. The musician finished the last bite of his pasta, then threw away the empty container. “That was rock bottom for me. At least I knew it. The only way out was to quit doing bad stuff. I gave up drinking. I stopped being angry at everyone and everything. I did what they say in AA. I ‘let go, let God.’ I know Miss Gaynell has a boyfriend. I also know she’s a beautiful person with a talent that makes her a threat to performers not as good as her.�
� Toulouse wagged a finger at Maggie. “I see the surprise on your face. Yeah, I’m not as dumb as people think I am.”

  “I didn’t think—”

  “You did. It’s okay. I’m used to it. But as for Miss Gaynell, I’d never create problems in her relationship. I’m only looking out for her. I’d swear it to you on the Bible, and I’m a guy who takes the Holy Book seriously.”

  He stared at her with his light-brown eyes, almost daring Maggie to doubt him. “Amen,” she said.

  His serious demeanor instantly changed to a cheery one. “Amen, sister. Woot woot.” He fist-pumped the air with both hands, then ambled away. His departure revealed The Sound leaning against the booth across from Pelican Pralines. “He’s a flipping nut job,” the keyboardist said. “You know that, don’t you?”

  Maggie refused to be baited. “I only know he’s been incredibly supportive of Gaynell.”

  “He gets like that. Always trying to save some poor little woman, as if that could make up for assaulting one. A hero complex born from guilt.”

  “You’re making some big assumptions with a lot of confidence.”

  The Sound ran a hand over his newly shaved head, which was so smooth it reflected light. “When you tour, there’s a lot of downtime. Instead of drinking or doing drugs, I read psychology books. Especially about maladaptive personalities. Quite a few on this tour alone.” He put a finger to his lips. “But shhh.” He removed the finger. “Wouldn’t want to alert a murderer we’re on to him. Or her.” His cell phone buzzed, and he pulled it out of his pocket. “Apologies for ducking out on this interesting conversation, but I need to answer this text. It’s about my plan B.”

  “Your exercise studios?”

  “Piloga, yes. That’s what separates me from my bandmates. I know what comes after plan A, ‘A’ being a music career, which could disappear at any time. My future isn’t in the hands of some dim diva or aging rock star trying to ignore his creaky old bones when he struts across a stage. As Buddha said, ‘No one saves us but ourselves. No one can and no one may. We ourselves must walk the path.’ ”

  With that metaphysical pronouncement, The Sound drifted away. Maggie was put off by his superior attitude, and he replaced Uffen as the musician she most disliked. Yet despite his declaration that the future was his, Maggie picked up a note of bitterness under his boasts, and she wondered if the Piloga-pushing keyboardist might not be as chill as Valeria portrayed him—and he portrayed himself. But The Sound did score points by shaving off his man bun, and she found merit in his evaluation of Toulouse. While the Cajun musician was sweet and sincere, his mission to protect Gaynell smacked of zealotry. Could it have driven him to defend her honor by killing Pony? Was God-fearing Toulouse that “maladaptive”?

  Maggie went back to the Crozats’ booth. She took her cell phone from her purse and texted Bo a question: WHAT’S THE NAME OF TOULOUSE’S HOMETOWN?

  The time had come for a field trip.

  Chapter 20

  Maggie awoke to rain the next morning. The fact that it was the last day of Cajun Country Live! spared her the task of making more pralines. She’d put the Poche siblings in charge of the Crozats’ booth and didn’t plan on showing up to the festival until early evening or later. This would give her the time she needed before Lia’s baby shower to take a deep dive into Toulouse’s past.

  Not sure what kind of people or atmosphere she’d find in his hometown, Maggie chose her outfit carefully, eschewing her usual jeans and T-shirt for a conservative outfit of beige pencil skirt and cream silk top. Then she grabbed an umbrella and dashed from the cottage to her car. She drove out of the family’s graveled parking lot, made a right turn onto the River Road, and crossed over the Mississippi on Veterans Memorial Bridge. Once on the west side of the river, she followed a maze of two-lane roads south to her destination in coastal Cajun Country: the aptly named Petite, Louisiana. Petite was so small that Maggie was in Grand Petite before she realized she’d driven right through its little sister. She pulled a U-turn and backtracked to what was essentially a crossroads at a stop sign.

  She parked in front of an old white building with a wide front porch. A painted sign above the front door identified it as the Petite General Grocery. The rain hadn’t let up, so Maggie maneuvered her way out of the Falcon while holding an umbrella, then dashed up the grocery store’s front steps. She opened the worn screen door and stepped into a time capsule. Wooden shelving stocked with canned goods, some of which looked decades old themselves, lined three of the walls. Refrigerator cases that appeared to date back to the 1950s rested against the fourth wall. The center of the store was taken up with battered shelves featuring everything from cereal to diapers. There was one cash register manned by an African-American woman who could have been anywhere from forty to seventy. Maggie couldn’t tell. The woman wore a faded smock and her hair was hidden under a colorful tignon. There were three portraits on the wall behind her: a painting of Jesus on the cross, a faded photo of President John F. Kennedy, and a shiny new photo of Pope Francis.

  “Mornin’,” the woman said with a wide smile. “You need directions?”

  “No.”

  “You here to shop?” The woman didn’t bother to hide her surprise.

  “No. Well, of course I’ll buy something.”

  “You don’t have to, chère.” The woman had a low, mellifluous voice. There was something innately comforting about her entire presence. “I’m Zenephra.”

  “Maggie. Maggie Crozat.”

  “Maggie Crozat,” Zenephra repeated. “I heard you and that detective got back together. I’m glad about that.”

  Maggie’s jaw dropped. “How did you hear that here?”

  Zenephra chuckled. “Word floats from small town to small town in our part of the world, chère. In the Petites, small and Grand, gossip is less of a grapevine and more of a grape bayou. So how can I help you, Maggie Crozat?”

  She gestured to a rickety stool next to her. Maggie carefully took a seat. “I need to ask you about someone named Toulouse Delaroux Caresmeatrand, who grew up here.”

  A serious expression replaced Zenephra’s smile.

  “Do you know him?”

  “I do.” Her tone switched from warm to wary.

  “I’m trying to understand him. He appears to be a good person. But he also appears to be troubled in a way I can’t figure out. He’s … devoted to my friend Gaynell, who’s been facing some problems.”

  “Yes, I heard about that.”

  “Right, the grape bayou. Anyway, he’s a passionate defender of her, which is good; she needs all the help she can get. I just worry that he may cross the line to obsession. I wonder if he’s—”

  “—right in the head.”

  “Yes,” Maggie said, relieved. “Exactly.”

  Zenephra climbed off her stool and went to one of the refrigerator cases. She came back with two old-style bottles of Coke. She knocked the caps off on the edge of the register counter and handed one to Maggie. “Poor Toulouse. Sweet, sad Toulouse. If there was ever a child who deserved a break, it was him. He always had a talent for music. Got it from his papa, who died when Toulouse was a baby. Drunk, crashed a car. Yvette, Toulouse’s mama, gave the boy a string of stepdads, one worse than t’other. Toulouse took a shovel to the back of the head of one of them when the man started beating on Yvette. Dang near killed him. He spent some time in one of those places where they send troubled kids, but Yvette got him out. Said it was self-defense. He was her protector. She was so proud of him.”

  “Was?”

  “She passed on a few years back. He was just eighteen. That’s a tough age. Government says you’re an adult, but are you really? Back to his mama—Yvette developed liver cancer. She was a big drinker like his papa. Wouldn’t be surprised if Toulouse got some of that fetal inside stuff.”

  “Fetal alcohol syndrome.”

  “Right, that. After Yvette passed, Toulouse played with some local bands, bounced around a few houses here. Lived with me for a while
; I have an old place out back. He got in trouble with the law again, this time about a girl.”

  “The arrest for assault.”

  “The charges were dropped, the way they often are in these cases. After that, he took off for Nashville. I heard he found the Lord.” Zenephra took a pull of her Coke. “I don’t like when people take refuge behind Him. Too often they’re not being honest or true. Still, I always believed Toulouse’s heart was in the right place. I wish I could’ve done more for the boy. But I had my own troubles, don’t we all.”

  Maggie followed Zenephra’s gaze to a faded photo of a handsome African-American man hanging above the grocery store’s front door. A set of rosary beads was draped over a corner of the photo’s frame. “My husband, Jacques. He was in the car with Toulouse’s daddy. They were drinking buddies.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Zenephra turned her attention back to Maggie. “They were on their way home from a bordello, which took a little of the pain away. Still, he never got the chance to make things right with me.”

  Maggie noticed the time on the old wall clock next to Jacques’s photo. “I have to go. I’m throwing a baby shower in a couple of hours.”

  Zenephra’s mood instantly lightened. “Well, mercy me, isn’t that something. Let me give you a present for the little one–to–be.”

  “Not one, three. My cousin’s expecting triplets.”

  “Lia Tienne Bruner’s babies? My goodness.”

  Maggie put her hands on her hips and shook her head. “Honestly, Ms. Zenephra, I’m not sure if you’re a gossip or a witch.”

  Zenephra flashed a mischievous smile. “Maybe a little of both.” She reached under the counter and took out a small tin. She opened it and showed the contents, a thick white salve, to Maggie. “Calming balm. I make it myself. All natural. Tell Miss Lia that if the babies fuss, rub a fingerful right here.” She pointed to her heart. “They’ll settle down in a quick minute.”

  “Thank you, I know she’ll appreciate this.” Maggie took the tin. “And I appreciate you being so honest with me about Toulouse.”