Buried in Beignets

by J. R. Ripley

  He nodded.

  ‘That’s right,’ said my mother. ‘Let them sort this out. Maggie, forget what I told you earlier about finding this killer.’ Mom waved a finger at me. ‘Let the police do their job and figure out who killed poor Mr Wilbur and why. You,’ she said, gripping my arm, ‘stick to making your beignets.’

  ‘You could stay with us tonight,’ offered Andy. ‘You could bunk in Connor or Hunter’s room. The boys won’t mind sharing.’

  I agreed to show the note and rolling pin to the Table Rock PD and to ask Laura about them as well. I did not agree to camping out at my sister’s or Mom’s. Andy had received a call earlier that the police had finished searching my home and that was where I was going.

  ‘I can take care of myself. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure the doors and windows are locked up tight.’ I also wanted to be sure the Table Rock PD hadn’t trashed the apartment or made off with my flat-screen TV. Twelve more payments and that baby was all mine.

  ‘Sounds like a plan,’ said Andy. He patted his stomach. ‘So, when are we going to see some of these famous beignets of yours?’

  While Andy finished unpacking the chairs, I fried up a batch of beignets and Donna and Mom set some plates and cups at one of the tables in front of the window. Though Maggie’s Beignet Café wasn’t quite open for business yet, it wouldn’t hurt for passers-by to see a few satisfied customers sitting in the window munching my product. I could use the word-of-mouth. Soon the small café was filled with the sweet scent of fried dough.

  I grabbed a couple of bottles of iced tea for Mom and me. Donna and Andy stuck to water. They claimed my store-bought tea contained artificial sweeteners and flavorings. I told them that the water they were drinking had probably once been dinosaur sweat. We agreed to a truce.

  While we ate, I explained my latest dilemma to my family. In between bites, Andy read the letter I’d received from Wilbur Realty. ‘Wow,’ he said. One hand stroked his ponytail. ‘I wish we could help, Maggie.’ He looked at his wife. ‘But we don’t have three thousand dollars right now.’

  Donna shook her head in agreement. ‘Sorry,’ she said softly, placing her hand over mine.

  Mom sighed. I knew she’d help if she could, but she and my sister and brother-in-law had already loaned me plenty to help me get this café started. I knew they were tapped out. Mom was on a tight budget. She received a small pension from my father and earned just enough to pay for the essentials like food and gas running her yoga classes.

  ‘Hey,’ I said, forcing a smile, ‘don’t sweat it. I’m not. Monday morning I’ll go to the bank first thing.’ I polished off my third powdered sugar-coated beignet. ‘I’ll get this whole mess cleared up.’

  I gave my tea a shake, twisted off the cap and took a swig. ‘Speaking of the police, have there been any developments in the case yet, Andy? Any new suspects?’ As my lawyer, and having a friend inside the police department, my brother-in-law should know what’s going on.

  ‘Nothing yet,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry. If I hear anything at all you’ll be the first to know it. I plan to go down to the department tomorrow and have a word with the officer in charge. I’d like a full report of the search. I still don’t know if they took anything.’

  ‘I’d appreciate that,’ I replied. Personally, I hoped they took that hideous cactus green lamp with the brown striped shade in the living room. ‘Say,’ I tilted back in my chair, ‘what do you know about Veronica Vargas? Anything?’

  His right brow shot up. ‘The mayor’s daughter? Enough to know that you want to keep on her good side.’ He leaned toward me. ‘Why?’

  I shrugged. ‘She was here earlier, that’s all. I barely said a word to her.’ Or she to me.

  Andy nodded. ‘Good, keep it that way. Remember,’ he said, aiming a calloused finger at me, ‘like it or not, you are a suspect in a murder investigation. As your attorney, I advise you, strongly advise you, not to say a word to anyone without me present. In fact, I’d better come with you when you turn over that note and rolling pin.’

  Andy was talking but I wasn’t listening. I gripped the sides of my chair as I leaned on the back two legs, my brand-new out-of-the-box chair. It looked good too. Real wood veneer, with a cherry finish. But there was something about chairs …

  Something tickled just out of reach in my brain. What was it about chairs? I thought madly. Then it came to me and I slammed back down to earth, the front two legs banging the floor and vibrating our table.

  Donna gaped at me. ‘Are you OK, Sis?’

  Mom shook her head. ‘I’d say we call it a night. You look exhausted, Maggie. It’s been a long day.’ She wiped her lips with her napkin and dropped it atop her empty plate. ‘A long couple of days.’

  ‘Maggie?’ Donna said, an edge to her voice.

  ‘The chairs!’ I blurted.

  ‘What about the chairs, dear?’ Mom asked.

  I lifted a finger and counted all the chairs out front. ‘Thirty!’

  I counted again. Still thirty.

  ‘Andy,’ I said, my heart racing while my brain shifted through the gears. ‘You unboxed all the chairs, right?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he answered, drawing the word out. ‘Then I broke down all the boxes and left them in the recycle dumpster.’

  I raced to the storeroom and looked everywhere, even the mop closet and walk-in fridge. ‘So where are the chairs?’ I scratched my scalp.

  Mom, Donna and Andy had followed me into the storeroom. ‘What chairs?’ asked Donna.

  ‘That’s what I’m saying,’ I said. ‘Where are the chairs?’

  They eyed one another nervously – looking at me like they anticipated a cozy white jacket in my near future – one I couldn’t possibly escape from.

  I took a deep, calming breath. ‘Don’t you see? There ought to be two more chairs.’ I held up two fingers of my right hand. ‘I ordered thirty-two chairs. They came in sixteen boxes. Rick Wilbur was inside one of the boxes. So,’ I said, folding my arms across my chest, ‘what happened to the two chairs?’

  A Short History of the Beignet

  Though associated mostly today with the French Quarter of New Orleans, Louisiana, the history of beignets extends back many hundreds of years. The Roman scriblita, moist dough leavened with sourdough and spooned into hot animal fat, was an early precursor to the modern New Orleans-style beignet. The Spanish later produced a similar pastry, the bunelo, balls of deep-fried choux paste (choux is a French word for a light, air pastry dough and is pronounced ‘shoo’).

  French settlers brought the beignet with them as they migrated to North America, first to Canada, then later, to the continental States and, in particular, Louisiana. Many Acadians chose to settle in the Louisiana region when the British forced the French out of their settlements in Acadia, a region along the eastern coast of Canada, in the seventeenth century.

  The Acadians brought their traditions, culture and cuisine with them. Their descendants eventually came to be known as Cajuns (a word derived from Acadians). And it’s here that the beignet reached its culmination, becoming something of a tourist attraction in its own right.

  As for the word, beignet, there are as many theories as to the origin of the word as there are theories as to the origin of the myriad mysterious vortexes that surround the Red Rock Country in which Table Rock sits. Some say the word beignet can be traced to the word ‘bigne,’ an early Celtic word meaning ‘to raise.’ Others say the Middle French term ‘bignet,’ which means a savory or sweet pastry surrounding meat or fruit, is the source. Other plausible sources include the Middle French words ‘buyne’ and ‘beigne’ which mean ‘bruise’ or ‘bump’ respectively and I can see how these, especially bump, could be used to describe the perfect beignet shape.

  Call it what you want, I call it pastry perfection. And if you want a bite and are anywhere near Table Rock, come to Maggie’s Beignet Café – Grand Opening tomorrow!

  SEVENTEEN

  Everybody began talking at once. Even the normally calm and
laid-back Andy darted around the café, recounting all the chairs, verifying my simple math, then looking high and low for the two missing chairs.

  We searched all around, even out back in the alley between the café and the stores on either side, but came up empty. Soon our excitement turned to disappointment and dejection.

  ‘You need to mention the chairs to the police.’ Donna was adamant.

  ‘Good idea,’ chimed in Mom.

  I wasn’t sure I agreed. Those two missing chairs might lead me to a killer. Because the police seemed intent on pinning the murder on me, they’d probably find a way to use my lead against me. It just might be best if I kept my thoughts to myself. If I found my missing chairs, I might find Rick Wilbur’s killer.

  ‘They may already know,’ Andy suggested. ‘Maybe that’s what they were hoping to find at your apartment.’

  A chill ran up my arms. If the police found those chairs in my apartment, things would sure look bad for me. But they wouldn’t. They couldn’t.

  I promised my brother-in-law I’d fill the police in on my suspicions concerning the chairs – I didn’t promise when.

  It was late and we were clearly exhausted. The mystery of the missing chairs was a mystery best left for another day. Mom insisted on following me home as I pedaled my bike back to my apartment. She even insisted on coming inside with me while I made sure the coast was clear.

  We checked behind the sofa, under the bed and in all the closets. And yes, Dad’s ghost still wasn’t hiding there. She even stuck around while I threw on my PJs and got ready for bed.

  The place was a shambles, but I knew better than to blame the police search for that. And there didn’t appear to be anything missing. The TV was still there, and the remote.

  Mom then insisted on straightening the place up a bit. I would’ve complained but she was a mother and I just figure there’s something in the mom gene that makes women do this.

  Who knows? Maybe if or when I become a mother, my mom gene might kick in too. But not tonight. Tonight all I wanted was sleep. And plenty of it.

  I fell asleep listening to the sounds of Mom puttering around in the kitchen. Thankfully, she hadn’t decided to vacuum. Even more thankfully, I didn’t own a vacuum.

  I rose somewhat refreshed and dressed for business. My first day of business! My excitement was palpable. I was finally opening my very own business. My first business. My first day at my first business.

  I’d already planned out what I’d wear – light tan khaki slacks and a moss-green V-necked pullover shirt with white sneakers. I’d be standing on my feet for who knew how many hours and I wanted to look professional yet feel comfortable at the same time. And any collateral damage, as in powdered white sugar cascading onto my feet, would blend in nicely with the white canvas sneaks.

  I pushed open the closet door to fish out my intended outfit and my eyes fell on the big zippered garment bag shoved against the wall.

  My brow shot up like a hand holding a winning card at bingo. Dare I? This could be the answer to all my prayers. Tentatively, I reached for the thick hanger, then pulled away. It felt wrong and it felt right.

  I wasn’t sure I should really do this. I wasn’t sure I could really do this.

  There was only one way to find out. I removed the bag from the back of the rack and dropped it atop the bed. That’s when I noticed the pile of clean clothes on the seat beside the dresser. The chair was an extra chair from the kitchen table. I rarely needed all four so had brought this one into the bedroom.

  I shook my head. Apparently, Mom had decided to run a load of laundry as well. At least I’d managed to sleep through the job. Something in the foot-high pile caught my eye, though. I reached into the stack of neatly folded tops, shorts, socks and undies and pulled out the shorts I’d been wearing yesterday.

  Filled with dread, I flapped them apart in the air and reached a hand into the right-hand pocket. I came up with a dried clump of paper. Just yesterday it had been potential evidence in a murder investigation, possible proof that someone was out to get me or at least scare me. Now it was a crumpled mess. Oh, where does the time go?

  The wad looked like something a yak had chewed on then spat out. I tried to pry the lump of paper open with my fingernails, hoping to salvage something – anything – but it just fell away in my hand.

  Finally, I gave up and tossed it all in the trash under the bathroom sink. What can I say? Mom always means well. So now I had a rolling pin that had been washed clean of any potential fingerprints or DNA or whatever it is the cops are always finding, and a wad of washed, rinsed and spun-dried paper that was very likely evidence of a threat on my life.

  I yanked the curtains open and let the warm morning sun wash my face. I was determined to focus on the positive. Like getting to the café on time. I smothered a yawn as I checked the time on my cell phone. It was already five forty-five and I’d told Aubrey I’d be at the café by six. There was no time for a bracing cup of coffee out on the patio. I’d have to wait until I got to work.

  I grabbed my purse, my garment bag and my keys and sped away.

  Aubrey was already waiting for me outside the front door of the café. ‘Good morning!’ she called with a chipperness that I feared I could never match at this hour. Somehow, though, I was going to have to learn. After all, if you’re going to offer coffee and beignets, you’ve got to catch the morning crowd and show up with a smile.

  ‘Good morning,’ I replied, jumping off my bike.

  Aubrey grabbed the wardrobe bag. ‘What’s in here? Our new uniforms already?’

  I laughed. ‘Not hardly,’ I said. She looked disappointed. ‘Believe me, I don’t think you’d want to come dressed to work every day in a ball gown.’ I struggled with my keys, which had somehow gotten tangled up in my comb. ‘Wedding gown, actually.’

  ‘Wedding gown?’ Aubrey stepped back, startled. ‘Are you getting married? Today? That’s totally, totally awesome!’

  I shook my head. ‘No, no way.’ I thrust my palms out. ‘Long story,’ I said as I unlocked the door. I stuffed my keys in my purse and wheeled the Schwinn inside while Aubrey held the bag in one hand and the door open with the other. ‘I’ll explain later. Right now, we’ve got a lot to do. Thanks for coming in early.’

  As I twisted the lock, I looked up and down the street. It was pretty quiet out there, but it was very early for a Saturday. I tried not to be disappointed that there wasn’t already a line of customers waiting to get in and sample my beignets.

  I noted Aubrey had selected a collared black polo shirt and a comfortable-looking pair of black slacks. She even had a black visor atop her head. She looked more professional than I did. And none of the pieces were stamped Karma Koffee. Sweet.

  Unfortunately, we didn’t match at all. Aubrey was right: we were going to need uniforms.

  ‘No problem.’ Aubrey spun around. ‘Hey, you got everything set up!’ She ran her hands over the back of one of the chairs. ‘Even the chairs.’

  I relieved her of the garment bag and explained how my family had unexpectedly come by to lend a hand.

  ‘That was totally, totally nice of them,’ she said, following me into the back where I hung the bag on a hook in the mop closet.

  ‘Do you have family here?’ I asked.

  She nodded. ‘Mother, father and brother. I live with them.’

  ‘Well, you’ll have to tell me all about them sometime.’ I motioned for her to follow me back out front. ‘Right now, we’ve got to get the fryer turned on and start making some dough.’

  ‘I can’t wait to try my first beignet!’ Aubrey said excitedly.

  ‘You’ve never had a beignet before?’

  Aubrey shook her head. ‘I’m dying to try. Sorry, poor choice of words?’

  I rolled my eyes and decided to let it pass. This was no time to focus on dead guys; it was time to focus on business. Beignets before bodies. ‘You’re in for a treat, believe me.’

  I heard a low rumble and looked out toward the s
treet. One of the big tour buses that frequent Table Rock passed slowly by, probably on its way to one of the resorts outside of town. ‘Oh, the sign!’

  ‘Huh?’

  I grabbed the new section of banner from under the counter where I’d set it to keep it from getting damaged last night. ‘Can you run and get me the tape and scissors, Aubrey? They’re in the top right drawer of the back counter.’ I realized I’d just asked a young woman to run with scissors and hoped nobody reported me to OSHA.

  I nudged a chair up against the window and climbed up. I gently pulled down the far side of the banner and cut off the last word. Aubrey handed me several pieces of transparent tape and I spliced on the new section.

  I replaced the chair and stepped back to admire my handiwork. It might have been backwards from where we stood, but it still said ‘Grand Opening Today!’ for all the world to see.

  Aubrey high-fived me and we got back to work. ‘That ought to bring the customers in,’ I predicted. And make Rob and Trish hot under their respective Karma Koffee-logoed collars, if I was lucky.

  I gave Aubrey the short version of the beignet-making process. Later, when we had more time, I’d go through each step with her more slowly. It would be good to have a second beignet maker on the premises. For now, I figured I’d do the cooking and she’d do the cashiering.

  She definitely had more experience in that department than I did. She’d cashiered at Karma Koffee, after all. The electronic cash register on my counter with its touchscreen controls and credit card scanner still confounded me. The nice man who’d installed it had very patiently gone over all its functions with me for more than an hour. I’m afraid my eyes had glazed over like a couple of raised yeast doughnuts halfway through.

  He’d kindly left me his business card and told me I could call him if I had any questions. I had lots of questions but every time I called him I got his voicemail. Funny, that. I was beginning to think the man was avoiding me.

  Maybe Aubrey could explain the thing to me sometime.