by Ellen Byron
“Huh? Oh. I didn’t.”
Adelaide gaped at her. “A Doucet and a Crozat who didn’t come out?! My goodness.” To Maggie’s discerning eye, the woman looked both amazed and a bit repulsed. “I assume you were at least baptized.” Adelaide chuckled at what she considered a joke.
“Oh, my goodness, yes,” Gran’ said. “At St. Louis Cathedral. You were there, dear. Remember? The marvelous reception afterward at Commander’s Palace?”
Adelaide seemed flustered. “Yes, of course. How silly of me. I blame A-G-E syndrome.”
Both older women faked laughter. Mahalia brought in a silver coffee service, gave a tiny bow, and disappeared. Just then, a woman called, “We’re home,” from the hallway. A minute later, Emme appeared, followed by Dan and a middle-aged man who had the jowly look of a frat boy gone south. If Emme was surprised to find Gran’ and Maggie there, she didn’t let it show, instead sharing polite greetings.
“You know Emme and Daniel,” Adelaide said. “And this is my son, Philip Charbonnet.”
Philip gave a slight nod, not bothering to hide his lack of interest. “We made arrangements for him,” he said. It took Maggie a moment to register that he was referring to Steve Harmon, and she was taken aback by the man’s blatant disdain for his late brother-in-law. “I told Emme that Charles Petite called to express his condolences and we should all meet for a drink—”
“But I’m not interested,” Emme interrupted, glaring at her brother.
Wow, they’re already trying to line her up with another husband, Maggie thought. It was obvious Emme’s attraction to the family chauffeur was not going to fly with her mother or arrogant brother.
“Philip, Magnolia is a Doucet and a Crozat,” Adelaide said.
This roused Philip from his bored stupor. “Really?” he said, gracing her with a smile that was more of a leer. “That’s quite a pedigree.”
Oh, dear Lord, no, no! “Well, all we have to show for it is a beat-up old plantation that barely squeaks by as a bed-and-breakfast,” Maggie said, hoping this would serve as a turn-off.
“At least you still have your plantation,” Philip grumbled.
“Yes, ours perished in a fire,” Adelaide said. She gestured to a heavy antique sideboard. “Sadly, this piece is the only thing that survived. Philip, Emmaline, join us for coffee and cake.”
“If you’ll excuse me, I have to make a few more calls about Steve’s funeral,” Dan said, taking his lack of inclusion as the dismissal it was.
“I’ll go with you,” Emme said quickly. “Thank you both for stopping by. I do appreciate it.” She followed Dan out of the parlor, and both Philip and Adelaide shot the couple a look of disgust as they left the room.
*
As Gran’ and Adelaide reminisced about their days at Newcomb College, Maggie endured an hour of Philip’s ham-fisted flirtations. His sandy hair was thinning, a muffin top spilled over the leather belt holding up his chino pants, and the rosacea blooming on his face and nose warned of a drinking problem. None of this dimmed his arrogance. Philip Charbonnet was a catch, according to himself, and no one was more surprised than he that three wives had already fled his company.
“Oh, my goodness, it’s almost dinnertime,” Gran’ said, finally picking up on one of the desperate glances Maggie threw her way.
“You must stay for dinner,” Adelaide said.
“Great idea, Mama,” her son echoed. Philip leaned in toward Maggie, who sat as far back in her seat as she could without tipping it over.
Nooooo! “That’s very nice of you,” she said, “but I have plans with my boyfriend.” Take the hint; please take the hint, she thought, knowing in her heart that Philip wouldn’t.
“Charlotte, I insist you dine with us and spend the night here as well,” Adelaide said. “You can’t stay in the Quarter.” She shuddered as if the very word might transmit a disease.
“Adelaide, dear, you’ve twisted my arm,” Gran’ said. “I would love to stay with you. Bo can bring in my suitcase when he comes to pick up Maggie.”
“I texted him, and he’s on his way, so why don’t we wait outside?” Maggie said. She practically yanked her grandmother up from her chair and through the front hall. “Thank you so much for your generosity, and again, our condolences,” she called back to her hosts as she hurried out the front door. Once outside, she collapsed against the closed door with a groan. “Those people are horrible. And thanks for delivering me to that wolf. I can’t stand people who think just because a family’s parked itself in Louisiana for a couple of hundred years, their last name gives them some kind of special status.”
“I’m sorry, chère, but it had to be done. If I’m going to be accepted as one of them, I need to act like one of them. Which means pretending I’d be thrilled if my darling granddaughter became the bride of an odious dipsomaniac.”
“Are you sure you want to stay here tonight, Gran’? The whole atmosphere is more than unpleasant. It’s kind of creepy.”
“It will give me the chance for one-on-one time with Adelaide. I may be able to ferret some useful information out of her.”
“Okay,” Maggie said with reluctance. “By the way, I had no idea I was baptized at the Cathedral. I thought I was baptized at Saint Tee’s.”
“You were, but that old bat doesn’t remember,” Gran’ said, gesturing toward the house. “I must say, tripping her up was a delightful moment. And their plantation did not ‘perish in a fire.’ They let it run down until it was uninhabitable and then sold it to a chemical company because they needed the cash. The sideboard Adelaide pointed out is probably the only piece they couldn’t unload on a secondhand furniture dealer.”
Maggie gazed at the Charbonnets’ elegant, pristine mansion. “It’s all a facade.”
“Yes, and as much as they despised Mr. Harmon, I’m sure his millions were the only thing propping it up.”
“I wonder how the family went off the rails like that.”
Gran’ sighed and shook her head. “The son is not the father. Philip Senior was lovely and very intelligent. Philip Junior is neither.”
“How did Senior end up married to that gorgon?”
“You know, your generation assumes no one had premarital sex in previous generations,” Gran’ said, “but there was a reason certain ‘premature’ babies came out a surprisingly healthy weight and size. Like Philip Charbonnet Junior.”
“Ohhh,” Maggie said, catching on to Gran’s implication.
“Yes, ‘ohhhh.’”
A light rain began to fall, and Gran’ shivered. “Go back inside,” Maggie said. “We’ll bring in your suitcase. By the way, just wondering . . . are red and yellow the colors of Adelaide’s sorority?”
“They are indeed. And as you can see, much less flattering than mine.” Gran’ winked and kissed Maggie on the cheek. “Je t’aime, chère.”
“Je t’aime.”
Gran’ scurried up to the front door, knocked, and was let in by Mahalia. Maggie pulled her jacket over her head, choosing the rain over spending another minute with Phil Junior. She saw Dan emerge from a side entrance to the Charbonnet house carrying an umbrella. He took quick strides toward her. “I thought you could use this,” he said, offering her the umbrella.
“Thanks, but that’s okay. My ride should be here any minute.”
“Well, until then . . .” Dan held the umbrella over both their heads. Maggie noted the man looked exhausted. His lids were rimmed red as if he’d been crying.
“I’m sorry about Mr. Harmon’s death. I can see how hard it’s been on you.” The driver gave a slight nod. “You and your boss seemed to have had a very close relationship.”
Dan stared at her. “My boss? They didn’t tell you, did they?” Dan gave a mirthless chortle. “Of course they didn’t.”
Maggie was growing uncomfortable and desperately wished Bo would arrive. “I’m sorry, Dan, but I don’t understand. What didn’t they tell me?”
To Maggie’s surprise, Dan’s eyes filled with tears.
“I didn’t work for Steve—I worked with him. Steve was my stepbrother.”
Chapter Thirteen
Rather than continue what promised to be a very interesting conversation standing outside in the rain, Maggie convinced Dan to join her and Bo for a drink. She texted Bo that they would meet him at Aggie and Johnny’s, a comfortable dive bar on the lower reaches of St. Charles Avenue. Soon the three were sharing a pitcher of A and J’s cheap domestic beer. But Dan barely touched his stein. Instead, as he told his story, he passed it from hand to hand in what was almost a nervous tic. “My mom married Steve’s dad,” he said. “Our childhood sucked. We were technically middle class—nice house, good neighborhood. But Steve’s dad was abusive, and my mother was an alcoholic. Steve and I bonded, though. Kind of an ‘enemy of my enemy is my friend’ thing. His mom died of breast cancer when Steve was only a few years old, and I never knew who my dad was, so we basically had each other.”
“God, how sad.” Maggie was starting to see where some of Steve Harmon’s miserable behavior stemmed from.
“I was a couple of years younger than him, and he looked out for me. Sheltered me when one of our parents was on a tear. Made sure I had food and got to school. He was brilliant and ambitious and earned a college scholarship. When he started his own business, he brought me into it. I have no idea what I would have become without him. I owe Steve my life.” Dan finally picked up his beer and downed it without a pause.
“Which,” Bo said, “I’m guessing is why you went to jail for him in the insider trading scandal.”
Maggie was confused. “What scandal?”
“I used my free time to stop in at NOPD headquarters and run background checks on the family,” Bo explained, “and learned a few interesting things.”
Dan picked up the pitcher and refilled his glass. “The SEC went after Steve’s company for insider trading. A couple of us got nailed and went to jail for a few years. That’s why I’m not in finance anymore. Banned for life.”
“But not Steve Harmon,” Bo pointed out.
Angry, Dan leaned in to Bo. “Hey, they never proved Steve knew about it.”
“But you’re not saying he didn’t.”
Dan slumped back in his chair. “What does it matter, anyway? He’s gone.” He took a napkin and wiped his forehead. It didn’t escape Maggie that he took a surreptitious wipe of his eyes as well. “Look,” he said to Bo, “I’m sorry I clocked you outside the restaurant the other night. Try not to hold it against me. I’d appreciate anything you can do to find Steve’s killer.”
“We’re all over it,” Bo said. He cast a glance at Maggie that Dan picked up on.
“We?” Dan asked. “Not to insult you, Maggie, but aren’t you an artist?”
“She is,” Bo said. “And it gives her a skill that a lot of people don’t have. She picks up visual details that other people, even trained law enforcement officials, might miss.”
“But I’m in no way a professional,” Maggie hastened to add. “I just help out if I can.” Dan nodded, and Maggie decided to take a chance on bringing up a delicate subject in a light manner. “Speaking of my artist’s ‘eagle eye,’ I noticed Emme seems very fond of you.”
“She’s a good person,” Dan said, his tone evasive. “To be honest, marrying Steve was more an act of rebellion than love for her.”
“I can see that,” Maggie said. “The easiest way to rebel in the Charbonnet world would be to marry outside of their race or religion.”
It was Bo’s turn to look confused. “How so?”
Maggie pointed to a small charm hanging around Dan’s neck on a thin gold chain. “I noticed your chai.”
“You do have an eye for details,” Dan said. He turned to Bo. “‘Chai’ is a Hebrew symbol for ‘life.’ We’re Jewish.”
Bo’s look of confusion disappeared. “Ah. Not a popular choice of spouse for some of the old money crowd.”
“Our generation and the ones after us couldn’t care less,” Dan said. “But Mother Charbonnet is still ticked off about it. And Emme’s brother, Philip, was no fan of Steve’s. The irony is that Steve couldn’t care less about his faith. I’d even say he was embarrassed by it. Not me. I’m proud of my heritage and my religion.”
“Dan,” Maggie said, “it’s obvious Emme and Steve’s marriage wasn’t a happy one. Is there any chance she—”
Dan didn’t even let her finish the sentence. “No, no effing way. Emme would never harm anyone. I told you; she’s a good person, a fantastic person. Don’t even think about her as a suspect.”
Bo and Maggie exchanged a look. Whether or not Emme could be dismissed as a suspect was debatable, but Dan’s reaction confirmed that the woman’s affection for her brother-in-law was reciprocated. “If you’re going to look at anyone in the family for Steve’s murder,” he continued, “I’d give Philip Charbonnet a good, hard look. The guy’s a leech and a scumbag, and I wouldn’t put anything past him, including murder if he thought he’d benefit from it.”
Bo paid for the beer, and he and Maggie left Dan with Gran’s suitcase and a promise that they’d let him know about any developments in the investigation of his stepbrother’s death. Bo begged off dinner with Maggie’s friend Lulu Colombe. “I never get down to New Orleans, and I feel like taking a wander in the Quarter,” he said. “Gives me time to think.”
“I could use some thinking time too,” Maggie said. “I’ll pass on a ride and take the streetcar there.”
Bo took off. Maggie texted her friend to say she was on her way and then crossed St. Charles Avenue to a transit stop. After a moment, she saw lights up ahead and heard the comforting rattle of a streetcar. It rumbled up to where Maggie stood, and she climbed aboard. She found a seat on a worn wooden bench and stared out the window as the old, olive-green streetcar creaked and lurched toward the Quarter. Every day seemed to bring a new suspect in Dan Harmon’s murder. Tannis, Sandy, Emme, Philip, even Adelaide Charbonnet. Maggie wouldn’t have been surprised to learn the octogenarian had driven a knife through the heart of the son-in-law she despised. But Maggie’s intuition told her that these were only a few names on a long list of people who might have murdered the financier.
The streetcar conductor announced the final stop, and Maggie exited the car with the other passengers. She crossed busy Canal Street, where the streetlamps were wrapped with festive white lights, and walked past the antique shops of Royal Street into the heart of the French Quarter. Maggie made a left onto Bienville and saw the US and Louisiana flags flying over the arched doorways of the Reveille New Orleans Hotel. She approached the entrance and smiled when she saw Lulu bouncing up and down as she waved to her. Lulu still possessed the bubbly energy of the pep squad captain she once was. A career in hospitality was the ideal choice for her. “Maggie, hey!” Lulu called out as she bounced and waved. “Laissez les bon temps rouler!”
Maggie strode up to Lulu, who enveloped her in a bear hug. Lulu might have been tiny, barely clearing five feet, but she had the strength of a martial artist, and Maggie flinched from her tight squeeze. Lulu didn’t notice. “I am so glad you’re back in town,” she said as she took Maggie by the hand and led her through a sumptuous lobby decorated with velvet couches in silvery tones and a thick Aubusson rug in pastel shades. A Christmas tree decorated in the same color scheme as the couch and rug stood next to an antique table covered with brochures for the local tourist sites. “We’ll go talk in my office, then move this party over to Antoine’s for dinner.”
The two women walked through a stunning courtyard with a large, burbling fountain encircled by lush potted poinsettias. Lulu unlocked a door, and Maggie followed her into a small office crammed with files and brochures for local tourist attractions. Lulu stepped over a box of flyers for bus tours of New Orleans and took a seat at her desk. Maggie pulled more flyers off the only other chair in the room and sat down. “We’ll save catching up for dinner,” Lulu said. “Now tell me what’s going on with your bad reviews.” She listened as Maggie explained the vitriolic
reviews and then read a few on her computer. “Well, the good news is they’re so nasty they reek of trolls, and legitimate travelers would be skeptical about them. But newbies, people who don’t travel a lot, might believe them.”
“We haven’t had any new bad reviews, but we can’t get rid of the old ones, and they’re dragging down our overall rating. What do we do?”
“Keep trying to get Trippee to help you out. And while you’re waiting, write a pleasant reply to each slam. When readers see you respect the respondent and are trying to address their ‘problem,’ it makes you seem like a caring, engaged proprietor and buys you goodwill. Also, see if you can get guests to counter the comments with positive replies. And celebrity endorsements help a lot. We’ve had a few that really upped our profile.” Lulu rattled off the names of an Oscar-winning actor, a legendary rock star, and a former president. “Have you had any celebs stay with you?”
“Um . . . all I can come up with is one of the WGNO sportscasters. And I can’t even tell you which one.”
Lulu crinkled her nose. “That’s not going to get you any traction. It’s interesting y’all made it through those other murders without seeing a big drop in business, and then these reviews suddenly come out of nowhere.”
“I don’t think it’s out of nowhere. There’s a—well, there was a hedge fund financier who developed a thing for hotels. He’s been trying to oust my uncle Tig from Preferred Properties. I’m sure the bad reviews are somehow tied to him.”
“You said ‘was.’”
“He’s dead. Murdered. Not at our place,” Maggie added hastily. “They found him at Doucet.”
“Wait. Steve Harmon?”
“Yes. You know him?”
“He’s infamous around here. He pulled the same stunt with the Tonrie Hotel Group that he was trying with Preferred Properties. Only the Tonrie Group didn’t survive his machinations.” Lulu did a search on her computer. “Ah, here. He started a negative campaign against the company’s management, and it got brutal. He pushed them out and wound up buying a bunch of the company’s properties at bargain prices, including Belle Vista up by y’all.”
