A Cajun Christmas Killing

by Ellen Byron

  Lulu began explaining Harmon’s maneuverings in detail, and after fifteen minutes of corporate backstabbing, lawsuits, firings, and hirings, Maggie’s head ached. “These Wall Street guys are ruthless,” she said. “It’s amazing they’re not bumped off on a daily basis.” But she had acquired a new piece of information. “I had no idea the Tonrie Group was gone. That’s why Harmon went to Belle Vista after we booted him out. He owns it.”

  “He shuffled properties from one company to another,” Lulu explained. “Belle Vista’s now part of the Gerner Group. Here’s an article about it. I’ll print it out for you.”

  Lulu did so and handed the paper to Maggie. The article was a puff piece, probably written by Harmon’s own personal publicist. Maggie gave it a desultory scan. Then she saw a quote attributed to a familiar name, and she sat straight up in her chair.

  “Unbelievable,” she muttered.

  “What is it?”

  Maggie held up the sheet of paper. “I owe you, Lulu. Thanks to this article, I now know who’s responsible for our bad reviews.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Lulu understood when Maggie canceled their evening plans. “I want to share all this new information with my law enforcement friend,” she explained, opting to keep her relationship with Bo vague. She remembered Lulu as the kind of girl who would screech at the word “boyfriend” and insist on “all the deets.”

  “No problem,” Lulu said as they walked toward the hotel lobby. “We’ll have so many reasons to get together now that we’re in the same business.”

  This comment threw Maggie. “I’m really not in the hospitality business. I’m still an artist. I’m just helping my family out.”

  “Okay,” was Lulu’s skeptical response. She handed Maggie two key cards. “You and your friend have the best rooms in the hotel, side by side on the fifth floor. If you need anything, let the staff know. I’ll see you the next time you’re in town.”

  Lulu gave Maggie another rib-crushing hug and then headed back to her office. Maggie texted Bo to meet her at Gumbo Ya Ya, a casual eatery near Jackson Square. She stepped outside, where the air was heavy with humidity and full of chatter and music. People spilled off the crowded sidewalks onto the street, dodging cabs and delivery drivers. Even though the French Quarter felt more like Disneyland than a metropolis, Maggie was buoyed by its infectious energy. She’d been so wrapped up in Crozat’s affairs that she hadn’t realized how much she missed city life. When she’d returned to Pelican many months earlier, it was supposed to be a visit, not a relocation. The powerful pull of her tiny hometown still surprised her.

  She stopped to glance inside a gallery filled with oil paintings depicting the wrought-iron balconies that graced the Quarter’s historic homes and thought of her art studio back home at Crozat. She vowed to take a break from tourism and sleuthing to resume her art career. That was one point in New York’s favor: she never had to deal with distractions like murders that threatened her family’s personal and professional security.

  Her cell phone vibrated. She checked it and saw a text from Bo: “Last-minute shopping. Give me an hour.” The message reminded her that she still had some shopping of her own to do. While she already had a stack of presents at home, it would be fun to fill it out with a few unique gifts from the Big Easy.

  She headed over to Chartres Street to a shop selling culinary antiques. After browsing its historic treasures, she settled on a nineteenth-century copper saucepan for her mother. At a nearby bookstore selling new and used volumes, she bought a 1940s History of Gumbo for her father, a Walter Moseley first edition for Ione, and a Cajun songbook for Gaynell. For Gran’, who enjoyed “snooping on people’s lives,” Maggie purchased several new and vintage biographies. Next stop was a children’s clothing store, where she picked up adorable onesies sporting Mardi Gras images that would be perfect for Lia’s babies. She had one last present to buy. But it was the one that stumped her. While Maggie had a few utilitarian presents for Bo, she still lacked one truly special gift, which bothered her. Shopping for Chris had never been a problem. Anything hip, arty, or artisanal made him happy. But Bo’s interests were harder to pin down. His passions were his son, his job, and—she hoped—her. Maggie debated sticking a bow on top of her head and offering herself to him, then instantly dismissed the cheesy idea.

  She stood on the corner of Royal and Iberville, brooding. A jazz band, followed by a second line of drunk tourists, danced through the street. Growing impatient, she crossed Royal to avoid them and found herself in front of a menswear shop. Draped over the shoulders of the mannequin in the window was a handsome black leather bomber jacket. She stepped into the shop and walked out ten minutes later with the perfect present for Bo.

  *

  Maggie made a quick stop at the hotel to drop off her purchases and then headed to Gumbo Ya Ya. She found Bo sitting at a wrought-iron café table for two in the restaurant’s courtyard. Large bowls steamed at both place settings. “I ordered us each seafood gumbo,” he said. “So what did you and your friend Lulu discover?”

  “Guess who provided a quote about how fantastic his boss was for a press release?”

  “Your guest from the Midwest, Tom O’Day.”

  “What?! How did you know?”

  Bo held up his phone. “A text from Rufus, who may make a better detective than police chief.”

  “Oh, once he gets the chief position back, he’ll never give it up again. He likes the power too much. Did he find out anything else about him? Was he able to connect him to our negative reviews?”

  “Not yet. And even if he does, I don’t think there’s anything you can do about it legally. O’Day can always say those were his opinions and he’s protected by free speech laws.”

  Maggie dumped the cup of rice that accompanied her gumbo into the bowl and gave it a hard stir. “I can’t wait to get home and talk to the O’Days. Although Lindy wrote a very positive review and then posted comments that countered her husband’s negative reviews. Ugh, I’m so confused.”

  “At least one mystery is sort of solved. Let’s relax and enjoy that.”

  Maggie nodded and dipped her spoon into the thick gumbo. She was hungrier than she realized, and for a few minutes, she and Bo ate in companionable silence. They finished their gumbo and ordered coffee.

  “So how was your time in the Quarter?” Maggie asked as she sipped her chicory-enhanced brew.

  “Good. Wandered a little, got a few more Christmas presents. Look what I bought Xander.” Bo held up what looked like a voodoo doll. “It’s actually a doggy chew toy for when he gets to take home Jasmine.”

  “I love it. And so will he.”

  “Aside from investigating Harmon, how was your get-together with your friend Lulu?”

  “Okay.” Maggie paused. “She thinks of me as a fellow hotelier. Not an artist.”

  “I’m sorry. But who cares what she thinks? The important thing is how you think of yourself. Right?”

  “I guess. But sometimes, especially these days, I forget.”

  A loud crack of thunder startled both of them. A flash of lightning instantly followed, and then rain poured down on the stone courtyard as if a spigot in the sky had been turned to full blast. Maggie and Bo jumped up from their seats, both dripping wet.

  “I’m totally soaked,” Maggie said.

  “Me too.” Bo grabbed her hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

  They paid the bill and ran back to the hotel, getting more drenched with each step. They finally reached Reveille Orleans and collapsed with laughter under the overhang. “I’ve taken baths where I didn’t get this wet,” Maggie said. She gave herself a shake and sprayed Bo with water.

  “Hey! Right back at ya.”

  Bo gave his head a fierce shake, and Maggie giggled as she recoiled from the dowsing. “You win,” she said. “We’d better get upstairs and dry off. The last thing either of us needs is to catch cold.”

  Bo pulled open the hotel door, and they dashed inside. A quick ele
vator ride took them to the fifth floor, and they walked down the covered outdoor hallway to their adjacent rooms. Maggie stopped at her door. “Do you want to come in?” she asked, her voice soft and hesitant.

  Bo looked down at her from his six-foot-plus height. “Yes,” he said. “But I won’t.”

  “Oh.” Maggie was glad the hallway was dimly lit. Bo couldn’t see her flush of humiliation. “I’m sorry, that was so . . . I don’t know what it was, but I shouldn’t have opened my stupid big mouth.”

  “You had the guts to say what we were both thinking.” Bo took her hands in his. “I want us to be together. And we will. But when it does happen, I don’t want it to be because circumstances threw us together, and you suddenly had an empty hotel room. And God knows, not in the middle of a murder investigation. Call me repressed, but I don’t find them sexy.”

  Maggie had to smile at his last comment. “Okay. Well . . . good night.”

  “Good night.” Bo kissed her and then disappeared into his hotel room. Maggie leaned against a rail post and watched as the rain fell into the hotel’s courtyard below. She waited for her heart to stop racing, then took a few deep breaths and disappeared into her own hotel room.

  *

  The next morning, Maggie awoke to a text from Gran’: “Ready when u r, if not sooner!!” She managed to pull Bo away from the sumptuous hotel breakfast buffet and his third helping of muffaletta frittata, and they drove uptown to the Charbonnet’s home. Gran’ was waiting for them at the front gate with her overnight bag and started to climb into the car before Bo came to a complete stop. “Thank you for rescuing me,” she said, heaving her suitcase into the back of the SUV. “That place smells of mildew and a decaying lifestyle.”

  “Did you pick up any useful gossip?” Maggie asked.

  “Aside from Adelaide being a rabid racist and anti-Semite, which I’m sure comes as no surprise, not much else from her but a whole lot from my new ‘bestie,’ Mahalia—their ‘girl,’ as Adelaide so-two-centuries-ago calls her. Philip Charbonnet is the proverbial prodigal son who’s been forced by business failures and a foreclosure to move back to the family homestead. Emme and Steve Harmon were only staying with Adelaide while the Uptown home that they recently bought was being renovated. And if you think the Charbonnet home is grand, Mahalia says the Harmons’ place makes it look like an outhouse. Adelaide and Philip are assuming that with Steve gone, Emme will be much looser with the Harmon multimillions. But Emme despises her mother and brother, is madly in love with Dan Levy, and has no intention of turning over one pretty penny to her miscreant relatives.”

  Gran’ stopped for a breath. “And Mahalia offered up one particularly vital piece of information. Adelaide doesn’t drive and hasn’t for years. So as much as I’d like to finger her as the perp—ooh, what fun to talk like a television detective—unless she was chauffeured to the murder site, I regret that she has an ironclad alibi.”

  “Well, much thanks to Mahalia for all that dirt,” Maggie said. “She’s our source at Chez Charbonnet.”

  “I’m afraid not for much longer,” Gran’ said with a wicked grin.

  Maggie gave her grand-mère an admonishing look. “What did you do?”

  “My dear friend and fellow Newcomb alum Cissy Bennett lost her husband a few years ago. She adores traveling but misses sharing her adventures with someone. She was in need of a companion, so I connected her with Mahalia, whom she hired over the phone. My only regret is that I won’t be there to see Adelaide’s face when Mahalia gives notice.”

  “I’m assuming Cissy was another competitive Kappa.”

  “Oh, no, dear. Cissy was in Pi Beta Phi. You might call Adelaide an equal opportunity offender. Bo, chère, are you still with us, or have we lost your attention with all the family and sorority machinations?”

  “I have to say, I feel a little out of my element listening to these one percenter problems. So I’ve been thinking. Do you know what the main motivation for murder is?”

  “Money? Jealousy? Revenge?” Maggie guessed.

  “Anger? Passion? A thirst for justice?” offered Gran’.

  Bo shook his head. “Humiliation. Which is the thread connecting pretty much all the reasons you listed. And Philip Charbonnet sounds like a man who’s suffered a lot of humiliation in his life—not to mention he was in the shadow of a phenomenally successful albeit despised brother-in-law. Ru and I need to take a hard look at his personal and professional history.”

  “While you’re doing that, I’m going to pay a visit to Belle Vista,” Maggie said. “That place has been dogging me lately. I met the general manager at dance class, and she seemed nice. I’ll take her up on the tour she offered and see if I can find out any new info on Harmon. But first, I need to have a chat with the O’Days. They’re behind the bad reviews, Gran’. At least he is.”

  “What?” Gran’ exclaimed. “Son of a gumdrop, that ticks me off. We need to start screening our guests for basic decency. If there isn’t an app for that, there should be. Maybe I’ll create one.”

  Maggie laughed. “Well, if anyone can, it’s you.”

  *

  Bo dropped Maggie and Gran’ at the shotgun cottage and took off. Maggie set down her suitcase and then strode over to the garçonnière, where the O’Day family was staying. She rapped on the door, and Lindy O’Day opened it. The expression on her face told Maggie that this was not a welcome visit.

  “We’re checking out early, and I’m pretty busy,” Lindy said. She remained planted in the doorway. “We can drop off our keys on the way out.”

  “I wanted to thank you for the positive review on Trippee.”

  “Oh.” Lindy relaxed slightly. “You’re welcome. We’ve enjoyed our stay.”

  “That surprises me, considering all the slams your husband posted under a pseudonym. I saw his name attached to a brownnosing quote about Steve Harmon in a newspaper article. It was also attached to the title of vice president, marketing. So it wasn’t too much of a leap to figure out he was our troll.”

  Lindy’s shoulders sagged, and she dropped her face into her hands. When she lifted her head, Maggie saw tears streaking her face. Lindy moved out of the doorway. “Come in,” she said. “Please.”

  Maggie followed Lindy into the garçonnière. The bottom floor of the hexagonal two-story edifice was a living room; a staircase led to two small bedrooms upstairs. Lindy pulled a half-packed suitcase off the room’s loveseat, and she and Maggie sat down. “Tom took the girls to Bon Bon to pick up a few final treats and some souvenirs,” Lindy said. Maggie didn’t respond. She had learned silence often served as a prompt for people to share, which proved true for Lindy. “I am so, so sorry about those horrible reviews. Tom used to work for an investment company that Harmon’s hedge fund absorbed. There were layoffs when that happened, and Tom lost his job. I work as a librarian, but my salary is pitiful. Steve Harmon had been using some of his own fortune to cherry-pick distressed companies. He bought a small boutique hotel chain in Ohio and offered Tom a job at the new addition to the Harmon real estate portfolio, but on one condition.”

  “He’d help bring down my uncle Tig so Harmon could gain control of his company, Preferred Properties.”

  Lindy nodded. “He had us book a stay here because you can only post on Trippee.com if you’ve utilized a travel business’s services.”

  “I’m well aware of Trippee’s policy.”

  “You have to understand—Tom hated doing it, but he was desperate. You do—did—not want to get on Steve Harmon’s bad side.”

  “Yes, I’m getting that impression big time.”

  “Since Steve was staying here to check out the place, he could have posted the reviews himself. But he was a master at getting other people to do his dirty work.” Lindy’s tone was bitter. “What are you going to do?”

  “Well, legally I can’t really do anything. Of course, I could report Tom to whoever replaces Harmon as his boss and threaten to take the story to the media. This would probably get him fired, eve
n though he was basically acting as Harmon’s surrogate.”

  “Yes. Like I said, Steve had a way of staying clean while throwing people under the bus. He even did it to his own stepbrother, Dan, during that insider trading scandal.”

  Maggie pondered her options. It was hard not to sympathize with anyone who found themselves in Steve Harmon’s crosshairs. Was there a way of turning the situation into a positive? “Let’s start with this. Tom owns up to what he did and apologizes to my uncle, my parents, and anyone else he slammed. He deletes all his negative reviews and, wherever he can honestly do it, replaces them with glowing recommendations.”

  For the first time in days, Lindy brightened. “Yes. Yes, he can absolutely do that.”

  “And instead of leaving, why don’t you finish out your stay here, then both of you hit every travel blog you can find and write rave reviews about Crozat. But not because you have to. It will be because you enjoyed a fantastic vacation at a wonderful B and B. Like most of our guests do.”

  “Thank you, thank you so much.” Lindy was weepy with gratitude. “I’ll talk to Tom as soon as he gets back with the girls. They’ll be thrilled. They were so disappointed that we were going to leave before the bonfires.”

  As Maggie made her way out of the garçonnière, she was showered with more thanks from a relieved Lindy O’Day. “It’s just a way of making things right,” she told Lindy. It’s also a way of keeping two more potential suspects around, Maggie thought but didn’t say. Because if there’s anyone who’d be happy to see Steve Harmon dead, it’s you for the way he used your husband.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Ninette and Tug were relieved by Maggie’s news that she had solved the mystery of the bad reviews and supported the deal she had cut with Lindy O’Day. “Great work, chère,” Tug said as he helped his wife put away the breakfast dishes in the manor house kitchen. “I think Tig will be on board with turning the O’Day family from foes to fans.”