by Ellen Byron
“Amen to that.”
Kyle escorted Maggie back to her car. He deposited the book of wallpaper samples in her back seat, and returned to his tasks inside Grove Hall. Rather than drive away, Maggie took a walk to the back of the plantation manor house and studied the mysterious fourth window. She had no idea why the Durand family needed a hidden room, although based on the family’s lineage of ne’er-do-wells—Bo excepted, of course—she assumed it was to hide from both Union troops and a Confederate Army looking to conscript male Durands. But Maggie realized the room could provide Kaity Bertrand with a good essay topic, and returned to her car to call the teen and let her know.
* * *
“You look so … super pregnant.”
Maggie sat on the bed next to Lia, who lay flat on her back with a single pillow under her head. Lia laughed. “I am carrying three of these critters. But I’ll tell you one thing. You know how you sometimes think it would be heaven to spend a week in bed? I am here to say, be careful what you wish for. It’s incredibly boring.”
“Do you have to spend the rest of the pregnancy on bed rest?”
“No, thank the Lord. In about a week, I’ll be able to spend a couple of hours up and about, but with extremely limited activity. So, talk to me. Is it true Gerard Damboise was murdered?”
“Wow, there are no secrets in Pelican, are there? It appears so.” Maggie’s phone chimed. She pulled it from her pocket and read the new message. “And his wife’s ‘purse pistol’ has gone missing. She thought she might have dropped it at our house during a pageant meeting, but my dad just texted to say he didn’t find it.”
“The endless hours of TV I’ve watched while stuck in this bed have taught me the spouse is always suspect number one.”
“I don’t know. Constance doesn’t seem too devastated by her loss, but I don’t get she was miserable enough to kill Gerard. I better let Bo know about the gun.”
Maggie typed a quick message. Her phone erupted with a flurry of texts. She read them and groaned. “One of the loony pageant moms. Denise. She’s hyper-competitive. Robbie Metz had the brilliant idea—and I mean brilliant in the most sarcastic way—of turning the essay portion of the contest into the Gerard Damboise Memorial Award, where the finalists have to write an essay about Pelican history for a two-hundred-dollar scholarship prize.”
“Sounds like an idea Robbie would come up with. He wants to run for mayor during the next election.”
“Really?”
“Yup. You can add gossip to the short list of things I get to do while on bed rest.”
“Anyway, now this mom, Denise, is trying to find an angle that would give her poor daughter a winning edge.” Maggie read the text thread, ending with “… Since Cousin Belle doing essay on Crozat Plantation and its place in Pelican, Allouette doing essay on Doucet.” She held up the phone to Lia. “See how Denise followed that with a string of happy face and thumbs-up emojis? I should tell her sucking up to me is the worst way to go. The sad thing is she’s way more obsessed with the pageant than her daughter is. I think Allouette would drop out in a heartbeat. It must kill Denise that Belle snatched up Crozat as a subject first. And from what I’ve seen of Belle, the idea came from her, not her mother.” Maggie squinted as she thought for a moment. “I’m starting to think word got out that Gerard favored Belle as the Miss Pelican Mardi Gras Gumbo Queen. A couple of the pageant moms seem close to the edge mentally. Could something like that push them over it?”
“Well, in this TV movie I saw—twice because they reran it and I have nothing better to do than lie here—the mom of a gymnast was so competitive, she secretly hired a hit man to bump off a judge who was keeping the girl from Olympic tryouts.”
“Denise may be jealous of Belle, but I can’t imagine her doing anything to hurt her. She adores Belle’s mother, Pauline. They’re cousins.” Maggie smiled at Lia. “And you know how close cousins can be.”
Lia returned Maggie’s smile. “I do indeed. But maybe there’s a nutty mom who’s going to kill any judge who doesn’t vote for her daughter.”
“It does seem like these pageants can become dangerously competitive, whether it’s between the girls or the ‘momtestants.’”
“Exactly. There was another movie about the mother of a cheerleader—”
“Okay, tomorrow I’m going to the library and coming back here with a stack of books because you need to stop watching TV.”
“TV’s not nearly as interesting as what’s happening around here. The gossip hotline leaked the news that the man who died in the flood didn’t drown—he was murdered. Could the same person who killed Gerard have killed him?”
“I did wonder about that. But the more I think about it, the harder it is to connect Gerard, a scion of the community and lifetime Pelican resident, to a stranger no one in town seems to know.”
“When you look at it that way, it does seem to be a reach.”
“But you mentioned secrets. I wonder…”
“What?”
Maggie flashed on Gerard’s final words. “Turning the Historical Society into a museum was an obsession with Gerard. I wonder if he collected secrets he could use to manipulate or blackmail people—a parent, a contestant, maybe even a judge. I think I need to find out more about everyone involved with this pageant.”
Lia struggled to pull herself up to a sitting position. “You could be working with the next victim or the killer. I’m worried about you.”
Maggie gently eased Lia back down to a prone position. “You’re not allowed to gossip anymore or to worry, mama-to-be. I promise I won’t do anything dangerous. That’s what the heroes of Pelican PD are for.”
“Alright.” Lia yawned. “I feel better. A little.”
Lia drifted off to sleep. Maggie quietly left the house, double- and triple-checking the front door to make sure it was locked.
The last thing Maggie would admit to her beloved and very pregnant cousin was that she was worried too.
Chapter 9
Maggie slept fitfully that night, awoken by each creak and groan emanating from the ancient shotgun cottage. She dreamt about discovering a dying Gerard Damboise. His face appeared to her in vivid, almost hallucinogenic colors. What is my weird place in the universe where I’m always the one finding dead bodies? she wondered when she gave up trying to get a decent night’s sleep. It felt like the definition of a rhetorical question.
In the morning, she took a cold shower, hoping the shock to the system would snap her out of her sleep-deprivation fog. She covered the dark circles under her hazel eyes with extra concealer, poured herself a thirty-two-ounce mug of coffee to go, and headed over to Doucet.
She parked and pulled a plastic bin of art supplies out of the Falcon convertible’s trunk. Maggie bypassed the overseer’s house that contained the staff rooms, reveling in the fact that for the first time since she began working at Doucet, she wouldn’t have to force on an antebellum hoop skirt. On her way to the small room Ione had assigned her, she passed a throng of visitors watching in fascination as Gaynell worked her sewing machine magic, bringing riotously colored Mardi Gras costumes to life.
Maggie’s new workroom was a nondescript space added to the plantation by the state when it managed the property. The building, designed as a petite version of the manor house, contained Doucet’s gift shop and various staff offices. But it was full of natural light accentuating the deterioration of the painting she was tasked to restore, which sat on an easel in the middle of the room. Maggie pulled a camera out of her supply box and snapped numerous shots of the artwork to serve as reference points. She printed them out on the gift shop printer and taped them to the easel and workroom wall. Then Maggie collected chips the painting had shed onto the floor. She held them up to the light, examining them closely.
Ione stuck her head in. “How’s it going? You got everything you need?”
Maggie nodded, still focused on the chips in her hand. “This is strange. I thought the paint used here was watercolor. But thes
e chips are made of more than paint. They seem to be a mix of watercolor with glue and paper. Like a collage. But the overall image doesn’t seem like a collage.”
Ione stepped in the room. She and Maggie studied the painting. “I don’t know anything about art,” Ione said, “but I do see the artist dated this piece 1861. Around the time the Civil War broke out. Maybe the artist couldn’t get the paint he needed, so he improvised with whatever materials he had.”
Ione left, and Maggie forged on with the restoration. Yet the painting continued to crumble with every touch, and she groaned in frustration. Then she made a discovery that dispelled all exhaustion.
She ran to the gift shop, where Ione was arranging a display of Mardi Gras ornaments. “You have to see this,” she said, beckoning for Ione to follow her. The two women set off down the hallway to Maggie’s workroom. “Look.” Maggie pointed to the upper-right corner of the artwork, where a large section of paint had peeled off. What lay underneath was a revelation. “There’s a reason why the portrait seemed so simple and like someone created it quickly. It’s hiding another painting.”
Ione peered at the painting. “You’re right. Wow.”
“I know. My goal now is to carefully remove the overlay without damaging whatever’s underneath. I’ll research the best way to do this.”
Ione stood up. “If you need any special supplies, let me know. This is exciting.”
She returned to the gift shop, and Maggie pulled out her tablet to search art restoration websites for ways of handling the delicate task ahead. She learned all she needed to proceed was the small scalpel she already owned and warm water to dissolve the centuries-old animal glue serving as an adhesive. Maggie ran her fingers over the corner where the hidden picture had been revealed. “Oil, not watercolor,” she murmured. This was good news. If she worked with the utmost care, she could remove one painting without damaging the other.
She was about to begin work when she received a text from Mo: “FYI, judges all being interviewed by Pelican PD. See you tonight at my Veevay party!” Maggie, who’d been formulating excuses to get out of the sales party, changed her mind. It offered her a chance to dig up information on the pageant mothers, who, she assumed, wouldn’t pass up a great opportunity to brown-nose.
Maggie’s stomach growled; it was time for lunch. She locked the workroom door behind her and went to see if Gaynell wanted to take a break. She found her coworker madly sewing away. “No time,” Gaynell said, gesturing to the piles of colorful fabric surrounding her. “I don’t know how I’m going to get the costumes and masks finished in time for the Courir.”
Maggie picked up a wire mesh mask. Many Courir mask makers prided themselves on using found objects and recycled material as decoration. Gaynell had turned a milk jug handle into the mask’s nose. “That’s as far as I got,” Gaynell pushed back a blonde curl that fell in front of her eyes. “I need to finish that one, six more, and five costumes.”
“There’s no deadline for the project I’m working on. How about I take over the masks? That way all you have to worry about are the costumes.”
“Would you? Oh, I love you so much right now.” Gaynell ran from behind her sewing machine to hug Maggie. “Now I can stop for a super-quick lunch.”
Since the weather was chilly and drizzly, the women opted to eat lunch in the staff lounge. Maggie told Gaynell about the hidden painting, and the two spent a few minutes musing about what the story behind it might be. Gaynell then pressed Maggie for details about Gerard’s demise. Maggie shared what she could, hoping that articulating the circumstances might reveal some missed clue to his murder. But there were no new revelations. “I wonder if there’s some bigger reason why you keep happening on people who’ve met an untimely end,” Gaynell mused.
“I had the same thought this morning.”
Gaynell studied her friend. “I think there is. Somehow the Lord, or a Higher Power—whatever you want to call it—knows you’ll help the victims. You have a gift for it, Maggie. You’re like the murder whisperer or something.”
Maggie made a face. “Oh, that sounds awful. I think it’s more like the universe has figured out a way to use the fact that I’m incredibly nosy.” Her phone rang and she answered the call. “Hey, chére.” She addressed Gaynell: “It’s Bo.”
“You guys talk. I gotta get back to work. Mama’s dropping off a couple of capuchons for me to use as models. You know, the hats that look like dunce caps that the Mardi Gras wear. You’ll get to wear one in my Run.”
“Looking forward to it. I think.”
Gaynell chuckled and then took off. Maggie turned her attention to Bo. “Sorry.”
“No worries. For the record, I think you’re going to make a hot Mardi Gras.”
“Thanks, but have you seen the costumes? They’re basically giant pajamas. ‘Hot’ is going to be a stretch for me in one of those outfits. What’s up?”
“I need a favor. Whitney’s at a doctor’s appointment, and I’m at the station with an IT guy, trying to figure out what we can and can’t save from the water-damaged computers. Thanks a lot, flood,” he said sarcastically. “Ru offered to pick up Xander from school. Would it be okay if he dropped him off with you for a couple of hours?”
“Absolutely. He can be my assistant.”
“He’ll love that.”
“Is everything okay with Whitney?”
“Yeah … yeah.” Maggie picked up the hesitation in Bo’s voice. “I gotta run. We’ll talk later.”
“Love you,” Maggie said to a dial tone. She finished her lunch, which consisted of French bread, cheese, and yet more of Tug’s gumbo, and then returned to her workspace.
Tour guides stopped by with their groups, who watched Maggie with fascination. The guests peppered her with questions, and she patiently shared her process and goal over and over again. As the day went on, Maggie became so adept at delivering the explanation, she was able to continue working while she talked. By late afternoon, a few more inches of the hidden painting had been revealed, but no hint as to its subject. Ready for a break, she welcomed the arrival of Rufus and Xander.
“How do, Miss Magnolia Marie,” Rufus greeted her. He held Xander by the hand and wore his daughter Charli strapped to his chest in a baby carrier.
“Hey, Ru. You’re looking good. I’m impressed by the gut shrinkage.”
“You and the rest of the ladies in town can thank Sandy for that. She’s got me working out and eating like a fashion model.” With Bo and Maggie’s encouragement, Rufus had bounced back from a doomed relationship with Vanessa Fleer, Maggie’s former coworker and the mother of his child. He was dating Sandy Sechrest, the sweet ex–pole dancer who owned DanceBod, Pelican’s sole exercise outlet. The romance had softened Ru and helped heal a centuries-old feud between the Crozat and Durand families.
Maggie noticed Xander eyeing the room with curiosity. “Buddy, I could use some help making the Courir masks, if you’re interested.” Xander gave a vigorous nod. Maggie took his hand from Rufus and led the boy to the box of odds and ends meant for decorating masks. “Why don’t you start picking out the decorations? I’ll show you how to use a hot glue gun when Rufus and I are done talking.”
Xander plopped down on the floor and began a highly focused sorting of material. Loose beads, pipe cleaners, wax lips, old buttons, rattan, plastic bugs, stray pom-poms, even fake mustaches were all doodads which could be transformed into a mask’s facial features. As the boy organized the scraps-turned–art supplies into piles that meant something only to him, Maggie turned her attention back to Rufus. She pulled him out of earshot from Xander. “Have you learned anything new about Gerard’s death that you’re okay sharing with me?”
“I’m okay telling you whatever I think will help us, whether soon-to-be-gone Chief Penske cares or not. What’s my motto?”
Maggie grinned. “‘In Louisiana, we only follow the rules we like.’”
“Exactly. So, Damboise was shot by a small-caliber pistol. That’s not what did
him in, though, which is why he still had the strength to spit out a few words to you. The loss of blood and stress triggered a massive heart attack.”
“Then technically, whoever shot him is guilty of attempted murder.”
“He’s not any less dead cuz of that.”
“I was thinking about the man found on our property—”
“And wondering if his being murdered had anything to do with Gerard being sent to his maker? We had the same thought because us law enforcement types are not fans of coincidences. But until we get more deets on your guy, we’re focusing on Gerard’s death.”
“Any luck tracking down Constance Damboise’s purse pistol?”
Rufus shook his head. “Don’t know if it was tossed, lost, or stolen. Her alibi checks out. She was at that new needlecraft store, A Stitch in Wine, where they do craft parties and wine tastings together. And Constance was doing a whole lot more wining and ‘whining’ than stitching. Not only can witnesses testify she was there during the time Gerard would have been killed, she was too drunk to get behind the wheel, so one of the ticked-off stitchers had to drive her home. She didn’t retrieve her car until the next day. But she’s not completely in the clear. Always the chance she hired someone to bump off her hubby. Still, at least she’s got an alibi. All Mo Heedles can tell us about her own alibi is that she was home testing some of that tutti-frutti face stuff she sells. Robbie Metz says he was driving between his stores. Given that big old brood of his, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was driving around to avoid going home.”
“And then there are the pageant moms.”
“Yeah, that group o’ crazies. We’re still sifting through their stories.”
Charli fussed and Rufus pulled a baby bottle out of his back pocket. He cooed to his infant daughter as he fed her. “I hope there’s not this much drama when my Charli runs for Miss Pelican Mardi Gras Gumbo Queen. Speaking of which, what do you know about your squatter, Jayden Jones?”
“He’s not a squatter—he’s an invited guest. And he’s been nothing but polite as a person and professional as a construction worker.”
