by Ellen Byron
Rufus eyed her. “You’re not the only one around here who can sense stuff. What are you holding back?”
Maggie was torn—share her instinct about Jayden’s short fuse or wait? Deciding the instinct was closer to gossip than fact, she opted to wait. “I’m not holding back anything concrete. I promise I’ll let you know if anything specific comes up. Charli’s dribbling.”
“Way to throw me off track.” Rufus pulled a spit towel from his back pocket and cooed to Charli as he patted her face, “Who’s daddy’s little princess?” Charli chortled and grabbed his hair. “Alrighty, Maggie, we’re off. Sandy’s starting a new class called BabyDance. She left off the ‘bod’ because calling it ‘Baby DanceBod’ didn’t sound right.”
Maggie laughed. “Good call on her part.”
“Whitney will be by for Xander when she’s done at the doctor’s. If you need anything before then, let me know.”
“Thanks, Ru.” Maggie glanced over at Xander, who had already laid out objects that would create fantastical Mardi Gras masks. “I think we’ll be fine.”
* * *
Maggie taught Xander how to safely use a glue gun and shared a bit of the history behind the masks with him. “They started as a way for people to go crazy on Mardi Gras, but not get in trouble, because no one could tell who they were. The masks hid their identity. These days they’re worn more for fun, although some people still like ones that are such good disguises that their own family members don’t know it’s them underneath.”
Maggie picked up one of Xander’s creations and held it over her face. “Whoo-hoo, laissez les bon temps rouler,” she said, lowering her voice an octave and doing her best Cajun accent as she danced around the room. “I don’t believe we’ve met before, young fella.” She lifted the mask. “See? Would you have recognized me?” Xander shook his head and giggled, which made Maggie’s day. It was evidence of her growing relationship with the boy, who had Asperger’s syndrome and found social interaction uncomfortable.
Maggie returned the mask to its resting place and called up some pictures on her cell phone. “I’d love to make a needlepoint mask like this someday.” She showed Xander an image of a cartoonishly angry expression stitched in a rainbow of wool colors. “But these take a lot of time, and according to my friend Gaynell, it’s easier to breathe through the screen ones like you’re making. So keep going, my friend, and make ’em as scary-fun as ya want.” She laid her Cajun accent on top of the last sentence, earning another chuckle from Xander.
She spent the next few hours with one eye on her own work and the other on her young charge, taking a brief break to show Xander photos her parents texted of the kitten and puppy the boy was set to adopt from Brooke’s and Jolie’s litters. He’d already developed such a strong bond with the furbabies that it inspired a breakthrough in his case of selective mutism. Toward the end of the day, the room filled with a group of tourists eager to learn about Maggie’s genealogical link to Doucet on Ninette’s side, and she only got to wave at Whitney when Bo’s ex-wife came to pick up their son. The tourists left shortly after Whitney and Xander. Maggie checked the time on her cell phone and saw she was running late for Mo’s skin care party.
She hastily cleaned up, then dashed to her car. She didn’t want to sacrifice a minute of uncovering potential clues to Gerard’s murder. As she slid into the Falcon’s front seat, Maggie caught a glimpse of herself in the rearview mirror and noticed a tiny new wrinkle on her forehead. Picking up a few new skin care items might not be a bad idea either.
Chapter 10
Maggie made it home in time to change, once again opting for her funeral garb. “I really have to expand my wardrobe beyond mourning wear,” she said to Gopher, who responded by rolling onto his back for a tummy rub. Jolie copied his move, and Maggie couldn’t resist giving both dogs quick rubs. By the time she arrived at Mo’s, all of the parking spots in front of the skin care saleswoman’s shotgun home were taken. Maggie parked a block away and tottered to the party in her rarely worn black heels. If she had any doubt she was in the wrong location, the giant promotional sign for Veevay Beauty, featuring a glamour shot of Mo, dispelled it. The white noise of women’s chatter wafted through the windows and onto the street. It grew close to a cacophony when Maggie opened the unlocked front door and entered the house.
With bright purple walls, a couch upholstered in fabric the color of navel oranges, and green, purple, and yellow accent pillows everywhere, Mo’s living room was a vibrant riot of color. It’s like a bag of Mardi Gras beads magically transformed into furniture, Maggie thought as she took in the sight. The party was peopled with pageant contest moms, which was no surprise. The event afforded them a can’t-miss opportunity to curry favor with the judges—at least the two present, Maggie and Mo. The Veevay magnate was the life of her own party, passing appetizers, guffawing at a comment one guest made, giving a bear hug to another. Maggie found herself enveloped in Mo’s arms and a cloud of her gardenia-scented perfume. “Maggie, you made it! Way to go!”
At the sound of Maggie’s name, a half-dozen women’s heads turned as if choreographed, and she was instantly the center of a small group of momtestants. This year’s daughter might not be a finalist, but that didn’t rule out a younger daughter getting a shot at the title. She couldn’t get a word in as they chattered obsequious sentiments and bounced between self-serving questions and genuine fear.
“That was terrible, what happened to Gerard. Are you okay?”
“Why would the police need to interview me? I don’t know anything.”
“I dropped off a tray of my jambalaya with Constance. It was the least I could do.”
“Is it true he was murdered? That was all over the laundromat this morning.”
“Is there anything we need to know about how this will affect the pageant?”
Maggie’s unlikely rescuer was Gin Bertrand. “Now, y’all, give the woman a break.” Gin put a hand under Maggie’s elbow and steered her out of the gaggle to the one empty corner of the room. “I need you to tell me something.” Gin’s voice was low, her tone intense. “Do the police have a suspect?”
“I honestly don’t know, Gin.”
“Because the police always go straight to anyone with a bit of bad in their past and then ignore everyone else.”
Gin balled up her hands into fists. Maggie took a small step away from her. “I’m assuming you have some bad in your past?”
Gin attempted a casual shrug. “I have a little record.”
“I think that’s like being ‘a little’ pregnant, Gin. You either have a record or you don’t.”
Gin’s shoulders sagged. “It was your basic bar fight between two gals over who got to ride on the back of a cute guy’s hog. But I was convicted of simple assault. I did thirty days in jail and two years’ probation.”
“I’m sure that was a long time ago.”
“Nope, just last year. I’m kinda still on probation.”
Maggie’s eyes widened, but she managed not to blurt out, “Are you kidding?” Instead, she said, “Pelican PD is good about treating everyone equally. And you wouldn’t be the first or last person who walked into an investigation with a record.”
This engendered a cackle from Gin. “Ain’t that the truth. Thank you, Maggie. You’ve gone a long way to easing my fears. Let’s get back to the party.”
Maggie was only too happy to end the conversation, which had unnerved her. She threaded her way through the women, passing Denise and Pauline, who both gave small waves of greeting. She stopped in front of the bar, where Mo was chatting with a petite, almost painfully thin woman in her mid-thirties. “Maggie, this is Stacy Metz, Robbie’s wife. She’s probably the only person here for the actual products. She doesn’t have a horse in this pageant race.”
“Yet.” Stacy smiled a greeting. “Three of my four kids are girls, so I’m sure there’s a contest in my future. It’s lovely to meet you, Maggie. Robbie says such nice things about you.”
Maggie was abo
ut to respond when Mo put two fingers in her mouth and emitted an ear-piercing whistle. Maggie winced and covered her ears, which were ringing. “Ladies, thank y’all so much for coming. Now find yourself a seat.” Everyone who could find a seat did so, leaving half a dozen women, including Maggie, standing. “Before we begin exploring an exciting new beauty regimen,” Mo said, “I’d like to take a moment of silence in honor of an esteemed Pelican citizen who was taken from our community too soon: Gerard Damboise.”
The crowd murmured agreement. Maggie had barely closed her eyes and lowered her head before “Thus Spake Zarathustra” rumbled, then blasted from a wireless speaker. “Prepare to be transported back to a time when your skin was at its most youthful and beautiful,” Mo intoned.
“All I want is skin as gorgeous as yours, Mo,” Gin said.
Other women laughed and applauded, although Maggie sensed a few might be aggravated they hadn’t flattered the pageant judge first.
“Oh no, no, no,” Mo said, waving her arms dramatically. “You don’t want my skin—you want yours. My job is to enhance what the good Lord gave you. So let’s talk about how each and every one of you can use the Veevay line of skin care and beauty products to do exactly that.”
For the next hour, Maggie divided her attention between observing the guests in action and experimenting with creams, lotions, and makeup made from “nature’s own beauty products.” She allowed Mo to cover her face with a five-minute mask loaded with lavender petals. “Wash it off, and tell me your skin doesn’t feel as smooth as the day you popped out of your mama,” Mo said.
The small guest bathroom was occupied, so Maggie walked down the hallway until she found a bathroom secreted away in a corner of Mo’s home office. Maggie washed off the mask and ran her hands over her face, impressed her skin felt as soft as Mo claimed it would. Hey, snap out of it and focus on investigating, Maggie’s inner voice chided.
She stepped out of the bathroom into the office. Affecting a casual attitude she didn’t feel, Maggie wandered over to Mo’s desk. There she lucked out. Mo was no fan of “Power Save,” because her online calendar was lit up on her computer’s twenty-six-inch screen. Maggie scanned the open page, chuckling at the poop emoji Mo used to highlight the next pageant meeting, happy to know she wasn’t alone in finding pageant judging an onerous task. She listened to see if anyone was coming down the hallway, heard no one, and then clicked the mouse. The screen swiped to the next week’s list of activities. Again, Maggie scanned the page. She stopped at nine AM on Tuesday. “Appointment, Dr. Petit.” Why does that name sound so familiar? She closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths to center herself. An image of a commercial floated into her mind—a fit, slick doctor motioning to a surgically perfect woman standing next to him as he told the camera, “At Petit Plastic Surgery, we make what’s good even better.”
Maggie pulled her cell out of her purse and did a quick search for Dr. Petit’s in the area. There was only one, the Dr. Petit of commercial fame. Which led to a question: Why would the queen of skin care, who built a business on the great dermis “the good Lord gave her” need to see a plastic surgeon? Don’t jump to conclusions, Maggie cautioned herself. People saw plastic surgeons for many reasons besides bodily beautification. Still, she snapped a quick picture of the calendar page, tamping down her the guilt she felt about her clandestine behavior. She genuinely liked Mo and hoped whatever secrets she held wouldn’t prove to be a motive for murder.
Maggie put away her phone, clicked the calendar back to its original page, and returned to the party. She was once again impressed by Mo’s sales savvy. Her guests bought products for themselves, their husbands, their teenagers. Maggie herself filled a Veevay bag with enough skin care and beauty supplies to merit a few extra shifts at Doucet. Mo even signed up five women to her multitier marketing team. Pelican was on track to claim the title of Town with the Best Complexions in Louisiana.
“Y’all, this is the best Veevay party ever,” Mo said, somehow managing to sound like she didn’t say this at every Veevay party. “I saved a big surprise for the end. Guess what? Veevay’s launching its own jewelry line and it is bling-tastic!” The guests collectively oohed and aahed. “Y’all will get special prizes if you preorder. Here’s the catalog.”
Maggie, who limited her jewelry to small hoop earrings and a gold crawdaddy charm that had been a gift from her parents when she graduated high school, passed on checking out the catalog. As the other woman pored over the copies Mo handed out, Maggie took a final visual sweep of the room. She noticed Stacy Metz picking up a sample jar of Veevay Age Reversal Night Cream. Stacy then surreptitiously dropped the jar into her purse. Gin walked over to her boss’s wife and handed Stacy a jewelry catalog. “Stacy, chére, you’ve gotta see this. There’s one pretty item after another.”
“Oh. Alright.”
Stacy took the catalog and began perusing it. Maggie watched as Gin, unseen by Stacy, removed the stolen jar from the woman’s purse and returned it to the table. Gin’s eyes met Maggie’s. She telegraphed a plea to keep the moment between them. Maggie gave a subtle nod and purposefully turned her attention elsewhere.
A moment later, there was a tap on her shoulder. She turned and found herself face to face with Gin. “Can we talk a quick minute?” Maggie nodded, and Gin gestured to the front porch. The women stepped outside, where the night was dense with humidity. Gin wiped a few drops of perspiration from her forehead with her forefinger. “I wanted you to know Stacy Metz is a good woman who happens to have a problem.”
“Has she gotten help?”
“Yes. She does okay for a while and then starts again. But we take care of her. Park ’n’ Shop is family.”
“You don’t have to worry, Gin. I won’t say anything.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that. I best be getting back to her.”
Gin hurried into the house. Maggie, pensive, remained on the porch. She thought of Robbie Metz, a hardworking businessman with political aspirations and a deeply troubled wife. And she realized Maureen “Mo” Heedles wasn’t the only pageant judge harboring secrets someone might kill to keep.
Chapter 11
After a half hour of goodbyes, Maggie managed to extricate herself from the party. She was walking to her car when she heard someone call her name. She turned to see Denise Randall. The pageant mom, slightly out of breath, caught up to her. “Boy, I had a bad case of SDS back there,” Denise said. She saw the puzzled expression on Maggie’s face. “Southern Door Syndrome, where you take almost as long to say goodbye as you stayed at the party.”
“I’ve never heard that before. Funny. And oh so true.”
“Anyhoo, I wanted to give you a heads-up that Allouette already sent you her essay for the Gerard Damboise Memorial Award. I’m guessing she’s the first?” Denise tried and failed to sound casual.
Maggie took pity on her. She pulled out her phone and checked. “Yup, her essay is here. She’s the first.”
“Oh good. I mean, not that it makes a difference. Although it does show how enthusiastic she is. She wouldn’t let me read it. Teenagers, huh?” Denise gave a comically exaggerated eye roll. “Anyway, I hope you enjoy the essay. And appreciate the time and effort Allouette put into it. Bye-yee.”
Denise beeped open the door on her nondescript silver compact sedan, hopped in, and drove off. Now curious about Allouette’s opus, Maggie opened the document on her phone. “Unbelievable,” she muttered. She shot an email to the teen; if Allouette was done with homework, she needed to get her teen tush to a meeting with Maggie at Junie’s.
* * *
“Here you go.” Maggie deposited a Diet Dr. Pepper in front of the sullen girl sharing her table.
“Thanks.” Allouette looked down at the drink but didn’t pick it up.
“I’m going to read your essay back to you.” Maggie picked up her phone. “‘Stuff happened.’” She put down the phone, folded her arms across her chest, and waited for Allouette to respond.
“Well, it did.�
�
“Allouette—”
“Allie. I hate my name. It’s so stupid and fakey and not me.”
“O-kaaay. Allie, I can’t accept this ‘essay.’”
Allie perked up for the first time since Maggie had met her. “Does that mean I’m disqualified?”
“It’s not that easy. Believe me, I’ve tried.”
Allie’s look of misery returned. “Ugh. I hate it here. I hate Pelican. How could you come back? You were in New York, the coolest place ever. Don’t you miss it? How could you leave?”
“There are things I miss about my life there,” Maggie acknowledged. “Friends, the city’s energy. When I first came back to Pelican, I came back as a coward. I was running away from a bad relationship. I never planned to stay. But now—and it’s been a slow journey, believe me—I think it’s where I’m meant to be. Professionally and personally.”
“No offense, but I hope I’m never you.”
“Ouch. A little offensive.” Maggie leaned in to Allie. “But I get it. Look, if you want to get out of Pelican so badly, winning this contest could help you. There’s a little bit of scholarship money attached to it. And maybe you can reuse what you write on a college application. Try again, Allie. And write the truth. The good and bad of life on Doucet Plantation. That won’t offend me, I promise.”
Allie looked wary. “Really? You won’t be pissed off if I write bad stuff? Or are you doing that thing where adults say something they don’t really mean and suck you in? You think you’re not going to get in trouble, and then you do.”
“Boy, I really hope I’m not that dysfunctional.”
A tiny smile appeared on Allie’s face, which she instantly tried to quell. “Okay. I’ll rewrite the stupid essay if I have to.” She hesitated and then added sincerely, “Thank you.”
Allie took off, almost crossing paths with Bo, who gave Maggie a kiss, then took a seat. JJ walked a beer and a cocktail over to their table. “Your regular, monsieur. And Old Shari feels you for a Pimm’s Cup tonight, Maggie.”
