A Flair for Beignets (The Sadie Kramer Flair Mysteries Book 3)

by Deborah Garner

  “Thank you,” Broussard said.

  “Will you be at the reopening?” Sadie said. “Lisette’s done such a beautiful job fixing the place up. Made me think about the remodeling the hotel is planning.”

  Broussard leaned forward. “What remodeling?”

  “The hotel is planning to remodel,” Sadie said. “At least I think it is.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “I saw Horace LeBlanc drop a paper at Bluette’s the other day,” Sadie said. “I picked it up. It’s not appropriate to litter, you know.” She shook her head with an expression of disapproval.

  “Yet you kept the paper instead of throwing it in the trash, as someone would do with litter,” Broussard pointed out. “And you also didn’t catch up to the man who dropped it, to give it back to him.”

  Sadie shrugged her shoulders. “I was curious. Horace and the other man had been going over the papers when Clotile came in and started arguing with them.

  “Clotile is the friend you met on the plane coming here. She was with you at the bakery that morning.”

  “Yes,” Sadie said. “Also… Horace makes me nervous. He could be involved, you know. There’s a family feud that goes way back. You should look into that.”

  “We’re looking into many possibilities,” Broussard said. “But let’s back up a minute. You kept the paper but didn’t think it was important to bring it to our attention here at the station, is that correct?”

  “After I got back to the hotel room and looked at the paper, I figured they were just arguing about the remodeling plans,” Sadie said. “People often disagree with things like that, you know—wallpaper, for instance, or whether or not to have statues of lions at the front entrance, or if —”

  “Yes, I see your point,” Broussard said quickly.

  “I didn’t think it would matter,” Sadie said.

  Broussard leveled a gaze at Sadie. “Everything matters until we say it doesn’t. Do you still have it?”

  “Yes. In fact, I think I have it with me.” Sadie rummaged through her bag, much to Coco’s annoyance. Eventually she found the paper stuffed in an inside pocket. She pulled it out and handed it to the detective.

  “You say this is a plan for remodeling?” Broussard looked over the paper, frowning. “I’m not so sure about that.”

  “Look at the diagrams,” Sadie said. “You can see that one section is shaped like the lobby. So I figured it must be remodeling or renovating or something like that. What else do you think it is?” Coco stuck her head out of the tote bag, appearing to be interested in the answer, as well.

  “You see the notes at the bottom of the page and those initials?” Broussard pointed out a small section of writing. “This was put together by some sort of business entity. There’s no address, but there’s a phone number.” He contemplated the paper, thinking. “Looks like a Chicago area code.”

  Sadie shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean.”

  “I can tell you what it means,” Broussard said as he stood up. “It means I need to make a phone call. Wait here.” He left the room, taking the diagram and notes with him.

  Sadie watched the detective leave the room, closing the door behind him. With no idea how long he would be gone, she took Coco out of the tote and set her down on the floor. Coco stretched her front legs, then her back, and proceeded to cruise around the perimeter of the room. Apparently, Broussard was not the only one who considered himself a detective. Coco was determined to sniff out whatever she might find.

  Ten minutes passed and then another ten. Finally Broussard returned to the room. He carried a legal size notepad with half a page of scribbled writing on it. His hand gripped a pen.

  “What did you find out?” Sadie asked, as if they were equal partners in getting to the bottom of whatever was going on with the hotel, the Arnaud and LeBlanc families, and the odd cast of peripheral characters. Of course, there were those pesky details too: the tainted whipped cream showing up in her fridge and the recent dognapping episode.

  “I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation.” Broussard sat down and looked at Sadie. “We’ll need to keep the paper.”

  “I figured you’d hold on to it,” Sadie said.

  “The notations at the bottom may help us. And we’ll run it for fingerprints and see what comes back.”

  “Obviously you’ll find mine since I just handed it to you,” Sadie said. “And Horace LeBlanc’s will be on there. And probably Clotile’s since she tapped something during that argument. Oh, and maybe a paw print…”

  This last thought reminded Sadie that Coco was still loose. She glanced around the room and then under the table, where she found Coco polishing the unsuspecting detective’s shoes with kisses. She called Coco over to her before Broussard noticed. Placing her back in the tote, she turned her attention back to the discussion at hand.

  “I hope the paper helps you,” Sadie said. “It’s the least I can do in exchange for protecting me with pruning shears.”

  “Uh… sure,” Broussard said. He frowned and then stood up. Sadie followed his lead, and the two walked to the front of the station.

  “Maybe we’ll find something; maybe we won’t,” Broussard said. “We won’t know until we check. I wouldn’t worry about the paw print. I doubt it will be in our system.” He paused for a moment. “Or will it?”

  “Of course not!” Sadie bristled at the implication, though she suspected the detective wasn’t being serious.

  “Good,” Broussard said. “I’ll be in touch then.”

  Sadie thanked him and walked outside.

  “Silly me,” Sadie said to Coco. “I shouldn’t have mentioned your paw print—or their surveillance techniques, for that matter. They do need their secrets, after all.”

  The yip from her tote bag confirmed this. That was one nice thing about Coco. She always agreed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CCCC 5:00?

  Sadie didn’t know whether she should be concerned that she knew what the text meant or not. She was a few decades too old for teen text abbreviations, but she understood Clotile’s question nonetheless.

  Sounds good.

  It did sound good, after all. Happy hour at Cyril’s was one of the better late afternoon hot spots she’d ever been to, at least from the food and drink viewpoint. And she was determined to take in as much New Orleans culture as she could before heading back to San Francisco—great food, great music, and great people-watching opportunities. There was no doubt about it. Cyril’s Crazy Cajun Cookery had it all.

  Arriving early, Sadie had her choice of a few tables. She grabbed one not far from the buffet, openly admitting to herself that the table’s proximity to food made it especially appealing. She ordered a Hurricane from the server and then helped herself to a selection of sausage-stuffed mushrooms and crab fingers. She returned to her table just as the Hurricane arrived. Sitting back, she sipped her drink, dipped a crab finger in cocktail sauce, and waited for Clotile to arrive. Before long, half her Hurricane was gone and her foot was tapping along with the music.

  “Diggy Liggy Lo!”

  Sadie watched Clotile slide into the seat across from her. “What did you say?” She’d recognized the voice but not the words.

  “Diggy Liggy Lo,” Clotile repeated as she waved to the server and pointed to Sadie’s drink. Turning back to Sadie, she said, “Diggy Liggy Lo…”

  “Clotile! Stop it!” Sadie laughed. “I don’t speak any foreign languages.”

  Clotile glanced under the table and then back at Sadie. “Well, your foot does. I was trying to tell you that’s the name of the song. It’s a favorite Cajun tune.”

  “Oh,” Sadie said. “Of course. I knew that.”

  Clotile rolled her eyes. “Right.”

  “It’s nice to see you out of disguise,” Sadie said, earning a return look that was either amused or annoyed. Most likely, it was both.

  “I didn’t want to take a chance of being recognize
d,” Clotile said.

  Sadie took a sip of her drink and set it down. “I’d say that was obvious. People don’t usually wear disguises for any other reason.”

  “Good point,” Clotile said. She paid the server as her drink arrived, then she headed to the buffet. She returned with the same assortment of appetizers that Sadie had chosen. “Can’t go wrong with crab fingers,” she said.

  “Back to the disguise,” Sadie said.

  “Oh, that,” Clotile said. “Really, it was silly. I was just being paranoid, I guess.”

  “Paranoid?” Sadie almost choked on a stuffed mushroom. “You scared the heck out of me, saying we were both in danger. And then I didn’t hear from you after that.”

  “I’m sorry,” Clotile said. “I ran into… an old friend the other day. Well, not exactly a friend. Someone from my past,” Clotile said. “It doesn’t matter now.”

  “Well, it matters to me.” Sadie leaned closer and cupped her hand in such a way that her words wouldn’t reach her tote bag. “Someone tried to steal Coco last night.”

  “What?” Clotile’s stunned look appeared sincere. “Why didn’t you call me?” She paused. “Oh wait, I get it. Now you think I did that too? Just like you accused me of trying to poison you?” She looked around the room and then back at Sadie. “So where is he?”

  “Who?”

  “The detective,” Clotile said. “Do you have a detective with you again? Is that why you agreed to meet me here?” She stood up, ready to walk out.

  “Sit back down,” Sadie said, swishing her hand in the air as if to brush the tension away. “There’s no detective here with me. I agreed to meet you because I wanted to.”

  Clotile looked dubious but also eyed the drink and appetizers she was about to abandon. “Fine,” she said. She sat back down and picked up a crab finger.

  “But I want you to tell me what’s going on, Clotile,” Sadie said. “You know more than you’re saying. You can’t tell me we’re in danger and then not tell me why. Or at least tell me why you said that.”

  Clotile took a hearty slug of her drink and leaned forward. “Listen, you can’t repeat this, or we’ll be in even more danger.”

  Sadie remained quiet, waiting.

  “I ran into Johnny the other day,” Clotile said. “A guy from my past. I worked with him on a few deals but got out when I realized he was involved in some bad business.”

  “Where was this?” Sadie asked.

  “In Chicago.”

  Sadie froze. Chicago?

  “You’re from Chicago? Are you working with LMNOP?” Sadie watched Clotile closely.

  “Am I what?”

  “I asked if you’re working with LMNOP,” Sadie said.

  “How many Hurricanes have you had?” Clotile asked, incredulous. “What kind of name is LMNOP?”

  “A ridiculous one, but forget that for now,” Sadie said. After all, she wasn’t going to get a straight answer anyway. “You never mentioned Chicago before. I thought you were a local.” Sadie fought to keep her voice steady. What was it about this vacation that had her constantly in fight-or-flight mode?

  “I am a local!” Clotile said. “I was born here, right down the street at Charity Hospital, the one that closed after Katrina. My family goes back generations. My name is Clotile Laurent, for heaven’s sake. Does that sound like a good old Chicago name to you?”

  Sadie considered it. “You could be from Quebec or Paris.”

  “Or Montreal or the Côte d’Azur,” Clotile added. “But I’m not.”

  “Fine,” Sadie said. “Tell me who this ‘Johnny’ is.” The man at the French Market, the man in the alley, and the man talking with Horace. These things I already know. She kept these thoughts to herself, once again feeling she couldn’t trust anyone, including Clotile.

  “I need more crab fingers first,” Clotile said.

  “Totally understandable,” Sadie said. She followed Clotile to the buffet. When they returned, Clotile launched into her story.

  “I met Johnny at a bar called Tony’s. I’d just moved up to Chicago and was looking for work. Johnny bought me a drink and told me he was into real estate and needed someone to work in the office, an administrative assistant.”

  “A pickup line if I ever heard one,” Sadie quipped.

  “Exactly what I thought!” Clotile said, completely missing Sadie’s sarcasm. “But I needed a job, so I visited the office. Everything seemed on the up-and-up, so I started working.”

  Sadie downed the rest of her Hurricane. “If I could make that scary sound that precedes danger in slapstick films now, I would.”

  “Dun, dun, dun,” Clotile mimicked.

  “Close enough,” Sadie said.

  The server stopped by the table for drink reorders. Clotile ordered another, but Sadie declined. She needed to be able to think clearly in order to tell Clotile’s truths from her lies. Something wasn’t adding up. The question was what.

  “It didn’t take long to figure out Johnny was up to no good,” Clotile said. “He was running real estate scams, taking advantage of people.”

  Sadie knew about real estate deals from her late husband’s business. There were good deals, there were bad deals, and there were really bad deals. It sounded like Johnny was into the latter, and the Hotel Arnaud-LeBlanc was about to be a victim of his schemes. That didn’t bode well for Horace, who obviously knew something was wrong by now. Sadie thought back to the conversation she’d overheard in the alley. “You shouldn’t have come here… It’s none of your business… I’m making it my business now…”

  “So that’s why you were arguing with Horace and Johnny?”

  Clotile blinked. “What are you talking about?”

  Sadie waited for the server to set Clotile’s drink order down and walk away before continuing. “I was at Bluette’s the other morning when you walked in and approached their table, Clotile,” Sadie said. “I saw how angry you were. Not to mention the smug looks on their faces after you walked out.”

  “Smug looks? Well, of all the nerve.” Clotile grabbed her Hurricane and gulped a third of it down. A new Cajun tune sounded from the overhead speakers. “‘Jolie Blonde’!” Clotile clapped her hands. “Another good one.”

  “Focus, Clotile!” Sadie said.

  “I am focusing,” Clotile said, drink in hand and head swinging side to side with the beat of the music. “On the song and the Hurricane.”

  Her patience growing thinner, Sadie decided to try a different approach.

  “I have a copy of the papers Horace and Johnny were looking at.”

  Clotile’s party attitude screeched to a hot Cajun halt. “What? You have the papers?”

  “I have one,” Sadie said. “Horace dropped it on his way out of Bluette’s. That’s how I know about LMNOP. So don’t try to tell me you don’t know what it is. That’s the company you worked for in Chicago, isn’t it?”

  Clotile shook her head. “No. Johnny had a few companies. Actually, a different one for each deal. SMNYP, for example, and RMLAP.”

  “What did those stand for?” Sadie asked.

  “Let me think,” Clotile said. “Not that I want to remember those deals. With the SMNYP deal, the building just happened to burn down right before the deal closed. And with RMLAP, a water main broke. That was a mess. So much damage…”

  “The initials, Clotile,” Sadie prompted.

  “SMNYP… that was for Stevens-Malone New York Properties,” Clotile said. “And let me think… RMLAP was for Rogers-Malone Los Angles Properties.”

  “Johnny’s last name is Malone, isn’t it?” Sadie said.

  Clotile nodded. “Yes, John Malone. He always bragged about being related to Bugsy Malone. You know…”

  “That should have been a sign right there,” Sadie pointed out.

  Clotile sighed. “I figured that out. Just not soon enough.”

  “It doesn’t matter now. We need to warn Horace,” Sadie said. “And call Detective Broussard too.

  “Because…�
� Clotile knowingly allowed Sadie to finish.

  “Because LMNOP stands for LeBlanc-Malone New Orleans Properties.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Horace was nowhere to be found when Sadie and Clotile reached the hotel. The front desk clerk could only offer that “he stepped out unexpectedly.”

  That did not sit well with Sadie. One murder was enough for one vacation. Besides, who would another victim be if there were to be one? Horace—because Johnny was fed up with him? Johnny—because Horace was fed up with him? Clotile—because she blew Johnny’s cover when she argued with him at the bakery that day? Back to Horace—because Clotile exposed Johnny’s background in running scams? Or, could it be…

  No, she wasn’t even going to think it could be herself. Everything they’d done so far seemed intended to scare her away. The whipped cream switch had happened quickly while she was taking Coco for a walk. An anonymous tip was called into the police immediately. She wouldn’t have found the whipped cream in that short a time. That was a setup.

  And stealing Coco? No, it was unthinkable that whoever was behind this would harm a sweet, innocent dog. That was intended to scare her as well. Who would try to steal a large travel palace on a bicycle? They might have even intended to drop it in the alley and drive away. That alone would have given her a scare—an understatement for sure—when she would have found her in the alley.

  Any one of these people might have been the one to kill Mimi. Like everything else, the question was why. She still couldn’t figure out a motive. No one had said anything negative about Mimi. Besides, she ran the hotel. She was valuable, an asset. Again, there was no motive that she could figure.

  Sadie stepped away from the desk but paused at the reader board, which listed special events at the hotel via a digital printout. Dignified wording announced “Mimi Arnaud Celebration of Life—7:00 P.M. in the Gallery Room.”

  “Clotile,” Sadie said, thinking she was standing right beside her. Instead, she had to look around the lobby. She finally found her in a far corner, reading a fashion magazine.