Текст книги "Plantation Shudders"

Автор книги: Ellen Byron

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Plantation Shudders

Plantation Shudders A Cajun Country Mystery

Ellen Byron

New York

This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, organizations, places and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real or actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2015 by Ellen Byron

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Crooked Lane Books, an imprint of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.

Crooked Lane Books and its logo are trademarks of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.

The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

ISBN (hardcover): 978-1-62953-250-9

e-ISBN: 978-1-62953-251-6

Cover design by Jennifer Canzone.

www.crookedlanebooks.com

Crooked Lane Books

2 Park Avenue, 10th Floor

New York, NY 10016

First Edition: August 2015

Dedicated to the two loves of my life, Jerry and Eliza.

Also to my beloved mother, Elizabeth, and my deeply lamented late father, Richard Seideman.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Epilogue

A Lagniappe about Plantation Shudders

Footnote

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

Maggie flew down southern Louisiana’s River Road in the red ’64 Falcon convertible that she’d inherited from her late grandfather. Strands of brown hair from her thick ponytail whipped her face, but after a day spent flouncing around in a polyester plantation belle gown as a tour guide at Doucet Plantation, the wind’s attack felt great.

The familiar scenery followed a pattern: bucolic countryside, hideous industrial plant, an empty field, hideous petrochemical plant. This was the schizophrenic nature of what the legendary road had become—one plantation after another either demolished or demoralized with a monstrous neighbor. But there were some gorgeous survivors, like Doucet—and Crozat.

As Maggie crossed the Mississippi and drove toward Bayou Beurre, she thought of tales her family told about love-struck suitors who swam across the mighty river, braving its wicked currents for the chance to woo her great-great-great-grandmother, Magnolia Marie Doucet. It sure beat the “whassup” texts Maggie got from her last boyfriend.

The river receded into the background, and gradually the ratio of countryside to industrial complex tilted in countryside’s favor. She slowed down as she passed the large “Welcome to Pelican” sign that featured a fat grinning pelican playing an accordion under the town motto, “Yes, We Pelican!” It was a clever way of reminding the world that local pronunciation required emphasis on the last syllable of the town’s name, not the first. But Maggie preferred her personal slogan: “Pelican: The Town People Are Smart Enough to Come Home To or Too Dumb to Leave.”

Rather than make a left into Pelican, she stayed on course. A white fence appeared on the left side of the road, its long reach broken in the middle by an open gate. She turned and entered the property, driving down a hard-packed dirt road under a canopy of pine and oak trees. The trees forked left and right to embrace their prize: Crozat Plantation.

While the Doucets, her mom’s family, had long ago donated their historic cash guzzler of a plantation to the state, the Crozats, her dad’s family, had clung to their ancestral domain, which they now operated as a gracious bed and breakfast. It wasn’t the largest plantation in Louisiana, but with its classic Greek Revival architecture, Crozat was one of the most iconic. Thirty-two majestic square columns encircled the entire mansion. A second floor balcony also ran its circumference, and each floor featured a wide, welcoming veranda. Crozat was more human than house to Maggie, pulsing with life drawn from the generations of strong and quirky inhabitants it had sheltered for almost two hundred years.

As much as Maggie got a kick out of working at Doucet Plantation and entertaining visitors with her personal connection to it, Crozat was home. But it was a home she envisioned visiting during holidays or for the occasional getaway weekend from New York. It was not a place she planned to slink back to as a thirty-two-year-old whose personal life and career both hit a wall. The Brooklyn art gallery that Maggie and her boyfriend of six years had cofounded was now being run by her ex and the woman he’d married instead of her. She had returned to Louisiana searching for the inspiration she needed to ignite her own career as an artist, but success was proving elusive. Maggie feared that she disproved her own slogan—maybe it wasn’t so smart to come home to Pelican.

“No,” she shouted into the air. She stopped the car, stood up, and shook her fist at the heavens in her best Scarlett O’Hara-reaches-the-end-of-her-rope imitation. “As God is my witness, I will not have downer feelings today.” Maggie resumed a leisurely drive toward the plantation, and her melancholia melted away as she absorbed the lovely view of Crozat. She searched for a new perspective on the old home that she could bring to life through oil paints or vibrant watercolors, perhaps even pastels.

Then she suddenly shuddered as a chill ran through her lithe body on the warm August day.

People in Pelican took “the shudders” seriously. Whenever they struck Maggie’s Grand-mère Crozat, she drawled dramatically, “Someone’s walkin’ on muh graaave.” This was followed by a heated family debate over whom that might be until everyone agreed that it was a case for the town voodoo priestess, a woman respected both for her psychic abilities and for the fact she was the first local merchant to download the app that enabled her cell phone to take credit cards.

Maggie searched her mind for what could have spooked her but came up empty. Maybe this was just one of those rare cases where a chill was just a chill, she shrugged. Still . . . it made her nervous.

She drove past the plantation into a garage placed at the far end of the property, where guests wouldn’t notice its peeling paint. The Crozats were still playing financial catch-up after Hurricane Katrina, so repainting the family garage was on hold until possibly forever. Maggie parked, got out of the car, and walked to the family’s organic garden patch, where her mother, Ninette Doucet Crozat, was gathering vegetables. The family’s beloved Basset hound rescue, Gopher, was by her side. He was in his favorite position, head and torso resting on the ground, catching rays while the lower half of his body cooled off in a hole he’d dug—hence the name Gopher.

“Need some help, Mom?”

“I’m good,” Ninette said, pushing her baseball cap back to dab at a few drops of perspiration. Her tiny figure disguised a will so strong that it had powered her through a bout of Hodgkin’s lymphoma in her early twenties. “Your dad may need help, though. We had a few last-minute reservations come through. I think we’re finally full up for the week.”

“Excellent. I was getting worried.”

“We all were, honey. Now, why don’t you take this kale into the kitchen?”

Maggie took the basket of kale from Ninette and headed for the plantation kitchen, her steps lightened by the relief of a “No Vacancy” sign. Late summer bookings had been hurt by a national trend toward starting the school year in August rather than after Labor Day. But if there was one time of year that every hostelry in Pelican should be booked up, it was the week of Fet Let.

Louisiana abounded with festivals celebrating its unique blend of cultures. They ranged from New Orleans’s world-renowned JazzFest to Pelican’s Fete L’ete—Fet Let to Pelicaners—a casual event that honored the end of summer. Businesses and families set up stands around the town square where they sold crafts and fantastic homemade food made from recipes handed down through generations. Singers sang, fiddlers fiddled, and there was the requisite bounce house and petting zoo for the kids. To capitalize on the popular event, Maggie had suggested a Fet Let end-of-summer special, offering a discounted room rate plus breakfast, dinner, and happy hour for guests who booked August’s last full week. She was happy to see that her brainstorm had paid off.

She put the kale in the industrial-size refrigerator. Then she walked into the back parlor where her father, Thibaut “Tug” Crozat, worked at a computer housed in a nineteenth-century secretary. Grand-mère Crozat, clad in pale blue linen pants and a crisp white blouse, her soft gray hair meticulously coiffed as always, sat on a nearby wingback chair. She had an iPad with an attached keyboard perched on her lap.

“Are the reservations confirmed? Can I update our page?” Grand-mère asked her son. Gran’ had become the family social media maven, a poster girl for the computer-loving seniors who were chasing teens off Facebook.

“All confirmed. Update away, Mama.”

As Gran’ gleefully posted on the plantation’s Facebook page, Maggie peered over her father’s shoulder at his computer screen. Tug’s red-gold hair took on a metallic glint in the evening’s setting sun. “What’s the breakdown?” she asked.

“Two couples, one of them honeymooners; some college boys here to fish; a single male; a family from Australia; and four women who are the executive board of a group called the Cajun Cuties, a national group of Cajun wannabes,” Tug said. “They usually meet at Belle Grove Plantation to plan the year’s activities, but Belle Grove’s guesthouse flooded this morning and they rebooked them to us.”

“Thank you, Belle Grove’s antiquated plumbing,” Maggie said.

“Amen to that,” Tug seconded. “Should be an interesting week.”

Maggie and her dad shared a grin. Then she shuddered again.

Tug looked at her, concerned. “You okay?” he asked.

“Yes. I don’t know where that came from.”

“Oh, dear,” Gran’ said. She pursed her lips. “Shudders. That’s not good. Not good at all.” She made the sign of the cross and her son shook his head, amused.

“No need to get melodramatic. Right, Maggie?”

“Right.” Still, Maggie couldn’t help notice her father surreptitiously crossing himself as well. Tug was the Crozat least susceptible to local superstitions. Something had spooked him, which only made Maggie more nervous.

*

Later, as soon as Maggie finished a dinner that was heavy on kale, she drove into Pelican’s Historic Business Center—a lofty name for what was essentially a sleepy village. Its picturesque center featured four blocks of two-story buildings with wrought iron balconies that framed a town green, an unusual feature for the area and the pride of Pelican.

Maggie parked in front of two shops, Bon Bon Sweets and its sister store, Fais Dough Dough Patisserie. She grabbed some boxes from the Falcon’s backseat and walked through Bon Bon into the workroom that it shared with Fais Dough Dough. High school student Briana Poche, her brother Clinton, and a few friends sat at a table stuffing small gauze bags with various herbs, roots, and talismans. Supervising them was Maggie’s cousin, Lia Tienne. Although Lia was seven years older than Maggie, the two had grown up together and were bonded like sisters. Lia’s late father was of Franco-African heritage, which had blessed her with café au lait coloring and the bone structure of Nefertiti. She was recognized as the Pelican town beauty, which mortified her.

Lia smiled when she saw Maggie, who put her boxes down on a workbench. “Hey. Whatcha got for me?”

“Mugs, plates, mostly,” Maggie said. She had started a small side business making souvenirs that featured her artistic take on local landmarks. Instead of the historically accurate but dull illustrations usually featured on such mementos, hers were bold and modern. They had yet to generate a profit, but she took comfort in the fact that at least she was breaking even.

Lia reached into one of Maggie’s boxes and pulled out a black mug that featured a stylized white illustration of a dilapidated plantation. “Oooh, I love this.”

“My SOS series—Save Our Structures. A portion of sales go to the historical society so we can save the buildings that are falling apart.” She pointed to the cup in Lia’s hand. “That’s Grove Hall. If the Durands don’t do something with that place soon, there’s not gonna be anything left to save.” She then eyed the gift bag assembly. “What exactly are you doing?”

“A bride-to-be from Metairie ordered two hundred gris-gris bags for love as wedding favors.”

Maggie held up a silvery gauze bag imprinted with “Brent and Carolyn: A Magical Evening.” “What a great idea.”

“Yes, you’ll have to remember that,” Lia said, grinning.

Maggie shook a finger at her. “Nuh-uh. If my mother doesn’t get to nag me about marriage, you don’t either.”

Maggie joined the teens at the table, and Lia handed her a sharp knife and the ginger root. Maggie started chopping. As each bag was passed around the table, she dropped in a small piece of ginger as another love talisman.

“So, you have a full house?” Lia asked as she carefully packed up completed gris-gris bags.

“Happy to report, yes.” Maggie filled Lia in on the reservations. Lia suddenly shuddered, and Maggie gasped. “You, too? The same thing happened to me. That’s so weird.”

“Something’s not right,” Lia said, shaking her head. “Just . . . not right.”

The kids at the table exchanged concerned looks. There wasn’t a generation in Pelican that didn’t take stock in omens. “Or,” Maggie said, trying to lighten the mood. “Maybe you just shivered because I said that one of our guests was a single guy in his early forties. Just right for you, Leelee.”

Lia didn’t say a word. Instead, she focused on her task, picking up speed as she packed the box. Maggie felt terrible. Lia’s husband Degas had succumbed to leukemia two years earlier. It was a brutal reminder of Plantation Alley’s other, darker nickname—Cancer Alley.

“I’m an idiot. I should have kept my stupid big mouth shut—”

“No, it’s okay. It’s . . . I’m not ready. Honestly, Maggie, I don’t know if I ever will be.”

Briana’s lip quivered and a tear fell on the gris-gris bag she was packing. “Oh, that bag is especially powerful now,” Lia told Briana as she gently laid a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “You get to keep it.” Briana was about to burst into tears when Clinton, a chunky eleventh grader, let out a resounding Coke burp.

“Whoops. Sorry.”

Clinton’s belch broke the tension, and the kids burst into laughter. Lia took a seat next to Maggie and began filling gris-gris bags. She pulled a safety pin out of a box on the table and then took a tiny black bag that smelled like anise and pinned it inside Maggie’s tank top above her heart.

“Oh please, Lia. I am so not in the mood for love these days.”

“It’s not for love.”

Maggie, feeling uneasy, looked at her cousin. “Then what is it for?”

“Protection,” Lia said grimly. “From evil.”

Chapter Two

The next day, after clocking out from her shift at Doucet, Maggie drove home to help Crozat’s guests check in. She parked and walked to the main house, where she saw four middle-aged women who she assumed were the Cajun Cuties extricating themselves from a rented mini SUV parked in front of Crozat. Maggie ran over to help them. All four were clad in leggings and oversized T-shirts, an eighties look that Maggie thought too many women on the flip side of forty still clung to.

“Hi, I’m Maggie Crozat,” she said as she grabbed a heavy suitcase and guided a particularly plump sixtysomething out of the car. “Welcome to Crozat Plantation.”

“Laissez les bons temps rouler,” the woman declared in a New York accent as thick as a slice of Sicilian pizza. Her bright, sparkly makeup was as eighties as her outfit, and a quarter-inch of white roots betrayed her hair’s black dye job. “Let the good times roll! I’m Jan Robbins and I’m proud to be a Cajun Cutie. But I can see who the real Cajun cutie is here.”

Maggie smiled. “To be honest, I’m only half Cajun. My mom’s family is, but my dad’s side is Creole, descended from French settlers, not Acadians.”

“I love it,” Jan declared as she made a heavy landing from the SUV. “Hey, Cuties,” she called to her cohorts, “we lucked out getting moved here.” Marie and Bobby “Bud” Shexnayder, a local couple that the Crozats hired to help during busy weeks, appeared just in time to save Maggie from being swarmed by the enthusiastic group. Marie and Bud piled their suitcases into a wheelbarrow while Maggie led them to the plantation’s converted carriage house. As they walked, Jan surprised her with a spot-on recitation of Crozat’s history.

“Wow,” Maggie said, “You may know more about this place than I do.”

“I love this part of the world,” Jan said. “Every bayou, swamp, and historical site. That’s why I founded the Cuties. We’ve got about five hundred dues-paying members, all people who love Cajun Country as much as I do.”

“Here’s hoping that after your visit, you share a love of Crozat with all those members.”

Jan gave Maggie a thumbs-up. “Laissez les bons temps rouler,” she repeated.

The other guests trickled in as the afternoon wore on. Emily and Shane Butler, a couple not much older than Maggie, turned out to be celebrating their fifth anniversary. Emily was fine-boned and petite, and Shane sported stubble and consciously geeky eyeglasses. They both worked for start-up Internet companies and were the archetypal Brooklyn hipster couple. The family from Australia and frat boys from Georgia showed up almost simultaneously. Carrie and Lachlan Ryker were trim and sporty, as were their three kids.

The frat boys were all blonde, over six feet, and virtually indistinguishable from each other. “We did some days in New Orleans and I still got the hangover to prove it,” one of them told Maggie as another reached into the back of the car and hauled out garbage bags subbing as suitcases for their belongings.

“I’m all about taking an airboat ride and seeing some gators,” the second frat boy said.

The third member of the group nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah,” he added. “I’m totes stoked.”

Kyle Bruner, the “single guy” from Texas, showed up a half hour later. Handsome and polite, he had salt-and-pepper hair, a tanned face, and was shy of the Georgia boys’ height by only an inch or two. But what struck Maggie most about Kyle was the overlay of sadness to him. It was as if he were going through the motions of life rather than actually living it.

“I’m looking forward to my visit,” he told Maggie as she walked him to his room. “I’ve always liked this part of the country.”

“Oh, so you’ve been to Cajun Country before?”

“Yes. I was married in the area.”

Maggie was about to ask Kyle where, but the look of pain that crossed his face stopped her. She wondered why his wife wasn’t with him and discreetly checked his left hand. It bore neither a wedding ring nor a tan line. Whatever had happened between the couple must have occurred some time ago, Maggie thought, but he’s still not over it.

By five o’clock, when everyone met on the veranda for wine and cheese, the only two guests who hadn’t checked in were a Hal and Beverly Clabber. As they all snacked and drank, Gran’ and Maggie entertained the visitors with local lore. Gopher parked himself directly in front of a box fan, where every so often he’d shake his head to keep from dozing off. Occasionally, a dollop of drool would fall from his mouth’s folds and be propelled across the veranda by the fan, narrowly missing a guest. Kyle scored points for helping Tug pass out cocktails. “I’m not very good at sitting around being waited on,” he confessed. Then he asked Gran’ if she needed a refill.

“Always,” Gran’ said as she handed him her glass.

“In the morning, I can show you around Crozat and its outbuildings,” Maggie told the guests.

“That sounds great, doesn’t it, Boo Bear?” Shane Butler said to his wife Emily, who nodded eagerly.

“Fantastic, Boo Bear,” she said as she intertwined her fingers with his.

“Why, you two call each other the same nickname,” Gran’ said. “How adorable. Isn’t that adorable? Kyle, be a dear and freshen my drink. I seem to have drained it rather quickly.”

“Can we swim in the bayou?” asked Luke Ryker, the Australians’ middle child, whom Maggie pegged as about ten years old.

“I wouldn’t recommend it,” Maggie said. “You can’t be sure what’s in there.”

“Like gators,” one of the frat boys jumped in. Unable to keep their names straight, Maggie had secretly nicknamed the group Georgias One, Two, and Three.

“I want to swim with gators!” Luke’s younger brother Sam declared.

Their sister Alice, who looked to be around twelve, gave an annoyed sigh. “You are so embarrassing.” Take away the Aussie accent and Alice could have been any tween in any mall in America.

“We do have a pool,” Maggie said. “Dinner’s not until seven, you could go now.”

The boys raced off to change into swimsuits with their parents on their heels. Alice reluctantly dragged herself behind them.

“I wonder what happened to the Clabbers,” Maggie said as she scanned the long driveway that led to Crozat.

“Maybe they decided not to come,” Tug said as he handed his mother a martini. Gran’ sniffed it suspiciously.

“It better not be one of those awful ‘Cajun’ martinis. They’re the souvenir tea towel of cocktails.”

Before Tug could respond, everyone was startled by the sound of a car explosively backfiring. Attention shifted to a circa-1970s Volvo slowly turning into the long Crozat driveway. It inched its way up the driveway at a pace so sluggish that it became hypnotic. After what could have been a few minutes or an eternity, the car pulled up to the front of Crozat. An elderly woman was at the wheel, while a senior citizen who looked more cadaver than man sat in the passenger seat. He hand-cranked his window down with an ancient, wrinkled hand and glared at the group on the veranda. The man’s watery blue eyes seemed bleached by the sun. “So far I’m very unimpressed with the service,” he said, glaring at the Crozats and their guests.

The newlyweds, Hal and Beverly Clabber, had arrived.

“How about someone helping me with my walker?” Hal Clabber barked at Maggie, Tug, and Bud as they hurried to the couple. Tug pulled suitcases and Hal’s walker out of the car’s trunk while Maggie helped the old man out of the car and Bud tended to Beverly Clabber.

“Our apologies,” Tug said, trying to appease the old crank. “Welcome to Crozat. Can we get you a drink? Some snacks?”

“We’ll take wine—red—cheese, and whatever else you’re offering, in our room.”

“We’re on our honeymoon,” Beverly Clabber added with a wink.

“Well, isn’t that marvelous, just marvelous,” Gran’ declared. Maggie bit her finger to keep from laughing. She knew that the more uncomfortable Gran’ felt, the thicker her accent became, and the Clabbers were inspiring a drawl so pronounced that Gran’ sounded like a hokey Southern dowager from a 1930s B movie.

Hal pushed his walker toward the front steps and stared at them. “The Americans with Disabilities Act prohibits discrimination based on disabilities.”

“Translation: get the ramp, Dad,” Maggie muttered to her father, who seemed uncharacteristically befuddled.

“Yes, right, of course.”

Tug and Bud pulled a wooden ramp out of its discreet hiding place in nearby bushes and placed it over the stairs. Hal carefully pushed himself up it onto the veranda.

“Do you need help, ma’am?” Maggie asked Beverly Clabber.

“I’m fine,” Beverly replied. As opposed to her grouchy husband, Beverly hadn’t stopped smiling since the couple arrived. To say she scampered up the steps would be an exaggeration, but she got to the top without a problem and waited for her husband, smile still plastered on her face. Maggie began to wonder if it was the result of nerve damage from a stroke.

“I’ll show you to your room,” Maggie said, relieved that Tug had serendipitously put them in the one bedroom located on the main floor.

“We requested the first floor,” Hal said.

“No you didn’t,” Maggie somehow managed not to say aloud as she led the Clabbers down the hall to the Rose Room. She opened the ornately carved walnut door and the Clabbers followed her in. With its deep pink walls, white cypress ceiling medallion, and museum-quality furnishings, the Rose Room was legendary among antebellum historians for its pristine Victorian beauty. Good luck finding something to complain about here, Maggie thought as the Clabbers took in their surroundings.

“It’s lovely,” Beverly acknowledged. Hal walkered himself into the en suite bathroom. When he came out, he didn’t look happy. He beckoned to Maggie, who gritted her teeth and followed him into the bathroom. Hal pointed to a roll of toilet paper on a vintage-style wrought iron holder.

“This is all wrong,” he said. “You unroll from the top, not the bottom. It’s much more efficient.”

“Thank you so much for pointing that out.” Maggie reversed the toilet paper, managing to hide the middle finger she was shooting Hal as she did it. “Marie’s on her way with your wine and appetizers. If you need anything else, my cell number’s on the information sheet. Please don’t hesitate to call.”

With that, Maggie backed out of the room, hoping against hope that Hal wouldn’t take her up on the offer. Beverly smiled her Joker smile. “You have to understand,” she said apologetically. “Hal has a leaky anus.”

Maggie couldn’t get to the kitchen fast enough. She pulled a bottle of white wine out of the refrigerator and poured herself a full glass. “Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod.”

Ninette, who was stirring a large pot of jambalaya, watched with concern as Maggie took a big slug of wine. “Honey, are you okay? You never drink before dinner.”

“We never hosted the Clabbers before.” Maggie filled her mother in on the conversation, and Ninette burst out laughing.

“Oh, you poor thing, that is truly awful. I swear, there are days when I think we should just donate this place to the state, like my family did.”

“No, I think what you do—what we do here—is wonderful. It’s the first time that a guest ever brought up leaky anus in conversation. And hopefully the last, although I’ve learned not to assume anything when it comes to our guests.”

*

Maggie managed to avoid the Clabbers the rest of the afternoon. She took a long shower and stretched out the length of time she usually took to apply makeup. She dawdled as she poked through her closet, finally settling on sandals and a coral cotton sundress. Then, steeling herself for the long evening ahead, Maggie walked over to the main house.

She feared what dinner and a few drinks might bring, but the repositioned toilet paper seemed to have mellowed Hal. His nastiness had disappeared, replaced by a patronizing superiority that she often found characteristic of retired college professors—a bit of braggadocio Hal had already dropped into the conversation several times.

Predinner martinis had made Gran’ particularly loquacious, and by the time the main course of chicken and andouille sausage jambalaya was served, she’d enthralled her listeners with tales of Crozat tragedies and triumphs. Duels, star-crossed romances, yellow fever epidemics—Gran’ covered it all. “Legend even has it that the notorious pirate Jean Lafitte buried a casket of treasure somewhere deep in the Crozat woods and then stole Felix Crozat’s finest steed to escape the army battalion that was tasked with hunting him down,” she said in her most theatrical voice.

“It’s like a movie,” said an awestruck Debbie Stern, who, at somewhere around fifty, was the youngest of the Cajun Cuties. “Tell us more.”

“Everywhere around us, families were driven to sell their property or abandon it. And then, just when we at Crozat seemed to be pulling ourselves out of the depths of despair,” Gran’ intoned, her voice dropping theatrically, “we found ourselves facing the deprivations of war.”

“You mean the Civil War?” Debbie gasped.

A spoon clattered into a bowl. Kyle coughed as he tried to swallow a laugh. Gran’ instantly sobered up. “My goodness, the doctors are right. The sun really does age a person. No, dear, I’m old but not quite that old. I was referring to World War Two.”

“Oh, of course,” Debbie said, embarrassed. “I don’t know what to say. I just got lost in your stories.”

“Well then, that’s quite a tribute to my storytelling,” Gran’ said, kindly letting Debbie off the hook.

“Tell us about the pirate and his treasure again,” Sam begged. The other diners joined him in encouraging Gran’s return to the buried treasure legend.

The rest of the meal was uneventful. Poor Gran’ was held conversational hostage by Hal Clabber as he boasted of the expertise in twentieth-century American theater history that had won him tenure at Conway College, a small school in Nebraska. Maggie imagined that there were a lot of Conway parents who owed Hal thanks for being so boring that he propelled students out of theater and into more lucrative fields.

Hal finally dozed off in his chair and was helped to his room by Bud and Marie. Beverly followed, smiling as always. As soon as the last guest was gone, Maggie and the rest of her family retreated to the kitchen to clean up. Tug and Ninette then retired to bed, and Maggie walked Gran’ back to the house the two shared. It was a shotgun house, the name inspired by a layout where a bullet shot from the front door would go straight out the back door. Dating back to the 1820s, it was the oldest building on the property and the original residence of the Crozats before they decided to celebrate their sugarcane wealth with a fancy showplace.

Maggie kissed her grandmother good-night and then retrieved the oil paints and portable easel that she kept in her bedroom. With the help of a small flashlight, she made her way through the dark to woods at the east end of Crozat land, where a stream fed into Bayou Beurre. Green branches hung heavy over the lush waterway, and an occasional cypress popped out of the water like an arboreal jack-in-the-box.