Текст книги "Plantation Shudders"

Автор книги: Ellen Byron

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

Chapter Five

Maggie, exhausted by the traumatic events of the night before, overslept the next morning. By the time she got to breakfast, the Georgias were heading out with the Ryker family for a day of “’sploring,” as Sam Ryker excitedly called it.

“We thought it was a good idea to distract the kids from those poor people’s deaths,” Carrie whispered to Maggie. She motioned to Georgia One, who was pretend-wrestling with Luke. “Even the big kids.”

Jan Robbins, in her role as Cajun Cuties president, opted not to let the passing of two people she barely knew and liked even less upend her group’s agenda. She even convinced Kyle to join the Cuties on a tour of local plantations. “We’re checking out some new ones for our convention next year,” Jan explained. “We’re also going to the African American Museum in St. Martinville.” The other Cuties simultaneously nodded agreement as if they were one person. Shane and Emily debated joining the tour group but then opted to stay at Crozat and enjoy some R and R, which Maggie assumed was code for making love. She had to admit that she was a little jealous of how much sex the couple was having.

“If you’d like, I can pack y’all a picnic lunch,” Ninette offered as she entered with a plate of steaming hot beignets. The Cuties brightened, but Kyle demurred. “Lunch is on me, ladies.”

“You won’t catch any of us saying no to that,” Jan said, while the other Cuties once again nodded. They reminded Maggie of the three little maids from Gilbert and Sullivan’s The Mikado.

“I’m happy to at least pack you a snack,” Ninette said.

“No,” Kyle responded firmly. “You’ve got enough going on right now. I’ll take care of everything.”

Maggie realized Kyle’s generosity was inspired by his sensitivity to the expenses the Crozats would be racking up. He’s a catch, she thought to herself. Almost too good to be true. She shook her head as if to erase the thought, upset that recent events were making her unfairly suspicious.

“If anyone’s interested, there’s also the eleven a.m. Mass at St. Theresa’s,” Gran’ shared as she shook powdered sugar onto a hot beignet. “I may not have liked the Clabbers, but it would be terribly rude not to pray for them. You’re coming, aren’t you, Maggie?”

“Yes, Gran’.” Maggie cleared the table, ran the dishwasher, and then dressed for Mass. Since her wardrobe consisted mostly of T-shirts and jeans, a scoop-neck teal rayon top and black pencil skirt was the best she could do. She flipped the camera on her phone to do a quick inventory. Slim build but with an “ample bosom,” as Gran’ would say, hair the color of burnt sienna that fell a few inches below her shoulders, a smattering of youthful freckles on the bridge of her upturned nose that contrasted with the fine lines around her eyes. Maggie didn’t completely hate what looked back at her, although she would always be bugged by the fact that her 5'4" height, once deemed average, had been reclassified as petite.

As much as she would have preferred to wear the comfy Converse high-tops that she had personalized with quirky drawings, she strapped on a pair of black platform sandals and headed outside. Since her mom, dad, and Gran’ had already left in the family sedan, she climbed into the Falcon. Jan honked from the Cuties’ minivan. “We’re going to Mass before we hit the plantations,” she yelled. “We’re practically locals now, huh, Kyle?” Jan clapped Kyle, who’d been awarded the front seat, so hard on the shoulder that he flinched, and the Cuties took off behind the Crozats.

*

As Maggie motored toward St. Theresa of Avila Catholic Church, she pondered how best to deal with the Clabbers’ passing. The Crozats were in a tough spot. They had to find the right balance between what they owed their guests and what they owed their late guests. A memorial—that’s what the situation called for. She’d ask Father Prit if he’d lead a memorial for the Clabbers. That would give everyone closure and allow her to help Crozat’s visitors formulate some guilt-free postmemorial tourism plans. This might even create the positive press that the family desperately needed, although Maggie couldn’t stop herself from imagining a travel website review that read, “Some nasty old fart and his weird wife died, but the airboat swamp tour was awesome.”

She made a mental note to check with Pelican PD in the morning and see if the department had tracked down any Clabber relatives who could share whatever plans the couple had made for shuffling off their mortal coil. At the risk of being insensitive, the sooner they headed to their final resting place, the sooner those at Crozat could move on with their lives.

Maggie pulled into the church parking lot, which was already full of vehicles ranging from brand-new Mercedes to decades-old pickup trucks. St. Theresa’s served a tiny parish with a wide range of parishioners. There were Cajun descendants of the Acadians driven from Canada in the mid-eighteenth century by Le Grand Derangement, and Caucasian and African Creole families that could trace their Louisiana lineage back almost three hundred years. More recently, St. Theresa’s had welcomed the Vietnamese fishermen and their families who now called Pelican home.

Maggie walked into Saint Tee’s, as the locals called it, and settled into the Crozat family pew, inhaling the chapel’s unique fragrance of old wood combined with generations of gardenia perfume. Lia slid in next to her. She folded her long legs to one side and adjusted her flowing tangerine summer dress so that it covered them. “How are you doing after last night?” she asked.

Maggie shrugged. “We’re okay. There’s not much we can do until we hear the results of the autopsy. Oh God, saying that, it really hit me. Those poor people are dead.”

Lia put a comforting hand on Maggie’s knee. Maggie squeezed it back. Father Prit Vangloo began the service, which was unintelligible to most of his parishioners. Originally from New Delhi, he’d brought a thick accent with him when he came to America barely a year before. Pelican knew its parish was too small to rate an American or even an Irish priest, so they welcomed Father Prit, who was kind and giggled like a besotted schoolgirl whenever he talked about Pope Francis, whom he idolized. Parishioners eventually came up with a way to handle his poor pronunciation. “We just pretend he’s leading a Latin Mass,” Gran’ explained. Maggie, who’d met her share of Sikh cab drivers in New York, had little problem understanding the good Father and often found herself pulled into post-Mass conversations to subtly translate.

Ever the papal fanboy, Father Prit’s homily focused on the pontiff’s familiar themes of humility and service to those less fortunate. Maggie prayed that the Clabbers had found peace, or at least less to complain about, wherever they ended up. The choir sang, the service ended, and the attendees all poured into the parish hall, where the Hospitality Committee had laid out a postservice spread that was the envy of every church in the area. Tables were piled high with fruits, homemade pies and pastries, and traditional local treats like boudin and fried oysters.

Maggie noticed Kyle staring at the spread. “I’ve got paralysis of choice,” Kyle told her. “I don’t know where to begin.”

“I’ll make it easy for you,” Maggie said. She pointed to a beautifully arranged tray of pastries. “These were made by my cousin Lia, the best pastry chef and candy maker in Louisiana, and possibly the world. Lia, come here.”

Lia, who was nodding and pretending to understand as Father Prit pontificated about something, excused herself and came over to Maggie. “Lia, Kyle. Kyle, Lia,” Maggie said. And in the moment the two shared shy hellos, the electricity between them was so palpable that Maggie could feel it. Even Gran’, busy arranging the buffet, glanced up, drawn by the charge. The only thing missing was a chorus of angels or cartoon characters with their eyes popping out on springs as the bubble over their heads read “boooinnng!” A line from Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night, which Maggie hadn’t read since sophomore year of high school, popped into her head: Kyle and Lia “no sooner looked but they loved.”

“Lia, you must make a plate of your incomparable delicacies for Kyle,” said Gran’. “Oh Maggie, look, there’s Renee Harper.” Gran’ practically yanked Maggie away from Lia and Kyle, who were already so deep in conversation that they didn’t notice.

“Subtle, Gran’,” Maggie said. She started toward Renee, but Gran’ pulled her back.

“Stop, Renee will see you.”

“I thought you wanted to say hello.”

“Oh Lord, no. I just wanted to get us out of the way so that whatever was sparking between Lia and Kyle could catch fire. That Renee Harper is a Glossy if there ever was one.” Gran’ had coined the term Glossy as a sarcastic loose acronym for Gracious Ladies of the South. “I notice that Jim Harper isn’t with her. Too bad. That’s one man who could use a little church-bred humility. But no, as usual, God has to play second fiddle to Jim’s ‘busy schedule.’”

“That’s not very Christian of you,” Maggie teased her grandmother.

“We’re not Christians, we’re Catholics, and we can say whatever we want because we get to confess. Now, let’s find your parents, I’m ready to go.”

Maggie and Gran’ located Ninette and Tug next to the punch bowl, where they were being peppered with questions from locals eager for gossip about the recent deaths at Crozat.

“Honestly, that’s all we know right now,” Tug told the group, which dispersed disappointed at the lack of news.

Ninette downed her glass of punch. “I’ve never wished this was hard punch more than I do today,” she said as she dabbed the slight sheen on her face with a tissue.

“I happen to know where there’s a full bar,” Gran’ said. “Home again, home again, jiggity jig.” She blew an air kiss to Maggie and led the others to their car.

Maggie snacked a bit more and then made her way to the Falcon, where she was less than thrilled to find Ru Durand, dressed in uniform, waiting.

“Hey, Ru. I didn’t see you at Mass.”

“I couldn’t make it. The Lord chose to make it a work day for me instead.”

Jan and the Cuties, who were heading for their van, interrupted the perfunctory conversation. “I swear, every time I think I’ve had the best meal in Louisiana, I have another one,” Angela said.

“Oh, that is so true,” Suzy echoed.

“Suze, see if you can pry Kyle away from that pretty baker,” Jan instructed. “We need to get going.”

“Where y’all off to?” Ru asked affably.

“Plantation tour,” Jan responded gruffly. Maggie liked Jan all the more for her obvious dislike of Rufus.

“They got some beauties in Natchez, but I wouldn’t advise crossing the state line into Mississippi.”

“Why not?” Debbie asked, confused.

“Because you’re all suspects in a murder investigation,” Ru responded, his tone suddenly harsh.

The others stared at him in shock. Maggie felt her stomach start to roil and prayed she wouldn’t throw up.

“The Clabbers were murdered?” Ninette gasped.

“Not both of them,” Rufus said. “Mr. Clabber died of natural causes—a stroke. But Mrs. Clabber was poisoned.”

Chapter Six

“Mrs. Clabber was poisoned?” Maggie repeated. “That makes no sense. He was the jerk, not her.”

“Yes, she seemed lovely,” Debbie interjected. “I don’t think I ever saw her without a big smile on her face.”

“Well, even people who smile a lot get offed,” Ru shrugged and then faced Maggie. “Two people dying at the same time pushes a button for us law enforcement folk, and the coroner agreed to rush the autopsies so we could rule out any funny business. Well, what do you know, we found funny business. My men are on the way to your place to take statements and collect evidence. And thanks to you Crozats, since it’s Sunday, I gotta pay overtime.”

“What do you mean, ‘thanks to us Crozats’?” Maggie snapped. “Trust me, Rufus, when you’re running a B and B, having guests murdered pretty much falls last on the list of ‘fun local activities.’” Maggie took in a calming breath; she’d been taking a lot of those lately. “Would it be okay if you interviewed us Crozats first, plus anyone who’s at the house, so that these folks could see a plantation or two before they’re interrogated?” Maggie asked in her most conciliatory voice as she gestured to the Cuties and Kyle who, sensing something was wrong, had joined the group.

“Well, my goodness, I wouldn’t want to let a gruesome death interfere with a day of sightseeing,” Rufus said, his mock concern showing the glimmer of acting ability that had won him a lead or two in Pelican Players Community Theatre productions.

“If the ladies and I consent to have our rooms searched while we’re gone, maybe you could send one of your men in the van with us to take our statements,” Kyle offered.

“And while he’s there, maybe he can take some group shots of y’all in front of Oak Alley that you can post online.” Rufus shook his head. “The answer is nope. And if you got any complaints about the change in today’s—or this week’s—schedule, I suggest you take it up with management.” Rufus gestured to Maggie. The universe had unexpectedly gifted him with an opportunity to make life miserable for the Crozats, and he seemed determined to take advantage of it.

“Look, Rufus, it’s really not fair to drag our guests into whatever issues you have with my family. None of them even knew the Clabbers.”

“Well, someone at Crozat knew ’em well enough to murder one of ’em.”

“That’s just an assumption. Anyone who knew the Clabbers were staying with us could’ve snuck in and planted the poison.”

“Doesn’t say much for your security, does it?” Rufus turned to the Cuties. “I’d lock up my valuables while I was staying at Crozat if I was you.” Rufus turned back to Maggie. “And I should point out that you were the one who handed Mrs. Clabber the pills that probably killed her. You’re lucky I know you well enough to know that you don’t have the clankers to murder someone.”

“I’m both insulted and relieved.”

“Sorry, Maggie, but until my men prove someone isn’t a suspect, everyone is a suspect.”

Maggie couldn’t bring herself to admit that Rufus had a point, so she didn’t say anything. Rufus doffed his hat. “See you at Crozat.” Then Rufus got into his police car and gunned it, spraying the minivan with dirt and pebbles as he peeled out of the parking lot.

“Your police chief may be a giant pain, but he’s right about all of us being suspects,” Jan said through pursed lips as her Cutie cohorts exchanged nervous looks.

“I know,” Maggie said. “I just hate letting him know that.”

“Well, there’s one bright spot,” Kyle said. “At least he won’t be taking our statements. It’s not his job. That’s up to the department detectives.”

Maggie brightened. “You’re right. And in Pelican, it’s department detective, singular—Henry ‘Buster’ Belloise. As skeevy as Rufus is, that’s how decent Buster is. We’ll be okay.”

The Cuties hoisted themselves into the minivan. Kyle gave a longing look to Lia, who was busy replenishing dishes that had been emptied of her treats, and then he got behind the wheel. Maggie followed the minivan out of the parking lot. She was relieved to know the case was in the steady hands of Buster Belloise, so relieved that she could afford to feel magnanimous toward Ru. He was right—this was hardly the time to negotiate a sightseeing tour.

*

Maggie arrived at Crozat to find it a buzz of police activity. The department’s mobile evidence van sat at the end of the driveway close to the house. Maggie couldn’t remember when she’d seen it used for anything besides hauling a float in the town’s yearly Mardi Gras parade.

She bounded up the steps into the house, where the front parlor and the Clabbers’ bedroom were closed off with police tape. It would take a while to comb through the plantation for evidence since the Pelican police department was small, and usually the most serious crime it handled was the occasional domestic disturbance. The department could use some outside help for the Clabber case to speed up the process, but Maggie knew that was a fantasy given the reality of budgetary restrictions coupled with Rufus Durand’s ego and how much he relished seeing the Crozats twist in the wind.

Maggie found Gran’ in the kitchen plying Buster Belloise with snacks and sweets. The large belly hanging over Buster’s policy duty belt was testament to some good Cajun living.

“Oh, there you are, darlin’,” Gran’ greeted Maggie. “You want some sweet tea?”

“Thanks, Gran’, I’m okay.”

“What about you, Buster? You want a refill?” Gran’ posed the question with a hint of flirtation. Gran’ could Glossy it up with the best of them when she wanted to, and Maggie was relieved to see that she was bringing her Southern belle A game to the conversation with Buster.

“Oh, you know I can’t turn down a refill of your sweet tea, ma’am.” Buster offered his glass, and Gran’ filled it with one hand while adding some petit fours to his plate with the other.

“So Buster can’t tell us too much about the investigation,” Gran’ said.

“Can’t compromise it, ma’am.”

“My dear man, we wouldn’t want you to. But he did very kindly share the means by which poor Mrs. Clabber met her unpleasant end.”

“Arsenic,” Buster said, or at least that’s what Maggie thought he said, since he’d stuffed his mouth with petit fours before speaking. “I can’t reveal how it was administered, but the coroner was able to determine that it was of an old variety not readily available these days. We’ve got a couple of our men searching the plantation, looking for a possible source.”

“Arsenic,” Maggie repeated. The word jogged a memory, but she couldn’t zero in on it.

“Buster’s also been taking statements, and he couldn’t have been more pleasant given what a terribly difficult position he’s in, as a friend of the family.” Gran’ graced the officer with one of her best grand dame smiles, and he blushed with pride. The Belloise family was and always had been working to lower class, and nineteenth century as it seemed, being treated as an equal by a local aristocrat like Gran’ meant something to Buster. Which, of course, Gran’ knew and played to.

Maggie helped herself to a chocolate croissant from the large assortment of desserts. “Boy, Buster, I can’t tell you how glad we are that you’re taking the lead on this case.”

“Wish I were, ma’am, but I’m not.”

Maggie stopped midbite. “What? You’re not? Why not?”

“I’m retiring at the end of the week.”

“Retiring?” Maggie put down the croissant. She’d lost her appetite.

“Really, Buster? Why, we had no idea, no idea at all. How wonderful for you. Isn’t that wonderful, Maggie? Just wonderful.” Gran’ was doing her best to cover her surprise with effusive charm, but she was as thrown by the news as Maggie.

“Yeah, I’m just here because Rufus asked me to take the lead until they could rush in my replacement from Shreveport. The guy is due here any minute. Wasn’t expecting to start on a Sunday. Could I bother you for some more tea?”

“Why, it’s no bother, no bother at all,” Gran’ was beginning to sound a bit like a parrot. “Now, tell us all about your plans for retirement.”

As Buster chatted away, Maggie evaluated the family’s options. With Buster off the case, they were at the mercy of his replacement. But maybe the change would be a good thing. Whoever he was, being new to the area, it was possible that he wouldn’t come with old grudges. He could provide some much-needed objectivity and impartiality. For the first time since the Clabbers had died, Maggie felt she could relax.

“Maggie, Buster and Marnie are thinking about taking a retirement trip up north to New York.”

“Really? Have you ever been?”

“No, ma’am. I’d love any recommendations you have. The wife wants a show, I want a ballgame.”

“Maybe you’ll be lucky and they’ll revive Damn Yankees, which was a show about a ballgame,” Gran’ quipped, and the three laughed.

“Excuse me.”

Maggie, Gran’, and Buster looked up to see a tall, slim man leaning against the doorframe. His pale skin provided an unusual contrast to his dark hair and coal-dark eyes. Bedroom eyes, Gran’ would call them—a little hooded and sleepy looking. But sexy—definitely sexy. His coloring was unique for a man, but it worked on him. And he was a man. There was nothing boy-child about him, the curse of so many guys Maggie had hooked up with back in New York. Where she could imagine all those old boyfriends pushing her aside to escape a burning building, this was someone she could see running in, throwing her over his shoulder, and then casually flipping off the fire on his way out. The image was a definite turn-on.

The man looked vaguely familiar to Maggie. Probably because he resembles some movie star, she thought, but which one?

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” the man continued, “but I’m looking for Captain Durand.”

Buster stood and walked toward the man. “You’re close. I’m Detective Belloise. Can I help you?”

The man pulled out a badge, flashed it, and then extended his hand. “Paul Durand, but everyone calls me Bo. I believe I’m your replacement.”

“Well, hey, welcome to Pelican,” Buster gave Bo’s hand a hearty shake. He eyed the newcomer. “I feel like I know you. We must’ve met before at some law enforcement function.”

Bo smiled a lazy grin, and Maggie couldn’t help noticing that his teeth were as perfect as a male model’s. “We may have,” Bo acknowledged, his voice deep yet mellifluous, his accent showing the twang that came with living close to the Texas border. “But I’m guessing I look familiar because I remind you of Rufus. I’m his first cousin.”