Текст книги "Plantation Shudders"

Автор книги: Ellen Byron

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

Chapter Thirteen

“But . . . I don’t understand,” Tug said. “We would never have arsenic, or any poison, in the kitchen. How did it get here?”

“It’s obvious, Dad,” Maggie said, trying to control the anger she felt welling up inside. “Whoever murdered Mrs. Clabber thought it would be a great place to hide the ‘weapon.’ It works on a couple of levels—it’s a shelf that hardly ever sees action, and if anyone does go up there and finds the arsenic, it incriminates our family. Am I right, Detective?”

“Ms. Crozat, can you identify this as the arsenic you saw in the plantation store?” Bo asked, ignoring Maggie’s combative tone. He motioned to Artie, who carefully removed the box with gloved hands and showed it to Maggie, who nodded curtly. Artie bagged the box and handed it to Bo.

“Okay, you’ve got what you need. Now can you get out of our kitchen so we can get into it?” she asked.

“Sorry, but we’re not done,” Bo said.

“Well, when will you be done?”

“Can’t say for sure, but I wouldn’t count on getting in here until at least tomorrow.”

Ninette gave a small groan of despair. “No. My dish. How am I gonna make my dish?” She put a hand over her eyes and began to weep. Ninette, fragile ever since her bout with cancer, had shown unexpected strength during this stressful time, despite the worries of her family. It took the threat of no Crawfish Crozat to put her over the edge. And her mother’s tears worked Maggie’s last nerve.

“Look what you’ve done to my mother,” she yelled at Bo. “I’ve had it, with you, with all of this. Let us into our kitchen right now.”

She tried to shove Bo out of the way, breaking the police tape. Bo stumbled back a few steps and then regained his balance. He put out his hands and held her back. For a moment, she flailed helplessly like a cartoon character trying to battle a muscled bully, and then Tug pulled her off.

“Maggie! Enough.”

“They’re ruining our lives.” Maggie struggled to get out of her father’s grasp. Cal and Artie exchanged uncomfortable glances, while even the preternaturally nerveless Bo seemed thrown by her outburst.

“Um . . . should we arrest her?” Cal asked Bo, with a marked lack of commitment to the idea.

“No,” Bo said. “Not necessary.”

Ninette placed a hand on her daughter’s arm and the gentle gesture sent a message to Maggie, who forced herself to calm down. “It’s my fault,” Ninette said. “I was just upset about not making my dish for the fete. But I was being selfish. I’m sorry if we caused you any trouble, Detective Durand.”

“It’s all right, ma’am. I wish things could be different.”

Tug glared at his daughter. “I think someone here needs to throw around a few ‘I’m sorrys.’”

As much as she hated to admit it, Maggie knew her father was right. She was embarrassed by her own behavior. She opened her mouth, but before she could get a word out, Bo held up his hand to stop her. “This is a very difficult situation for everyone. If someone made my mother cry, no telling what I’d do.”

This time Bo’s smile was real and warm, prompting Maggie to fight a sudden tickle of attraction, which felt highly unbefitting to the circumstances. Luckily for her, Cal chose that moment to join the conversation.

“You know, sir,” he said to Bo. “Ninette’s dish is pretty famous around here.”

“He’s right,” Artie chimed in. “People wait all year for it. When it comes to the Fet, there’s a real lack if there’s no Crawfish Crozat.”

“Nicely put, you almost got it to rhyme,” Cal congratulated his partner, who beamed. “We did finish the refrigerator and pantry areas,” Cal pointed out to Bo. “Maybe you could see your way to the Crozats at least retrieving their ingredients.”

“That would be great,” Maggie jumped in. “We could help you cook everything in the shotgun kitchen, Mom. It’s not big, but it’s functional.”

“That’s a very nice idea, but it’s up to the detective.” Ninette looked at Bo, eyes filled with hope. Bo turned to Cal and Artie.

“Give the Crozats what they need,” he directed.

“Thank you,” Maggie said, so grateful that she found herself tearing up. “We’ll get out of your way fast.”

Cal and Artie helped the Crozats cart ingredients, pots, and other essentials over to the shotgun. “I can’t tell you how much we appreciate this,” Ninette told the officers once the last of the necessary items had made the trek.

“The Fet ain’t where it’s at without Crawfish Crozat,” Artie said, adding a few beat box sounds for effect.

“Hah, look who’s a rapper.” Cal slapped his partner on the back. “We gotta give you a rapper name now.”

“His name is Artie so . . . how about R2DCool?” Maggie offered, happy to do anything, however inane, that would keep the cops on the Crozats’ good side. Cal and Artie both loudly approved the new moniker, and the atmosphere became close to pleasant.

“We gotta work a double shift tonight, Mrs. C.,” Artie told Ninette, “so if you could save us a couple’a bowls, that’d be great.”

“We’ll save you your own pot of it,” Tug assured the officers, who then headed back to the main house to complete their investigation. The Crozats got to work chopping, sautéing, and boiling. Gran’ wandered in, fresh from a nap, and Tug filled her in on what had happened. Gran’ turned to Maggie.

“You know what you have to do, Magnolia Marie.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Maggie slunk into the parlor, sat down at the rococo desk, and opened an elegant gray box. Inside lay note cards, 100 percent cotton and embossed with a monogram of her initials. The Brooklyn hipster in her bowed to the Southern manners ingrained since birth—which, she thought, may have been when Gran’ first gifted her with genteel personalized stationery. Civilization may have been two decades into a new millennium, but among Southern Louisiana gentry, a behavioral cow patty like the one she had just dropped still required a written note of apology. “All I’m missing is a quill pen,” Maggie muttered, annoyed that she felt obliged to follow social protocol. But she did, so she hunted around the desk, dug up a pen that sported the logo from Gout’s Beef Palace, and started writing a note to Bo Durand.

It began as a simple apology for her angry eruption. But for some reason Maggie couldn’t explain, she kept writing. She admitted that it wouldn’t be fair to blame her blow-up on the fallout from the Clabbers’ deaths. Her frustration had been building since her return to Pelican six months ago. She filled the inside of the card as she tried to explain how alien she often felt in her own hometown—only matched by how alien she’d sometimes felt in New York City, where her friends would respond with patronizing amusement whenever the Southerner in her slipped out.

Maggie turned the card over and continued on the back. She wrote about the heartbreak that still haunted her. She had given her longtime love, Chris, space to decide whether he was ready for marriage. He was—but not to her. After six years with Maggie, Chris met and married another woman within six months, and the couple now shared the home and business that he and Maggie had created together.

She then wrote about her fear that she would never achieve her dream of creating exceptional, evocative art—and if she didn’t do that, what was her future? Who would she be? She shared her worry that the strain of a murder investigation would cause her mother’s cancer to return. And finally, she revealed her deepest shame: there was a part of her that dreaded the possible loss of Ninette beyond the grief it would bring. Maggie knew that if her mother died, she would step into Ninette’s place as Crozat’s chatelaine, trading her own dreams for her parents’ because she loved them so dearly.

She signed her name in the only tiny blank space left on the card and then placed it in an envelope and addressed it to Bo. She thought for a moment and put the card next to a pile of books on the desk, knowing in her heart that it was something that you write but never send. Then she checked her phone. It was time to get ready for Fet Let. She’d reread the card later that night for her own catharsis and then tear it up and write the simple note to Bo that she intended to write in the first place.

*

The streets around Pelican’s town green were closed to traffic for the evening, so the Crozats parked behind Fais Dough Dough and shuttled tables and supplies to their spot next to Lia’s in front of her shops. The Butlers and the Georgia boys pitched in to help. All of Crozat’s guests were excited to be part of the town’s festival. It was a welcome distraction from the deaths of Crozat’s elderly duo. “I’m really starting to feel at home in Pelican,” Emily told Maggie as the two transported a large table to the Crozats’ site. “Who knows, Shane and I may never leave.”

Maggie smiled. “That would be nice. I could use some new friends. Most of the ones I went to high school with are married and going on their second or even third kid, so they don’t have much time to get together. Or much interest, to be honest.”

“Ugh.” Emily made a face. “Can you imagine being around thirty and already having three kids? It seems so old-timey.”

“I know. But there’s a part of me that envies them. I wish I could want that. I mean, I know I want it someday, but I wish I wanted it now. I feel like it would make my life so much simpler.”

“That’s funny, thinking having kids would make your life simpler,” Emily said. “My parents always said that their lives were so much easier before I came along.” Emily tried to make this sound like a joke but couldn’t hide the hurt underneath.

Maggie felt for her. “What a crappy thing for parents to say. I’m sorry.” She hugged Emily, who brightened.

“I’m going to look for Shane. If you need us, text me.”

“Will do.”

Emily went to find her husband, and Maggie focused on setting up her family’s table. She waved to Lia and Kyle, who were bringing out baked goods and candies from Bon Bon and Fais Dough Dough for Lia’s Fet Let booth. Kyle waved back and Lia blew her a kiss. Maggie was happy to see Lia’s playful side reemerge after a long period of mourning.

An hour later, Fet Let was in full swing. Bunting in green, gold, and purple decorated the lacy iron balconies of Pelican’s historic town center. A Cajun band followed a Zydeco group on the bandstand, and revelers two-stepped to the classic tunes. But traffic at the Crozat stand was surprisingly light. The band took a break and the dancers dispersed. Yet for the first time in the history of Ninette’s Crawfish Crozat, no long line of hungry patrons formed. A few out-of-towners browsed but didn’t buy. It was as if some kind of subliminal message had gone out to all Fet attendees. Maggie had heard actor and comedian friends in New York talk about “flop sweat,” the panic they felt when an audience wasn’t responding to their material. She was beginning to know how it felt. She smiled and tried making eye contact with some festivalgoers, friends and neighbors she’d known for years, but they looked away. She was horrified to realize that they were actively avoiding her.

The one person she had no interest in seeing, Rufus Durand, finished planting a sloppy kiss on girlfriend Vanessa and then wandered over to the Crozat table. His belly strained the buttons of the shirt he wore to the Fet every year, a purple polyester button-down with a pattern of yellow cocktail shakers.

“Hey there, Crozats.”

Ninette and Tug greeted Rufus politely, but Maggie chose to pass on the pleasantries. “Any updates for us, Ru? Did you get anything useful off the poison box, like prints or something?”

“I wish I had some news, but I’m afraid I don’t. These complex investigations take time, sorry to say.”

Maggie wanted to yell at Rufus that she knew he was dragging his feet because the sooner the case was solved, the sooner the Crozats’ lives could get back to normal, and that’s the last thing he wanted. He was having way too much fun watching the family twist in the humid Louisiana wind. Instead, she dished out a bowl of crawfish and offered it to Ru with a smile. “Here you go. On the house.”

“That’s real generous,” Rufus said, “but I’ll pass. I know y’all are up to code and real thorough about everything. But still . . . we did find a box of poison in your kitchen today.”

Rufus strode off, and Maggie’s face flushed with humiliation. He had nailed the reason Ninette’s dish had no takers. People were afraid to eat it. She assumed local gossip had progressed to the point of pegging one of the Crozats as the murderer, but the locals actually fearing her family was a low that she hadn’t foreseen. Maggie debated how to break the news to her parents, but she didn’t have to. They’d overheard her conversation with Rufus.

“I’ve never been so embarrassed,” Ninette said, her voice quavering.

“I’m sure people are just being . . . you know . . . careful maybe . . . or busy.” Maggie hated how lame she sounded. She noticed that Ninette was stirring her pot as if she had a weird tic, tightly clutching the large wooden spoon and whipping it around the pot in repetitive circles. “Mom, let me do that. Please take a break, the stress isn’t good for you.”

She reached for the spoon, but Ninette refused to let go. “It’s my dish and my job.”

Tug, furious, balled his hands into fists and pounded them together, a substitute for actually pounding someone. “We’ve known these sonuvabitches all our lives,” he muttered. “Now I never want to see ’em or speak to any of ’em again. Ever.”

Emily and Shane bounded over, holding hands. They’d been dancing and both were damp with perspiration. “I’m starving,” Shane said. “Tell me you still have food left. I know how popular your dish is.”

“Oh, that’s so not a problem today.” Maggie filled the Butlers in on the crawfish debacle. The couple was incensed on the Crozats’ behalf.

“Unbelievable. Em, come with me.”

Shane marched off with his wife, and Maggie wondered what he might up to. She found out a few moments later when he returned with every Crozat guest—the Cuties, the Georgia boys, Kyle, even the Ryker family. They formed a line at the stand.

“I hear this is the best dish at Fet Let,” Shane announced loudly, for the benefit of passersby.

“As a guest of Crozat Plantation, I know what care they put into their delicious food and what fresh ingredients they use,” Jan said. She couldn’t have sounded more stilted, and Maggie couldn’t have been more grateful. Ninette and Tug happily dished out hearty bowls to all their guests, whose pleasure didn’t have to be faked.

“Oh my God, this is amazing,” Carrie Ryker said as she dug into her pasta.

“It’s beyond amazing.” Lachlan Ryker held out his bowl, which he’d quickly emptied. “I must have some more.”

As the guests devoured their portions, Cal and Artie sauntered over, still in uniform. “We just got off,” Cal said. “Now where’s that pot of Crawfish Crozat you promised, Tug?”

“If the Pelican PD, the guys who searched our kitchen, are eating here, you should too,” Maggie, emboldened, called to the crowds of festivalgoers. And slowly customers trickled up to the stand until a line finally formed. Ninette’s dish might sell out after all.

The Crozat guests dismissed the family’s thanks. “Uh, excuse me, we’re doing ourselves a favor eating this,” Georgia One said as he tucked into his third helping.

“That is the truth, my friend,” Artie agreed. “It’s okay to get fat if it’s on Crawfish Crozat.”

“Hah, that’s my partner, Rapmaster R2DCool.” Cal guffawed and then coughed as he choked on a crawfish. Shane Butler gave him a swat on the back and the fish went down Cal’s gullet. “Thanks, buddy. Almost saw my maker. But what a way to go.”

“The police here are so much nicer than in New York,” Emily Butler whispered to Maggie. “I once saw a cop screaming at a homeless man trying to wash car windows outside the entrance of the Lincoln Tunnel. I felt so bad for the guy that I gave him two dollars, even though we don’t even own a car.” Maggie recalled the time she’d seen Rufus sock a local driver whose brakes went out at a stop sign but chose not to share the story with the guests. Better to have them retain an image of Pelican as a Cajun Brigadoon, which it was living up to at the moment.

“Maggie, hon, would you mind picking up a couple of beers for your mom and me at the beverage tent?” Tug asked. Her father’s face was reddened by the large crawfish pot’s steam and his shirt pocked with sweat stains, but Tug was in his element tending to the growing line of customers.

“Sure, Dad. Be right back.”

She headed to the beverage tent, which was being manned by the Crozat support staff, Marie and Bud Shexnayder.

“Glad to see business is finally picking up at the stand,” Bud said.

“Yeah, it was iffy for a while.”

Marie made a face. “That idiot Rufus Durand came by and was giving us grief about working at ‘the scene of the crime.’ Even implying that we might want to quit, especially since he don’t know if they’ll ever solve the murder.”

“More like he don’t want to,” Bud grumbled.

“You know it, Bud,” Maggie said. She got the beers, delivered them to her parents, and then sat on bench under one of the giant oak trees that encircled the green. Bud was right. Ru would throw up every roadblock he could to the investigation. Maggie realized that the only option was to circumvent him. She hurried back over to the Shexnayders.

“You guys have been so wonderful during this horrible time,” she told them. “I don’t know how we’ll ever thank you, but we can start by giving you the rest of the week off. Paid, of course.”

“Oh, Maggie, that’s sweet, but it’s not necessary,” Marie said.

“Yes it is. Do something fun, like go down to New Orleans.”

“You got a pretty full house,” Bud said. “Who’s gonna do all that cleaning?”

Maggie waved off the question. “Not your problem, but don’t worry, we’ll make sure it gets done.”

Bud hesitated. “I don’t know. I feel like we should be there for you.”

“You have been, Bud. That’s why we want to do something special for you. Really, we insist.”

Marie hesitated. “It has been a while.”

“I hear they fixed up Broussard’s,” her husband said. “I’d love to see that. And now that I’m thinking New Orleans, I’m craving a Mother’s Oyster Po’boy. Dressed, with extra everything, lettuce, tomato, mayo . . . mmmm.”

Marie smiled at her husband. “Now you got me craving one, too. If you really think it’s okay, Maggie, then I guess we’re going to New Orleans for a getaway weekend.”

“Excellent. And bring me back one of those po’boys, you hear?”

Maggie bought a beer from the Shexnayders and left them eagerly planning their trip. She checked on her parents, who were dishing out the last of Ninette’s Crawfish Crozat, which was once again the hit of the Fet. She scraped herself a bowl from the bottom of the pot and then found a square of empty grass on the crowded green to enjoy her meal.

She gave herself a mental pat on the back for coming up with the idea to take over the Shexnayders’ housekeeping and maintenance duties. Both jobs offered great opportunities for snooping. The fact that Beverly Clabber had once lived in Pelican certainly widened the pool of suspects beyond Crozat’s boundaries, but the B and B at least offered a convenient starting point for Maggie’s informal investigation. While she hated to think that any of Crozat’s guests might be responsible for Beverly Clabber’s death, Rufus Durand’s call to inaction for the PPD meant that someone had to either rule them out as suspects or reveal one of them to be a murderer. And it looked like that someone would be Maggie.

Chapter Fourteen

Early the next morning, an unhappy Maggie surveyed the mass of cleaning products jammed into the Crozat housekeeping closet. Tending to each guest room in the B and B now seemed like an enormous task, and she had no idea where to begin, having sent the Shexnayders off on their minivacation without asking for any guidance.

“I really didn’t think this through,” she muttered. For a moment, she was tempted to hire a cleaning crew. But she reminded herself that housekeeping provided the perfect cover for investigating the plantation’s guests.

Maggie noticed what appeared to be a schedule slipped into a plastic holder taped to the wall and pulled the paper from its holder. She nudged an upright vacuum cleaner out of its snug space and then leaned against it and perused the schedule. She was relieved to see that Bud and Marie had carefully notated how and when to attend to each guest room. She was equally relieved to find that each guest had opted for the politically correct choice of alternate-day sheet-and-towel washing, which would save the environment a little wear and tear and Maggie a bundle of time. Still, she’d have to hustle if she was to service each room every day that the Shexnayders were gone. Maggie’s roommates in New York would have appreciated the irony of a “primo, number one slob,” as one redundantly called her, being tasked with maintaining Crozat’s pristine cleanliness.

She wheeled out the housekeeping cart, checked to make sure it was stocked with supplies, and then pushed it down the hall. As she pushed, she laid down some ground rules for herself. Initially, at least, she’d limit her investigating to whatever was in plain sight, only peeking in drawers or suitcases if nothing was obvious. For one thing, blatantly going through her guests’ belongings made her uncomfortable. For another, if she was to meet the cleaning demands of the day, she’d have to work within a tight time frame that would limit the opportunity to poke through people’s private possessions. She’d keep the possibility as a backup plan, but Maggie hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

She reached the end of the long hallway and parked the cart. The Georgia boys were bunking together in one of the upstairs bedrooms. Another housed Kyle—when he was there. Maggie was thrilled to note that the gentleman from Texas spent less and less of his time at Crozat and more and more of it at Lia’s. I’ll have to fit a gossipy update into my agenda, she thought as she trudged up the stairs laden with buckets holding cleaning supplies.

She unlocked the Georgia boys’ room, opened the door, and was assaulted by the mess and stench one would expect from three twenty-year-old frat brothers sharing a single room. Her eyes stung with tears engendered by both the locker-room-meets-old-food smell and the thought of having to plow through the piles of clutter. But Maggie would do what had to be done, so she drew in a deep breath—which she instantly regretted because it filled her nostrils with the scent of unwashed gym socks—and went to work.

After an hour of shallow breathing through her mouth, she’d finished most of the cleaning. She checked the Shexnayder schedule and was depressed to see that she’d taken three times as long as the allotted time per room. The Georgias were given the same twenty minutes of attention that the rest of the guests got. Apparently a triple threat of messy frat boys didn’t faze Bud and Marie.

Aside from a selection of graphic novels featuring buxom, borderline pornographic heroines, Maggie had yet to uncover anything of interest. She cleaned the bathroom, made the bed, gave the room’s dresser bureau a quick dusting, and straightened out a few piles of papers. Then she picked up the room’s trashcan and dumped its contents into a large plastic bag. A few items missed the transfer and fell to the floor. She picked up one, a brochure for a costume rental company, and noticed that someone had circled a Confederate Army uniform. Typical, she thought with disgust. Southern frat boys still romanticized the brutal and devastating Civil War one hundred fifty years after it ended. At least the Georgia boys’ car didn’t sport the bumper sticker, “Hell no, the war ain’t over,” like she’d recently seen on a local’s pickup truck.

She tossed the brochure into her trash bag and retrieved a crumpled piece of loose-leaf paper from the floor. She uncrumpled the paper and read the words scribbled on it: “Slaves? How much? A chase—fun!!”

Maggie sat on the edge of the room’s double bed, being careful not to disturb the hospital corners she’d almost thrown out her back making. There was something ominous in the papers she’d discovered. What exactly were the Georgia boys up to? Was it illegal or just horribly offensive? And if it was illegal, had Beverly Clabber somehow stumbled on a plan that led to her needing to be silenced? That seemed a stretch, but Maggie decided she could no longer view the trio as three harmless goofballs. She’d have to keep an eye on them. She’d also learned an invaluable lesson, something every Hollywood tabloid reporter already knew: if you wanted to dig up garbage on people, dig through their garbage.

*

Maggie spent the rest of the day tending to all the rooms. She flipped the schedule around, based on who liked to hang out their “Do Not Disturb” sign until noon (the Butlers) and who bolted early for sightseeing adventures (the Rykers and Cuties). Since this was her first day on the job and she’d already used up too much time dealing with the Georgia boys’ slobbery, she put sleuthing second to her housekeeping duties, knowing that familiarizing herself with the routine meant she’d be able to power through it faster.

By early evening she was drained, but she dragged herself to the kitchen where Tug and Ninette were preparing dinner. Maggie noticed that her dad was making a treat he’d invented that combined unsweetened chocolate, raisins, a dash of salt, and honey, which gave the candy a hard-taffy consistency. Tug had proudly named his concoction “Chulanes” as an homage to his alma mater, Tulane University. Maggie knew that putting up a batch of Chulanes relaxed her father. It was his way of dealing with tension.

“Oh, honey, you look beat,” Ninette said, casting one eye on her daughter and one on the bowl of fresh shrimp she was dumping into a pot of gumbo. “It was sweet of you to give the Shexnayders a break, but I wish you’d checked with us first. We could have timed it so we could bring in someone else to do the cleaning.”

“Unless you dug up Lafitte’s treasure, there’s no way we can pay for that,” Maggie said as she spooned a shrimp from the gumbo pot. “Especially considering that we’re not generating any income from our guests right now.”

“That’s for certain,” Tug said as he finished filling a tray with Chulanes. He put it in the freezer to harden and then turned to his daughter. “But if you need a hand, you let me know. And you be careful, okay?”

“Okay, Dad.” The look in her dad’s eyes told Maggie that he knew she was up to something. Giving his tacit approval didn’t mean he wouldn’t worry about her. “Why are you using the small pot for the gumbo, Mom?” she asked, trying to change the subject.

“Looks like it’s just us for dinner tonight. Everyone else made other plans. Even Gran’s off playing bingo at the assisted living.”

“Yay! Not that I don’t love our guests, but still . . . yay.” Maggie collapsed onto a chair at the kitchen table and put her feet up on another, relieved for a break in the 24/7 B and B hosting duties. “To celebrate, I’m not going to shower or put on makeup before dinner. Tonight, what you see is what you get, people.”

Tug poured each of them a glass of wine while Ninette dished up big bowls of gumbo and set them on the table. Maggie roused herself to cut hunks of fresh bread and then dropped one on each soup bowl, where they floated like tasty little rafts.

The family was just about to eat when Bo Durand appeared in the doorway.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt your dinner. I had a bit of good news and thought I’d share it in person. It’s just a bit, like I said, but still.”

“A bit is better than nothing and you’re not interrupting anything,” Ninette jumped up and gestured to a chair. “Why don’t you join us?”

“That’s kind of you, but I brought company.”

Bo stepped back and gently nudged a slight boy about seven in front of him. “This is my son, Xander.”

“Hey there, Xander,” Maggie smiled and waved from her seat, as did Tug. Gopher raised himself from his canine stupor, galumphed over to Xander, gave him one sniff, and then parked himself next to the boy. Xander was slight, with features that were delicate for a boy. He had his father’s thick, straight hair but it was blonde instead of black, and his eyes were green, not Bo’s deep, dark brown.

Ninette bent down so she was eye level with Xander. “Nice to meet you. Can I talk you into some gumbo?” Xander, his expression serious, shook his head no. “Then how about a hot dog?” With the same serious expression, Xander nodded yes. “Okay, then. You and your daddy join us at the table while I get your dinner. Maggie, get Bo a bowl, please.”

“Bet you’re sorry you skimped on the showering and makeup now, ain’t ya?” Tug teased her in a whisper.

“Shut up,” she whispered back and then stood up and fixed Bo a bowl of gumbo. He took the bowl and thanked her with a grin that to Maggie’s surprise seemed a little shy. A surge of warmth coursed through her body, and she quickly looked away from him. Her eyes caught her dad’s. Tug winked at her, and the warmth turned into a flush of embarrassment. “So, Detective, we’re still waiting for the good news,” she said, her tone as businesslike as she could manage.

“There are no fingerprints from any members of your family on the arsenic box. In fact, there are no prints at all on it. The theory is that someone planted the box either to implicate or cause trouble for your family.”

“You mean, exactly like I told you when you found the box?”

“Maggie,” Ninette said in a singsongy warning tone. “Manners.” Ninette fished Xander’s hot dog off the range grill, placed it on a bun and dressed it with ketchup and mustard. “There you go, sweetie,” she said as she handed it to him.

Xander looked at the hot dog and his serious expression morphed into panic. He began shaking his head fiercely and flapping his arms. Then he began to sob. Gopher, who seemed to have appointed himself Xander’s guardian, barked in concern.

“It’s okay, buddy,” his father reassured Xander while Maggie and her parents stared, confused. “I’m real sorry. It’s just . . . he doesn’t like it when different colors and flavors touch each other.” There was a look of anguish in Bo’s eyes, as if he were begging them to understand.