Authors: Ellen Byron
Tags: #FIC022000 Fiction / Mystery & Detective / General
Body on the Bayou
Also by Ellen Byron:
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 either are 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 © 2016 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.
Library of Congress Catalog-in-Publication data available upon request.
ISBN (hardcover): 978-1-62953-768-9
ISBN (ePub): 978-1-62953-789-4
ISBN (Kindle): 978-1-62953-790-0
ISBN (ePDF): 978-1-62953-791-7
Cover design by Stephen Graham and Louis Malcangi
Crooked Lane Books
34 West 27
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St., 10
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First Edition: September 2016
Body on the Bayou
is dedicated to Harriette Sackler, chair of the William F. Deeck-Malice Domestic Grant Committee, as well as to committee members Arleen Trundy and Joan Gottesman, the Malice Domestic Board of Directors, and all of the volunteers who work so hard to make the Malice Domestic Convention a home for both mystery writers and readers. You have changed the lives of many, including this author.
It was midafternoon and Maggie Crozat had already led five large tour groups through Louisiana’s Doucet Plantation, a historic state landmark once owned by her ancestors. A storm had passed through at dawn, and remnants of rain dripped from the magnolia tree that shaded the employees’ break area. Maggie sat on a bench under the tree. A fat raindrop fell on her nose and tumbled down the décolleté of the blue polyester ersatz 1850s ball gown that served as her tour guide uniform. She’d been starving when she went on lunch break, but her appetite disappeared and her homemade crawfish salad sandwich went untouched as she scanned the maid of honor to-do list that her coworker, Vanessa Fleer, had dropped in front of her.
“Here’s page two,” the bride-to-be said as she handed it to Maggie.
“There’s a page two? Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack, which I could be in danger of having if all this stuff don’t get done.” Vanessa made a sad face and
patted her rapidly expanding stomach. Maggie was skeptical of women who claimed that they had no idea they were pregnant. But while undergoing a medical evaluation before starting an all-liquid diet, Maggie’s fellow tour guide at Doucet discovered that in addition to a food baby, she was carrying an actual baby. This scuttled her plan to milk a yearlong engagement to Rufus Durand, the lazy police chief of tiny Pelican, Louisiana. Instead, she was fast-tracking her nuptials, and Maggie reluctantly gave her credit for making sure that the ink was dry on the wedding license before popping out little Rufus or Rufette. Just because the woman was marrying “the man of muh dreams” didn’t mean she trusted him not to duck out on child support if he wasn’t legally bound.
“Since time’s so tight, we’re gonna have to do a lot of checking in with each other,” Vanessa told Maggie, who noted that the woman’s blandly pretty features were disappearing into a face that grew incrementally fleshier by the day. Maggie’s artist eyes tended to pick up visual details that others missed. “Never, ever turn off your phone or put it on vibrate cuz I am gonna need twenty-four-seven access.”
“What if I need to go to the bathroom?” Maggie asked in a dry tone.
“Twenty-four seven, Magnolia Marie, twenty-four seven. This is gonna be soooo fun! Oh dang, you said bathroom, now I gotta pee again.”
The pregnant woman skip-waddled off, leaving a glum Maggie to pick at her lunch. She regretted letting Van strong-arm her into the position of head wedding cheerleader, but
she was still trying to make friends and find her place again in her hometown. She’d barely been back a year after spending more than a decade in Manhattan and knew that many locals saw her as “that artsy-fartsy girl.” At thirty-two, Maggie felt far removed from being a “girl,” but in Pelican, that appellation applied to any female still single, be she seven or seventy. Signing on as point person for Vanessa’s wedding party was also a strategic move. Van’s fiancé was the archenemy of Maggie’s family, so keeping her happy might lay the groundwork for a rapprochement between the Crozats and Durands. Reminding herself of this kept Maggie from exploding like an M-80 firecracker when Vanessa peppered her with inane demands.
A couple of other coworkers, Ione Savreau and Gaynell Bourgeois, strolled over to join her. Ione, who supervised the guides, was a slim, African American retired schoolteacher who reveled in surprising people with the news that not only were three out of every ten plantation owners women, there were also owners of color. Gaynell Bourgeois was a nineteen-year-old with angelic looks. Her ingenuous demeanor masked an intellect so sharp it had helped Maggie solve a murder that would have doomed her family’s home and livelihood: Crozat Plantation Bed and Breakfast.
The women sat sidesaddle at the break area picnic table, their ball gowns poofing out around them like Miss Muffet’s tuffets. “What’s with you?” Ione asked, sensing Maggie’s unhappiness. Maggie handed Vanessa’s list to her. Ione took one look at it and burst out laughing, a deep basso guffaw. Gaynell peered over Ione’s shoulder to view the list
and joined in with tinkling giggles. “Now we know why all of Van’s relatives ran like a levee broke when she hit them up for the maid of honor job,” Ione said. She pulled a tissue out of her cleavage to wipe the tears of laughter streaming down her cheeks.
“And she’s got a big family,” Gaynell added. “
Real
big.”
Maggie glared at them. “Yeah, well, I’m going to think of myself as the foreman of this bridal party and assign as much as I can to the bridesmaids. So take that as a warning.”
Ione and Gaynell, both of whom had buckled to Vanessa’s entreaties that they serve as bridesmaids, stopped laughing. “Um, it’s a bad week for me,” Ione tap-danced. “My grandkids are coming to visit and things like that and—oh, never mind.” She gave up trying to come up with excuses. “Fine. We’ll help. Right, Gaynell?”
“Of course.” Gaynell smiled at Maggie, who returned the smile. She knew that tease as they might, Ione and Gaynell would be there when she needed them. Which, given Vanessa’s status as an archetypal Bridezilla, would be a lot.
“Luckily, or unluckily because we could use the money, there’s a lull at Crozat between Thanksgiving and Christmas,” Maggie said. “Some guests checked out this morning, and as far as I know we don’t have any other bookings this week.”
“What about people coming in for the wedding?” Gaynell asked.
Maggie snorted. “Please, like Rufus would ever let Vanessa give us the business.”
The other women nodded. The whole town knew that Rufus Durand held a grudge against the Crozats dating
back one hundred and fifty years. Maggie’s great-great-great-grandmother was rumored to have put a curse on all Durand family relationships after catching her fiancé, Ru’s great-great-great-grandfather, cheating on her with a New Orleans belle. “The only reason he okayed me as maid of honor is because he knew it would make my life hell,” Maggie said, holding up Vanessa’s list as evidence.
Ione frowned. “You’d think that since he’s getting married again”—the “again” referring to this being the third marriage for Ru—“he’d assume the curse was broke and forget about it.”
“At this point, hating my family is so ingrained in his DNA that I don’t think anything could knock it out of his system.”
“Shhh,” Gaynell cautioned. “Vanessa’s coming back.”
Vanessa made her way to them, holding up the hem of the green-and-red, ill-fitting dress that had been cobbled together to hide her eight-month bundle. The goal had been to recreate an outfit that an antebellum belle might have worn during her confinement. But, as Vanessa griped, “I just saw myself in the mirror. I look like a Christmas tree.” The other women were silent. “You’re not saying anything.”
“We would if we disagreed,” Ione, ever blunt, replied.
“But it’s okay,” Gaynell said. “It just looks like you’re celebrating the season.”
Vanessa glared at them and then turned to Maggie. “I’ve thought of more stuff I need you to do. I’ll text it all to you later.”
“Oh come on, Vanessa.” Maggie held up the list. “‘Confirm contract with venue and caterers, order flowers, renegotiate
rental prices . . .’ A maid of honor doesn’t take care of these things—a wedding planner does. You need to give this list to yours.”
“I would if I still had one. Rufus fired ours. Said we should be spending that money on the house.”
“The house,” as Vanessa euphemistically called it, was La Plus Belle—the megamansion her fiancé was building with his share of the payout that the entire Durand family received for the sale of their family homestead, Grove Hall. At this point, La Plus Belle was just lumber and lawsuits brought on by the constant changes Ru and Van demanded and then refused to pay for. Maggie wasn’t surprised that Ru had axed their wedding planner, a pricey hire from New Orleans. Nor was she surprised that Vanessa would try to foist those chores on her. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I can’t take on all these duties. I don’t have the time.”
Vanessa grimaced and put her hand on her baby bump. She reached behind her, groping for a seat, then lowered herself onto the picnic table bench between Ione and Gaynell, shoving each of them to the side. “Dang, another pain. I can feel my blood pressure going up. I may need to call my doctor. She’s real worried about me going into preterm labor.”
“We know,” Ione said. “You tell us every time we don’t do what you want.”
“Well, it’s true.”
Vanessa cast a pitiful glance at Maggie, who sighed. Vanessa might be bluffing, but Maggie didn’t want to take the chance that she wasn’t. Woe be it to anyone who caused the future Mrs. Rufus Durand to deliver early. “Okay,
fine, I’ll help you out. Just spare me another ‘preterm labor’ performance.”
“Thank you.” Vanessa popped up and then pulled out her cell phone. “Oooh, I got a text from my mama.” As she read the message, Vanessa pulled off her old-fashioned, banana-curled wig and rubbed her scalp. She’d stopped coloring her hair after reading that it wasn’t good for a gestating infant, so muddy brown roots dead-ended about two inches from her old yellow-blonde dye job.
Vanessa finished reading, put her phone away, and slowly sat down again, her face so pale that Maggie worried she might actually follow through with the threat to deliver early. “Van, are you all right? You don’t look good.”
“It’s my cousin, Ginger,” Vanessa said. The women waited for her to continue, but she stared straight ahead, her face stricken.
“Is it . . . bad news?” Ione asked gently.
“Yes.” Vanessa nodded. “She’s coming to my wedding.”
And Vanessa burst into hysterical sobs.
