Body on the Bayou (8 page)

Bo broke up the fight—if it could be called that, since it basically consisted of Fox wailing on a whimpering Trent. “You didn’t love her, you used her,” Fox accused his adversary. “You just wanted her money and career.”

“I’m suing you!” Trent yelled back. “For character assassination and pain and suffering!”

“Just try it, you sonuva—”

“Hey, enough, you guys,” Bo said as he held Fox back.

Trent pointed to Fox. “I want him arrested for assault.”

“I’m off duty,” Bo said.

Ninette stepped in and laid a hand on Trent’s shoulder. “No need for anyone to get arrested, Trent. Why don’t you come with Tug and me? I’ll get some ice for your bruises and then Tug will put some ice where it really counts—in a nice, tall drink of your choice.”

Ninette’s soothing tone seemed to assuage Trent’s anger, and he let her and Tug lead him back to the main house. Fox glanced down at the ground. He seemed too embarrassed
by his actions to make eye contact. “Sorry about that,” he mumbled.

“You don’t have to apologize to us,” Bo assured him. “We get it.”

Fox looked up, relieved. “Thank you. I only came back to Pelican to get Ginger’s things. I’m having her brought home to Houston tomorrow. When I saw that . . . that . . . poor excuse for a human being, I just lost it.”

Despite the fact that there was every possibility Fox had murdered his cheating wife in a fit of rage, Maggie felt for him. “If there’s anything we can do, please let us know.”

“I appreciate that,” he said, then walked back to his car, head down. Maggie and Bo watched him drive away.

“He’s sure making himself the number one suspect,” Bo said.

“I know. But Trent can give him serious competition for that spot.” Maggie filled Bo in on Trent’s machinations with Ginger’s design company.

“Wow, he’s some schemer,” Bo said. “He’s almost too obvious a choice. Of course, the jails are filled with guys dumb enough to think they could pull off a murder and a business coup.” Bo kicked at the gravel and spat out an epithet. “I hate that I’ve been sidelined on this case. Nothing against Cal and Artie, they’re good cops, but they’re missing the detective gene. They do a fine job using their good ol’ boy charm to get information, but they don’t know how to put it together. And they’re bored by the tedious part of the job, like going through phone records and credit card statements.” Passion intensified Bo’s voice. “I love all that. When
I pick up a thread through receipts or a cell phone log, it’s like I won a contest. I wanna high-five the world.”

Maggie was inspired by Bo’s devotion to his job. “I can’t believe Perske would rather play politics than utilize an amazing resource like you. He’s an
idiot.
”

Her cell rang, and she pulled it out of the back pocket of her jeans. The caller was Vanessa’s mother, the pugnacious Tookie Fleer, who barked at Maggie before she even got out a greeting. “You need to get crackin’ on Van’s bachelorette party. My girl needs something to look forward to.”

“Her wedding isn’t enough?”

“I am in no mood for sass, missy. Do you know what that Fox did? He’s set Ginger’s funeral for the day after tomorrow. So now the Texas Fleers are going to Houston, and who knows how many of them will wanna come back here for the wedding? You’d think he’d do the right thing and keep that woman on ice a few more days, until after the wedding. But no, he’s not thoughtful like that. Anyway, let’s see some progress on that party.”

Tookie hung up without a good-bye. “I think the murderer got the wrong Fleer,” Maggie muttered.

“She was so loud that I heard the whole conversation,” Bo said. “I sympathize with you. But if you want to feel better about everything you have to do for this wedding, remember that I’m stuck planning Ru’s bachelor party. I can’t even tell you what he’s asking for. Some of it’s not even legal. Anyway, I gotta take off. The river road’s going to be down to one lane tomorrow due to construction, and I get to manage the rush-hour traffic flow.”

Bo took off without even the promise of a phone call, and a dejected Maggie dragged herself inside the main house, where she found Bibi waiting. “I heard the fight,” Bibi said. “Is Fox okay?”

“Physically, yes. Emotionally, not so much.” Maggie wasn’t surprised that Bibi hadn’t tried to intervene in the men’s struggle. She was caught between her new boss and her unrequited love. “I’m sure he’d appreciate knowing that you’re concerned about him. You should give him a call.”

Bibi clenched and unclenched her hands. “I will.” She looked toward the kitchen, where Ninette was nursing Trent’s bruises. “Fox’ll get over Ginger. He just needs someone to remind him that he’s better off without her. Way, way better off.”

“Whoa,” Maggie said, “that’s rough. I think you might want to show a little sensitivity, if not to Ginger, then to Fox. He
was
married to the woman, and it’s perfectly legitimate that his feelings about their relationship and her ugly death would be complicated.”

Maggie had to finish her sentence calling to Bibi’s back as the woman moved quickly down the hall. Bibi shot out the back door of the house, almost bumping into Gran’. “Someone’s moving like the devil’s on her tail,” Gran’ said, glancing after the retreating figure.

“Long story, which I don’t have time to go into because I need to go to Junie’s and price out Van’s bachelorette party. I’m torn between two themes. I can’t decide whether to go with ‘In Bad Taste’ or ‘Incredibly Clueless.’”

“Either seems to fit. You’re going to Junie’s? I’ll come with. I wouldn’t mind a brief respite from the melancholy atmosphere around here.”

“I’ll get my car keys.” Maggie hesitated a moment.

“Having second thoughts?”

“No, no. It’s nothing. It’s just that when Bibi and I were talking about Fox and the fight and Ginger, she wasn’t melancholy at all. It was more like she was gloating.”

“Hmmm. Perhaps she’s past the point of pretending to care about a boss she despised. Or perhaps she’s a murderer. One thing I know for sure—it’s a conversation that will go down better with a few cocktails.”

*

Since it was a weeknight, Junie’s was filled with locals. Hipsters from New Orleans and Baton Rouge didn’t infiltrate the popular bar and restaurant until the weekend. Old Shari, the hangout’s ancient bartender, shook her head when Maggie ordered a glass of chardonnay. “Nuh-uh,” Old Shari declared. “I feel you for a Pimm’s Cup tonight.” Maggie knew better than to argue with Shari’s psychic ability to read a person’s cocktail needs. The nonagenarian had retired a few years back, but after almost literally dying of boredom—she had a heart attack while watching a women’s golf tournament—she’d returned to Junie’s and reclaimed her title as Pelican’s Cocktail Queen.

Maggie sipped her Pimm’s Cup, which did indeed hit the spot. Gran’ was off socializing, thus tabling any further discussion about Bibi. Instead, Maggie vented about Vanessa’s
bachelorette party to Junie’s proprietor, JJ, the son of the late Junie. JJ, who had a predilection for caftans, was dressed in a flowing zebra-print number and had his long hair in a classy updo.

“Van’s wedding festivities are going to bankrupt me,” Maggie said. “I won’t have a dime left for my own, should that miraculous event ever take place.”

“Don’t worry, chère. A, of course it will, and B, I’ll give you the fairest price I can on Van’s shindig.” JJ laid a hand with beautifully manicured nails on top of Maggie’s unadorned mitts. “Wait, I just had a brainstorm. Why don’t you impose a small cover charge for guests? Say, ten dollars each? That’s not too high, but it’ll save you a bundle.”

“That’s kind of tacky. But then, so are the Fleers, so yes! It’s brilliant. They’ll hate it, of course, but I’ll give them a choice. Suck it up or kick in the money yourself.”

“That’ll shut down any argument, I gar-on-tee. But you might not want to put it on the invitation—nobody will come. We’ll just tell them at the door. They’ll grumble, but they won’t go away.”

Gaynell and her Cajun-zydeco band, the Gator Girls, were on Junie’s small stage getting ready to do a set, and Maggie wandered over to her. She filled her friend in on the new twist to Vanessa’s party. “Sounds good,” Gaynell said. “And I can save you even more money. We’ll perform for free as the entertainment.”

“Oh, that’s fantastic! People will really get their money’s worth now. It’s almost too good for Vanessa.”

Maggie realized that Gaynell wasn’t listening. She followed her friend’s gaze and saw that Chret Bertrand had arrived, along with his great-uncle Lee. “Hey,” she called, waving the two men over. The foursome exchanged hellos. “Let me buy you a drink, Lee,” Maggie said, then pulled the older man away, leaving Chret and Gaynell with each other.

“That was pretty bald,” Lee laughed.

“I don’t think they even noticed.”

“It’s good to see some life back in him,” Lee said, gazing at his great-nephew. “Kid’s had it rough. My nephew Wayne and his wife adopted him as an infant. Wayne died a year later in a car accident, and his wife passed the summer after Chret graduated high school.”

Maggie felt a catch in her throat. “I can’t imagine that kind of pain.”

“It was bad. Real bad. Poor kid didn’t know what to do with himself after that, so he joined the armed forces, which turned out to be its own set of problems.”

“That’s so sad. But he’s lucky to have you.”

Lee shrugged, embarrassed. “I do what I can.” He smiled as he saw Gran’ sauntering over with her favorite cocktail, a Sazerac, in hand. “Looky-look who’s gracing us peasants with her presence,” he teased.

“Hello there, Mr. Bertrand,” Gran’ said, extending her hand.

“Madame.” Lee took her hand and kissed it, then stood up and bowed to her.

“Stop that, you silly man.” Gran’ giggled.

“Isn’t that how I’m supposed to greet Pelican’s grande dame when I see her?”

“What you’re supposed to do is promise her a dance when the band starts.”

“Of course. I’ll see if they’ll play a minuet fit for royalty.”

“I believe you were around when that dance was invented.”

“Ouch! Good shot, Queenie.” Lee turned to Maggie. “Now I truly do need that drink you offered me.”

“I’ll put it on my tab,” Gran’ said, then held out her arm, which Lee took. “You may escort me.”

“Yes, your ladyship. And I promise not to get any motor oil on your frock.”

The two headed for the bar as Maggie marveled at her octogenarian grandmother’s casually flirty way with men. Somehow that Crozat gene had passed her by. Hopefully it would reappear in the next generation—if Maggie ever got the chance to procreate. Her spirits lifted when she saw Bo come into Junie’s. They immediately dropped when she saw Whitney right behind him. She tamped down an urge to sneak out the back door and forced a smile when Bo started her way. Whitney followed. “Hi, Maggie,” Whitney said, her tone bright. “Bo’s being gallant and taking me out for dinner. I’ve been kind of lonely with Zach gone.”

“That must be hard on you.”

“It is, but it helps having this guy looking after me. He hired a sitter for Xander and whisked me off for a night on the town.” Whitney squeezed Bo’s arm affectionately, and Maggie choked back the bile in her throat.

“Why don’t you join us?” Bo said.

“Yes, good idea,” Whitney echoed.

It didn’t take Maggie’s keen visual sense to detect Whitney’s lack of enthusiasm. “That’s okay. You two have a nice dinner. I need to talk to Junie about some party plans.”

Maggie escaped and planted herself at the bar. Old Shari studied her, poured Maker’s Mark into a shot glass, and placed it in front of Maggie. “Here’s what I feel you for now,” she said.

“Dead-on as always, Shari.”

JJ, who was paying bills behind the bar, looked up and raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow as Maggie drained the glass in one gulp. “You wanna talk about it?” he asked.

“Nope.”

“Okay then.” JJ was a good enough friend to know that Maggie would share when she was ready. She set her shot glass down, and Old Shari refilled it. This time, Maggie sipped the bourbon, mulling over who might have killed Ginger as she drank. Like the ancient bartender, she had a specific and finely honed instinct about people. Old Shari’s was for their drink order; Maggie’s was for their predilection for murder. But she had zero instinct about who might have caused Ginger’s death, and that bothered her.

Junie’s front door flew open, and a tied pile of
Pelican Penny Savers
came flying in. “I got a stack of those yesterday,” Junie said, surprised.

“So did we. Maybe Little Earlie’s making it a daily,” Maggie said. She got off her barstool, went to the stack, and pulled out a copy of the paper. “It’s a little heavier than usual. Earlie must be pulling in more advertising.”

“I gotta say, people are reading it these days. I blew through my supply in a couple of hours. Little Earlie sure found himself a way to hook people.”

“Yes.” Maggie held up the copy. She was furious. “By printing trash.” She pointed to the paper’s headline, and this time both of JJ’s eyebrows went up. “‘Special Edition,’” Maggie read. “‘Killing at Crozat! Murders Bedevil B and B.’”

“Oh dear.” JJ pursed his lips. “Judging by that look on your face, I think the next victim might be Little Earlie Waddell.”

Maggie’s anger grew as she read the story. “That little . . . ! Listen to this, JJ, just listen. ‘Magnolia Marie Crozat labeled any mention of the murder as salacious and threatened a reporter with trouble if he pursued the story.’ That’s not what I said at all—I warned him to be careful because he could compromise the investigation with his stupid, cheesy tabloid story! He makes me sound like a mob goon. And here, listen to
this
—‘A nearby police officer attributed Ms. Crozat’s dismissive attitude to a desperate and perhaps futile desire to protect her family’s business at all costs, even if it meant belittling a heinous crime.’ Now he’s putting words in Artie’s mouth too! But does he name him? Of course not. He knows Artie would clean his clock, which is exactly what I’m going to do when I get my hands on that weasel.”

Maggie leaped off her barstool and ran out the door. Seeing Little Earlie a block ahead, casually strolling to his car, she tore down the street after him. “Hey!” she yelled. “Hey, Earlie, wait up, do you hear me? I said, wait up!”

Little Earlie did the opposite of waiting up. He picked up speed and ran for his car. But Maggie’s outrage fueled her with superhuman power, and she blazed toward him like a rocket, reaching his car before he could beep the lock open. “You lying piece of dog poo!” she yelled. “How could you do this to me? To my family? You print a retraction of that article tomorrow or I swear, I will pull a lightning bolt out of the sky and smite you with it. And by lightning bolt, I mean that I will get the best lawyer in Louisiana to take you down!”

“You’ll have to take the First Amendment down with me,” Little Earlie retorted as he fumbled with his car key.

Maggie planted herself in front of his PT Cruiser’s driver’s-side door. “You completely distorted my words.”

“Aha! You admit they were your words.”

“Oh, stop it, you know what I mean.”

Little Earlie pulled himself up to his full height, which barely put him eye-to-eye with Maggie. “Like the song says, ‘here’s a quarter, call someone who cares.’ Whether you like it or not, this story is big news, especially in a pissant town like Pelican. It’s the break I’ve been praying for, so I’m gonna write the heck out of it and keep writing until it’s all over the national papers and TV and Internet. You’d have to lock me in a chest and toss it off the side of a boat in the middle of the Gulf to stop me—and even then, I want this so bad that
I’d figure out a way to get out of that chest, swim back to shore, and cover the story. Now if you’ll get out of my way, I got papers to deliver.”

“Hello, you two.” Both Maggie and Little Earlie jumped, startled. Neither had noticed Bo walk up to them.

“Hey,” Little Earlie said, but his focus remained on Maggie. She caved to his glare and stepped away from his car.

“Earlie, buddy, there’s something I wanted to tell you.” Bo took a step toward Little Earlie and, without warning, punched him hard in the gut. Maggie gasped as the reporter let out an “oof” and doubled over.

“What was that for?” Little Earlie gasped as he clutched his stomach.

“That was for bothering my friends, the Crozats. If you liked it, there’s plenty more where it came from.”

Little Earlie pulled himself up to standing. “I’m reporting you for police brutality!” he screamed.

Little Earlie, still clutching his stomach with one hand, pulled open his car door with the other. He revved the PT Cruiser’s engine, and as he peeled out of the parking space, he yelled to Bo, “I’m gonna write about what you did, too. It’s all going in the paper. I’m gonna sue and report and write, so you better watch out, mister!”

He roared off. Maggie, who’d watched the whole exchange in mute shock, found her voice. “Bo, what . . . ? You didn’t have to . . . Your job . . .”

It was hardly articulate, but she formed enough words to give the Bo the gist of what she was trying to say. “It’s all good,” he said as he leaned against a parking meter. “I
wanted to take a few vacation days and go to Houston to meet up with a college friend from LSU who’s a detective there. He’s gonna help me do a little snooping into Ginger Fleer’s past and see if we can dig up any suspects in Texas. That’s not what I told Perske, of course. I told him I needed a little R and R. And he turned down my request. But as of Little Earlie’s complaint, which I’m guessing he’s filing right now, since he took off toward the station, I’m on administrative leave—paid leave—while it has to be investigated. So Houston, here I come—and on PPD’s dime, since it’s not coming out of my days.”

Bo flashed a mischievous grin, and Maggie matched it. “And you won’t get in trouble,” she said, “because you have Little Earlie’s ‘victim’ to testify that he was harassing her.”

“If it even goes that far. I’m guessing there’ll be a lot of lip service about an investigation, and then they’ll give it a few days to blow over. Little Earlie doesn’t want to get on the bad side of PPD. No one will feed him dirt for his rag.”

“Wow,” Maggie marveled. “I’m superimpressed by your plan.”

“And hopefully a little turned on,” Bo teased. He looked at her with his dark, bedroom eyes.
Why, oh why
, she lamented internally,
are we on a public street, where we can’t give in to our obvious desire for each other?

“I’m coming to Houston with you,” Maggie blurted. “I promised Vanessa I’d help find whoever killed Ginger, and I’ve gotten nowhere so far. I know you’re an amazing investigator, but I spent some time with her, and your friend might have information that reminds me of something Ginger
said or did that might be a clue. The funeral’s the day after tomorrow. I can tell people I’m going to represent the Louisiana Fleers there. Everyone will think that it’s just another to-do on my maid of honor list.”

“Great idea. Now I’m the one who’s superimpressed.”

Bo laid a hand on Maggie’s shoulder; with that slight touch, Maggie felt a bolt of electricity course between them. Then Bo dropped his hand. “I better get back to Whitney before she calls the police to file a missing person’s report,” he said. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

And the spark instantly flamed out.

*

The next morning, Maggie rearranged her schedule with Ione and cleared her upcoming trip with Tookie. As predicted, the Fleers were on board. “Those Texas Fleers will grab any excuse to stay put in their dang state,” Tookie griped. “I wouldn’t care except that they’re not the kind of folk who’ll send a present if they don’t show up at the wedding. We need their butts in the seats. Tell ’em that the best way to get over grief is to celebrate life. Sell it, Magnolia Marie.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Maggie grumbled, then ended the call before Tookie could strafe her with any more orders.

She drove toward Houston alone, having reluctantly agreed with Bo that driving together would be the Pelican gossip equivalent of throwing chum to sharks. “It’s KISS,” Bo had said as they coordinated their plans.

“Huh?” Maggie responded, confused.

“K-I-S-S,” Bo explained. “Translation: ‘Keep it simple, stupid.’ It’s how we operated when I worked undercover in Vice. You tell the same story to everyone and you keep it lean. The more complicated you make it, the easier it is to mess up. So we’re not dating. That’s our story, plain and simple. Even with my friend, Johnny. KISS.”

The irony that the operation was titled the one thing Maggie longed to do with Bo was painfully obvious to her. She also got the sense that even though the two men’s relationship went back to college, Bo didn’t completely trust Johnny.

It was an easy, flat ride on Interstate 10, which allowed Maggie’s mind to wander. She examined every moment of contact that she’d had with Ginger. There was some clue in those interactions, but she hadn’t landed on it. It remained mere intuition, which frustrated her. She hoped that Bo’s friend might help her hone in on whatever she was missing.

Maggie crossed the Sabine River, a dividing line between Louisiana and Texas, and the 10 continued its bland way into Houston. Never the most scenic drive, the late-fall weather had turned a muted green palette into one of pale grays and dull browns. Maggie had done an online search for lodging in or near Ginger’s upscale neighborhood, figuring that at least one resident might be meeting mortgage payments by operating a clandestine hostelry. Given the still-precarious economy, she wasn’t surprised when the search yielded a flood of options. Maggie had gone with proximity, choosing a home only blocks from Ginger and Fox’s abode.

She followed directions sent by the owner, a Mrs. Anna Ward, and found herself on a leafy street in front of an elegant, slightly faded, red-brick Georgian house in an area described on the site as “River Oaks adjacent”—River Oaks being the toniest neighborhood in the city. She parked the Falcon on the street, grabbed her overnight bag, and headed for the front door. It opened before she could ring the bell. A woman in her late seventies flashed a wide smile and held her arms up in a welcoming gesture. She was dressed in yellow from head to toe, with a perfect, blonde, bouffant hairdo that Maggie guessed was a wig.

“Hello there, I’m Anna,” she said. “But my friends call me Sunny. I’ve been waiting on you, honey. Welcome to the ‘My Husband Died and Left Me With a Lot of Bills B and B.’ Come on in. And if my neighbors ask, you’re my grand-niece who’s visiting for the first time.”

“I wouldn’t worry about what your neighbors think, given how many other secret B and Bs popped up around here when I did my search,” Maggie said as she followed Sunny into a foyer with a black-and-white marble-tiled floor and buttercup-yellow walls. A staircase carpeted in a paler yellow led to a second floor.

“Oh, really now?” Sunny said. “I want names. It’ll give me something to hold over them next time anyone in the neighborhood association complains that my hedges are ‘scraggly.’ Can I fix you a drink?”

“No thank you. It’s a little early for me.”

“Alrighty, but remember that it’s always five o’clock somewhere.”

Maggie was amused to discover that she was staying with Grand-mère’s Houston twin. “It also feels a bit wrong since I’m here for a funeral,” she said, grabbing an opportunity to steer the conversation toward Ginger’s death.

“Oh, you mean that woman who was murdered?” Sunny said. “I heard about that.”

Maggie noted that Sunny hadn’t described Ginger as “that
poor
woman.” For an effusive, yellow rose of Texas like her, Maggie suspected the choice of words—or lack of them—was intentional. “I don’t mean to be forward, but I’m sensing you didn’t think much of her,” Maggie commented as the women strolled through a kitchen splashed with yellow Formica counters and wallpaper populated with smiling lemons.

“I’d hate to speak ill of your friend,” Sunny demurred.

“To be honest, I hardly knew her,” Maggie replied. “I’m here as a favor to some of Ginger’s relatives who were unable to make the trip.” Maggie hoped this half-truth might help Sunny overcome her hesitation to trash-talk the late woman, which it did.

“I never met her myself, but she almost perpetrated a scam on a close friend,” Sunny shared. “But that’s for a conversation over sweet tea. Let’s get you to your room.”

Sunny led Maggie to a small bedroom with an en suite bathroom off the kitchen. It had obviously once been a maid’s room but was now cheerfully appointed with yellow-and-white-striped wallpaper that matched the comforter on a white wrought-iron bed. The nightstands, also white, were of wicker. “It’s charming,” Maggie said. She
glanced out the window. “And your hedges aren’t the least bit scraggly.”

Sunny chortled and slapped Maggie on the shoulder. “For that, you get an extra cookie with your tea. Get settled and come join me.”

Sunny left the room. Maggie didn’t want to put her hostess off by appearing too eager to hear the story, so she threw down her bag, washed her face and hands, and counted to thirty before sauntering onto the home’s brick patio. Sunny was sitting at an old-fashioned café table and motioned for Maggie to join her. Maggie sat down and accepted the tea as well as several cookies; she’d skipped lunch and was starving.

“So . . . Ginger . . . Fleer . . . Starke,” Sunny said. She shook her head and sighed. Maggie hoped the story lived up to the drama of its introduction. “It’s quite a tale.”

“Yes, Ginger inspired a lot of those,” Maggie said. “I’m curious to hear yours.”

“Well . . . a couple of years ago, my dear friend Nancy Brown Bradley inherited her parents’ home, a lovely Victorian in the historic neighborhood of Houston Heights. Financial circumstances forced Nancy Brown to put the place on the market, but it was paramount to her that the house be sold to someone who loved its architecture and was committed to preserving it. Then Miss Ginger comes along with a whole story about how she’s always dreamed of owning one of our city’s grand painted ladies and how she eventually wants to deed it to the Heritage Society, and blahbidiblah, blahbidibloo. She completely wins over Nancy Brown and is chosen as the buyer. Then, in the middle of
escrow, a neighbor who volunteers for the Heritage Society shows up at Nancy Brown’s door, fit to be tied. She’d learned from someone in City Planning that Ginger had applied for a demolition permit! Nancy Brown immediately pulled out of escrow, but Ginger took her to court and forced my poor friend to pay court costs and all fees incurred up to that point.”

“What an awful story,” Maggie said, truly outraged. “I can’t even imagine how upset your friend must have been.”

“Nancy Brown had been in remission for breast cancer. Within weeks of the whole debacle, it came back. She died not long after. But she did live long enough to see some measure of justice enacted by yours truly.” Sunny got a look of grim satisfaction on her face. “My family goes back many generations in this city, and I am not without some important connections. A few well-placed words from me spread amongst the right people, and Ginger was just about reduced to designing the interiors of takeout restaurants for a living.”

“Good for you.”

“Thank you.” Sunny picked up a small carafe of a brown liquid that Maggie assumed from its scent was rum, then added a splash to her sweet tea. “Now, enough about that poor excuse for a human being. Let me tell you about my roses. I’ve collected every shade of yellow that I could find . . .”