Plantation Shudders (10 page)

“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.

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.

Ninette quickly removed the hot dog, and Xander calmed down. “It’s my fault,” she said. “I should have asked before I dressed it. Xander, I am so very, very sorry. I’ll make you a new hot dog and let you put whatever you want on it yourself. Would that be okay?”

Xander stopped flapping and shaking. He nodded yes, his demeanor no longer anxiety ridden but once again serious.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Bo said. “We should probably wash up first. Be right back.”

Bo took his son’s hand and led him out of the kitchen to the restroom. As soon as he was gone, Maggie turned to her parents. “What was
that
about?”

“For goodness sake, Magnolia, show some sensitivity.” Ninette had never snapped at her that way before, and Maggie felt ashamed of her flip comment. “That poor child obviously has some serious issues. I remember when we hosted that end-of-year lunch for the Pelican Elementary teachers, I heard them talking about how so many kids today are ‘on the spectrum.’ I think that could be the case with Xander. I’m guessing he’s either autistic or has Asperger syndrome.”

Tug sighed. “When I was a kid, we just called boys like him weirdoes and treated them that way. I hate to think how they suffered because we just didn’t know any better.”

“Well, nowadays we do know better.” Ninette glared at her daughter. “And we need to show that with our behavior.”

“You’re right, Mama,” Maggie said, abashed.

Ninette finished grilling a second hot dog for Xander just as Bo returned with his son. She looked to Xander before placing the hot dog in a bun, and he solemnly nodded his approval.

“Condiments are over here, sweetie,” Ninette said, pointing to the kitchen table. Xander stared at them thoughtfully and then carefully squirted a thin line of ketchup on his frank. He eyeballed the line, and then squirted a fine thread of mustard so thin that it paralleled the ketchup almost exactly. Maggie was impressed by his precision. The boy sat down to eat his hot dog. After getting a refill of gumbo, she took a seat next to him. The others joined them at the table. While Bo, Ninette, and Tug chatted about Fet Let, Maggie focused her attention on Xander.

“Is it good?” she asked. Xander nodded yes as he slowly ate his hot dog. Maggie noticed that he was counting each bite before he swallowed. “You know,” she continued. “I’m an artist and I hate when certain colors get mixed together, too. I can show you, but I’d have to mix the ketchup and mustard.” She turned to Bo. “Do you think it would be okay? I don’t want to upset him again.”

Bo laid a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Xander, would you like to see that, if she does it on her own plate and not yours?”

Xander pondered the question for a minute and then, a little wary, nodded yes. Maggie took the ketchup and mustard and squirted both into her now-empty bowl. She took a spoon and mixed the two together until they formed a muddy paste.
Xander watched, both repulsed and fascinated. She showed the homely result to Xander.

“Ugh, ugly. I don’t like this at all. Do you?”

Xander shook his head no. He looked at her expectantly, waiting for what might come next. Maggie panicked for a moment, but then she had a brainstorm. “Would you like to come over tomorrow and mix pretty colors with me?” she asked the boy. Xander nodded and this time, for a brief second, there was a flicker of a smile in his eyes. Maggie turned to Bo. “I mean, if it’s all right with you.”

“Uh, yeah. It’s great. Absolutely.”

The meal finished without incident and Maggie gathered up the dirty dishes. “I’ll clean up,” she told her parents.

“Xander and I’ll help,” Bo said.