Body on the Bayou (5 page)

Ginger lay on her side, her head resting on a rock. Her platinum hair floated in the shallow water at the bayou’s edge; she might as well have been napping. But three Crozat guests had died only months earlier, leaving Maggie all too familiar with what death looked like. A small stream of blood leaked from the back of Ginger’s head into the bayou.

Maggie pulled out her cell phone. Before she could place a call, she heard footsteps and heavy breathing. Vanessa shoved her way through some bushes and made her way toward Maggie. “I really should follow my doctor’s orders and get some exercise,” Vanessa said between huffs and puffs of breath.

“What are you doing here?” Maggie asked, stunned to see the woman.

“I tried texting you, but you didn’t answer.”

“Yes. There’s a reason for that.”

“Whatevs. Anyway, I’m glad I tracked you down. We have an emergency. The rental company called and they’ve discontinued carrying the chairs I want for the reception.”

“Vanessa,” Maggie responded, choosing her words with care as she dialed 9-1-1. “Something has happened.”

Vanessa’s eyes followed Maggie’s gaze and landed on Ginger’s body. She let out a shriek and then fainted.

The 9-1-1 operator came on the line. “Hello, help!” Maggie cried out. “There’s a dead woman and an unconscious one, and she’s pregnant, and there are puppies and kittens and a cat, but no mama dog!”

“All right, honey,” the operator said cautiously. “Now are you able to tell me exactly what drugs you’ve taken?”

“I know this sounds crazy, but it’s all happening. Send the police and an ambulance to Crozat Plantation. Tell them to go up the side road to the back where the bayou is.”

“Maggie Crozat, is that you? It’s Delphine Arnaud. I’ll get someone out there right away.”

Maggie ended the call and then speed-dialed her father. “Dad, emergency! GPS me and bring Mom and the wagon and blankets. Get Ru here, too.” She hung up without waiting for a reply and rushed to Vanessa. She lifted her to a sitting position, which was no easy feat since the pregnant woman had added sixty-five pounds of baby weight to her already-zaftig figure. She slapped the unconscious woman’s face a few times. “Van, wake up. Wake up!”

Vanessa started, then heaved in a big gulp of air and opened her eyes. “Wha . . .” she said in a weak voice. She saw Ginger’s body and started to sway.

Maggie shook her to prevent another faint. “Stay with me.”

“Okay,” Vanessa murmured, still in a daze.

“Maggie! Maggie, honey, where are you?” Tug called.

“Here, Dad! Down by the bayou.”

Maggie heard her parents push through the heavy brush. They appeared seconds later, pulling the red wagon from Maggie’s childhood that now conveyed items around the plantation. Ninette let out a small scream when she saw Ginger. “Oh my God!” she cried out, clutching at her heart.

Tug took a step toward the body, but Maggie pulled him back. “No, Dad, don’t touch anything. The police are on their way, and we have to leave everything exactly as it is for them. I need your help with this.” Maggie jumped up and ran over to the puppies and kittens, which made tiny, mewling sounds. “Mama, bring the wagon over.”

Ninette didn’t respond or move. She seemed frozen in place. Tug ran his hands through his hair and looked from Ginger to Vanessa to the puppies and kittens, then back to Ginger. “You know how much I love animals,” Tug said, “but that doesn’t seem to be the biggest crisis here.”

“I know, but it’s the one I need you and Mom to handle right now,” Maggie said, her tone urgent. Maggie ran back to Vanessa and dropped to her knees next to the disoriented woman. “I want to stay with Vanessa, and the authorities will have to investigate what happened to Ginger.” She motioned to the animals. “Someone needs to take care of these babies or they’ll die.”

This snapped Ninette out of her stupor. “Yes, right. Of course. Tug, lay a blanket on the bottom of the wagon. I’ll bring them up to the house and call the vet. Vanessa, chère, are you all right?”

“I . . . I . . . I . . .” Vanessa stuttered.

“I’ve got her, Mama.” Maggie took a blanket from the wagon and draped it around Vanessa. She kept an arm wrapped protectively around Van’s shoulder. “It’s okay. An ambulance should be here any minute.”

Tug and Ninette carefully moved the mother cat, kittens, and pups into the wagon. The cat didn’t give them any trouble; Maggie figured the poor thing was too dehydrated to make a fuss. Ninette headed back to the main house, pulling the wagon as carefully as possible to protect its delicate cargo.

“I’m going out front to meet the police,” Tug told his daughter and sprinted off.

Maggie’s cell rang again. She looked down to see that Bo was the caller and answered. “Hey,” Bo said. “Just wanted to see if you were up for Xander’s lesson in an—”

“Ginger’s dead, out back by the bayou. Get here. I’ll explain.”

Bo hung up without a word, and Maggie knew he was on his way. She turned back to the crisis at hand. Vanessa had transitioned to weeping. “No, no, no, no,” she moaned. “How could this happen?”

“I am so sorry,” Maggie said as she gave her a sympathetic hug. “I know it’s a huge shock.”

Vanessa’s nose started to run, and she wiped it with the Crozats’ blanket. She risked a quick glance at Ginger’s lifeless body and then turned away. “How could Ginger drown like this? It’s awful. Poor her.”

Maggie nodded sympathetically but said nothing. It was not the time to point out the wound on the back of Ginger’s skull that indicated a much more sinister demise.

*

The Pelican first responders arrived simultaneously. EMTs examined Vanessa and pronounced her vital signs strong but insisted on taking her to the hospital to be thoroughly checked out. Maggie bundled the pregnant woman into the ambulance and texted Rufus where to find his wife-to-be. Officers Cal Vichet and Artie Belloise taped off the area while Acting Police Chief Hank Perske barked orders at them. Maggie tried to hide the instant dislike she felt for Perske, a tightly muscled giant in his early fifties. Where Rufus had opted for casual business attire while on the job, Perske was never out of uniform. He struck her as a rigid, humorless autocrat. She introduced herself and said, “I’m the one who found poor Ginger.”

“A detective will be here shortly.” Perske’s terse, cold tone reaffirmed Maggie’s first impression.

“Yes,” she said. “Bo’s on his way.”

This got the taciturn man’s attention, much to Maggie’s regret. “How would you know that?” he demanded.

“We’re friends. I give his son art lessons sometimes. And Bo’s helped out before, so I called him.” Maggie made herself
maintain eye contact with the chief. Looking away would indicate weakness; the last thing she wanted the man to see was how vulnerable she felt.

“Exactly what kind of help did you need?”

“Just support. It’s horrible finding someone who’s . . . passed away . . . on your property.”

“This would be the fourth time in only a few months.”

Perske glared at her, eyes narrowed to suspicious slits. Maggie flushed. She felt her underarms start to perspire and wished she’d gone with something stronger than an all-natural deodorant. “I have an alibi. I was at work,” she blurted.

“Interesting you think you need an alibi considering we haven’t even determined Mrs. Starke’s cause of death.”

Maggie’s heart raced so fast that she felt faint.
Too bad I can’t flag down Vanessa’s ambulance and hop in there with her,
she thought. “I saw the back of Ginger’s head,” she explained to the chief. “I don’t see how she could get a wound like that and wind up face down in the water.”

“There are few things I hate more than an amateur sleuth,’” Perske said. “Very few things.”

“Honestly, I don’t mean to be. But I’m an artist. I’m very visual, so I tend to pick up things other people might miss. Not the police, of course. They don’t miss a thing.”

Perske was unimpressed by her ham-fisted attempt at flattery. In fact, Maggie’s visual instincts picked up downright disgust in his expression. She was searching for a way of climbing out of the verbal hole she’d dug when a welcome voice called out her name.

“Back here, Bo,” she called to him.

Bo pushed aside thick foliage and made his way to her. He was clad in his off-duty attire of jeans and a T-shirt, his hair slightly mussed up from colliding with branches. Maggie tamped down the surge of attraction she always felt at the sight of him and was always forced to hide—now more than ever given Chief Perske’s mistrustful glare.

She greeted Bo with a stiff “Hello. Thank you for coming.”

Bo nodded a greeting to his chief and then responded to Maggie with equal stiffness. “Just doing my job. If you’ll show us somewhere to sit, I’d like to get the details of how you discovered Mrs. Starke.”

“Yes. We can talk on the veranda. Just follow me.”

Chief Perske held up his hand and shook his head. “Yeah, that won’t be happening,” Perske said. “I don’t know what the deal is with you two, but I’m picking up a little too much personal history. You can supervise the boys here, Durand. I’ll be taking Ms. Crozat’s statement.”

Perske motioned to Maggie, who snuck an anguished look at Bo and then glumly led the chief to the veranda of the main house. She had the terrifying feeling that if Ginger’s cause of death really was murder, the chief considered her a prime suspect.

Maggie’s grilling by Perske did nothing to allay her fears. His tone was so suspicious and skeptical that Maggie felt compelled to remind him of what he himself had pointed out. “We don’t know yet that Ginger was murdered,” she said.

“No, we don’t,” the man had to acknowledge. “But we will know very soon.” He studied her. Maggie held his glance and studied him right back. While an unexpected heat wave had soaked through many a Pelican shirt, the chief was almost unnaturally dry. Even his skin had a matte finish instead of a dewy sheen. Was the man human or a cyborg? “Being a chief in a small town means listening to gossip,” Perske continued, “and from what I’ve heard, this Ginger had become a problem for your family. A very expensive problem.”

Maggie was stunned. It was one thing to consider her a suspect, but quite another to drag in the rest of the Crozats. “She wasn’t dishing out anything that my family couldn’t
take,” she responded evenly. “And when it comes to Ginger, gossip can point a finger at a lot of people around here.”

“Anyone in particular?”

“I think finding that out is your job. You certainly wouldn’t want to hear the ramblings of an ‘amateur sleuth.’” Maggie stood up tall, claiming every inch of her five-foot-four-inch height. Even with the inch-plus heels on her black espadrilles, she was still only about a head taller than the sitting Perske. “I’ve told you everything I know about the circumstances of finding Mrs. Fleer-Starke. I need to help my mother with the puppies and kittens that we found. You have all my contact information if you need to talk to me again.”

Maggie marched off, feeling pretty proud of how she’d schooled the bully of a chief. She made her way to the B and B office, where her family was tending to the new arrivals. Ninette had commandeered one of Gopher’s beds for the animals and placed it inside Maggie’s old playpen; her parents’ sentimental attachment to it had proved fortuitous. The mama cat, looking full and sated, rested on the bed while her kittens nursed. Ninette, Tug, and Gran’ were feeding the hungry puppies with syringes. Gopher guarded the group so tightly that he even barked at his beloved Maggie’s approach. She reached down to pet him and massage one of his floor-length basset ears. “Good boy. You watch out for the little ones. Were y’all able to reach the vet?”

“The service tracked down Dr. Waguespack, and she’s sending over special formulas for puppies and kittens in the morning,” Ninette said as the pup in her lap sucked
on the syringe. “We may not need the kitty formula, since Mama Cat seems to be responding to the food and drink we gave her. Since the pups are motherless, it appears they were feeding from her as well, which is another reason she was dehydrated. The doctor gave us instructions for making something called ‘glop,’ which will nourish them just fine until the puppy formula comes.”

“It smells kind of yummy. What’s in it?”

“Evaporated milk, Karo syrup, raw eggs, and gelatin, warmed up enough to go from custard to liquid.”

“I’d hold onto that recipe, Ninette,” Gran’ said. “Throw in some pecans and you’ve got a delicious pie.”

“Did you talk to Chief Perske?” Tug asked his daughter. “What did he tell you?”

“He didn’t say much. You know the police. They’re pretty tight-lipped until some facts start rolling in.” Maggie, who constantly feared that stress might bring on another bout of her mother’s cancer, opted not to mention that Perske had the Crozats in his crosshairs.

“I think Vanessa was in shock,” Ninette said. “I hope she’s all right.”

“That poor girl can’t seem to catch a break,” Gran’ commented.

Tug gave his mother an admonishing look. “A woman died, Mama. The term ‘catching a break’ doesn’t exactly seem appropriate.”

“My age allows me the occasional blunt observation,” Gran’ responded. “It’s very sad that Ginger died, but she was
a horror of a human being. And I dare anyone to deny that the timing of it couldn’t be worse for Vanessa.”

Maggie paced the room. She felt an overwhelming urge to resume an old habit of biting her nails, but since she’d recently trimmed them to facilitate her ability to draw, there was nothing to chew on. “I just hope the coroner’s report comes back fast.”

“So you think it might be . . .” Tug didn’t finish his sentence. He didn’t have to.

The family fell silent for a moment. Then Ninette spoke. “Whatever happened to Ginger probably scared off the mama of these little ones. I feel terrible thinking that she might be out there looking for her babies. Maggie, why don’t you and your grandmother check with a few neighbors to see if they’ve noticed a stray lately?”

“Good idea,” Maggie said, grateful to her mother for offering a distraction from Ginger’s death.

“I’ll wash up and change into my walking shoes.” Gran’ stood up and placed the pup she’d been feeding back in the playpen, then picked up a lint roller and deftly swiped it over her navy silk slacks.

Maggie hastily typed and printed some “Lost Dog and Found Cat” fliers to put up around town. As soon as Gran’ was ready, the two took off. They went from one neighborhood to the next, ringing doorbells to ask if anyone was missing pets or had seen a stray dog in the area. No one had. As they trudged down another dusty street toward the final house on the block, Maggie noticed Gran’ pull a tissue out of
her purse and pat her forehead with it. The eighty-two-year-old was also breathing heavier than usual.

“Maybe you should go home,” Maggie said, concerned. “I can keep looking.”

“No. This is merely proof that I don’t get enough exercise. Chère, I need to talk to you about Ginger. Do you really think someone killed her?”

Maggie nodded, her face grim. “She was facedown in the water with a deep wound in the back of her head.”

Gran’ shuddered. “How ghastly. Well, PPD won’t lack for suspects. There’s her husband, of course.”

“And Bibi, who obviously hated her and was in love with him,” Maggie said. “Then there’s Trent, who was having a thing with Ginger. Who knows what the real story was there?”

“True. And one can’t rule out Vanessa or her gorgon of a mother, Tookie.”

“There’s also the remote possibility—
extremely
remote—that Rufus might have been driven to get off his duff and defend his fiancée from Ginger’s machinations,” Maggie said.

“And these are just the people we know about. I’m guessing that woman left a trail of bad blood between here and Houston.”

Maggie hesitated before saying, “And there’s us.” Gran’ looked at her, confused. “I got the impression that Perske thinks Ginger’s death was very convenient for the family, as was my discovering her body.”

Gran’ gave a derisive snort. “That man suffers from a serious lack of imagination.”

“I just hope he doesn’t fixate on us. And that once the coroner establishes a time of death, we all have alibis.”

Maggie stopped at the end of the country cul-de-sac. She and Gran’ stood in front of a small but charming house. It was painted a pale green with bright, white gingerbread trim and a deep, forest-green door. “This is lovely,” Gran’ said.

“Adorable,” Maggie agreed. “Do you know who lives here?”

“An older couple, but I’ve never met them. I heard from Alicia Benoist up the street that it’s a vacation home and they bought it not that long ago.”

Maggie surveyed the cheery scene. She noticed that the street numbers on the house were painted in dark green but shaded in the paler green, an artistic touch she appreciated. The home had been renovated so recently that the smell of sawdust and fresh paint still clung to the air.

“They’ve put a lot of work into the place. They’re either planning to spend more time here or fixing to sell.” She and Gran’ walked up three wooden steps that led to the front porch, which featured an oak-stained Adirondack chair surrounded by potted pink azaleas. Maggie rang the doorbell, which responded with a few church-like bongs.

“A bit pretentious for a spit of a house,” Gran’ said.

“Don’t be judgy,” Maggie admonished.

“Be right there,” a man called from inside the house. Maggie and Gran’ heard a few sturdy footsteps, then the front door opened a crack, and a man who appeared to be in
his midseventies stuck his head out. He had a thick thatch of pure white hair and alert, light-brown eyes that peered through gold, wire-rimmed glasses. “Sorry, I’d open the door more, but I’m taking care of a dog and I don’t know if she’ll bolt.”

“Is she a stray?” Maggie asked. “We found some pups without a mama. We’ve been out looking for her.”

“You know what, I may have your girl,” the man said. “Come on in. I’m Stevens. Stevens Troy.”

“I’m Charlotte Crozat and this is my granddaughter, Magnolia,” Gran’ said.

“Maggie for short,” Maggie added.

Maggie and Gran’ followed Stevens into his home. The living room was stuffed with moving boxes and a collection of furniture that was traditional in style. Maggie noticed a heavy glass award jutting out of a box, anointing Stevens as Houston Lawyer of the Year. “Forgive the mess,” Stevens said. “I just sold a home in Houston and moved everything here permanently. My wife passed away about four months ago. I felt like I could use a fresh start.”

“We’re so sorry for your loss,” Gran’ said. “I’m a widow myself. I admire your courage. Except for college in New Orleans, I’ve never lived anywhere but Pelican.”

“Well, then, you’re the perfect person to fill me in on what I need to know about my new home,” Stevens said, smiling.

Oh my gosh, he’s flirting with her!
Maggie thought. As she wondered if her grandmother noticed, Gran’s behavior answered the question. “Of course I will, of course,” Gran’ fluttered. When nervous, she cranked up her inner Southern
belle and repeated phrases in what was almost a parody of her soft Louisiana accent. “You simply must let me give you a personal tour of the area. You
must.
”

“I’d love that,” Stevens said. “Let’s set a date.”

“Why don’t you both do that after we see the dog, so you’re not distracted?” Maggie said, interrupting the senior singles’ mingle.

“Yes, sorry,” Stevens said. “Follow me.”

“I see you face west,” Gran’ said as they walked. “You must catch some lovely sunsets.”

“That’s why Wynette and I bought this house,” Stevens said as he led them through a small galley kitchen. “She had a passion for a pretty setting sun.”

They exited the kitchen onto an enclosed patio at the back of the house. A small tan-and-white Chihuahua mix paced the room, whimpering. “She came in through the doggy door the previous owner installed for his Doberman,” Stevens said. “The cover to it is missing, and I ordered a new one, but lucky for her, it hasn’t shown up yet. She goes outside and wanders around, then comes back in. Poor thing seems agitated.”

Maggie knelt down next to the animal, which shivered and pulled away. But as Maggie murmured soothing reassurances, the dog crept closer and allowed Maggie to pet her. Maggie took advantage of the proximity to peek at the pup’s belly. “This sweetie has given birth recently,” she told the others. “We found our girl.”

“No wonder she was so distressed,” Stevens said. “She missed her babies.”

Stevens offered to drive Gran’, Maggie, and the pooch back to Crozat. The dog, still weak from her ordeal, didn’t protest when Maggie wrapped her in a blanket and carried her to Stevens’s Prius. Maggie had texted her parents that they were on their way, so Ninette and Tug met them at the back door. Gran’ introduced Stevens to Ninette and Tug as Maggie brought the dog into the B and B’s office and placed her in the playpen. The mama cat gave a happy meow, and the puppies squeaked with joy. They leapt on their mother, who was equally happy to see them.

“She needs a name,” Maggie said. “I think Stevens, as her rescuer, gets that honor.”

“Ooh, lotta pressure,” Stevens said. He thought for a moment. “We’re in Cajun Country, so it should be French. What about Jolie Fille? Pretty Girl?”

“I think it’s lovely,” Gran’ said. “We’ll call her Jolie for short.”

“Could call a lot around here ‘
jolie,
’” Stevens said, eliciting a blush from Gran’.

Tug pulled Ninette and Maggie aside. “What’s going on?” he whispered.

“I know it’s been a while, chère,” Ninette whispered back, “but it’s called flirting.”

The Crozats’ landline rang. “I’ll get it,” Ninette said. She picked up a cordless phone and stepped into the hallway. Gran’ and Stevens didn’t even register her departure.

“You could be on the road to getting a stepdaddy, Daddy,” Maggie teased her father.

“Huh,” Tug said, wrinkling his forehead. “Not sure how I feel about that.”

Ninette reappeared in the doorway. “That was Pelican PD,” she said, her voice tense. “They’re on the way over.”

The others exchanged worried glances. “Everything okay?” Stevens asked.

“We have a problem with a guest,” Maggie said. Unsure of how much to reveal, she opted for being vague.

“A Houston woman,” Gran’ said. “I’m not going to ask if you know her because I despise when people do that. ‘Oh, you’re from Louisiana, do you know my friend Mary Smith?’ Let me run through the names of the five million Louisiana citizens in my head and see if that one rings a bell.”

“Now I’m curious. Try me. What’s her name?”

“Ginger Fleer-Starke,” Maggie said.

To the surprise of the others, Stevens burst out laughing. “Oh, I’ve heard all about Mrs. Ginger Fleer-Starke, as has pretty much every litigator in Houston—which is what I was in my former life. I don’t think a month went by when that woman wasn’t suing someone. What’s your problem with her? Maybe I can help.”

“That’s very generous, but I don’t think you can.” Maggie held up her cell phone. “Bo just texted me. PPD received the coroner’s report. It’s official. Ginger was murdered.”