Plantation Shudders (11 page)

“Actually,” Ninette said, “I was thinking Tug and I might show Xander our new chicken yard. It’s pretty big because we want to produce free-range eggs for the plantation.”

“That sounds like way more fun than washing and drying dishes, doesn’t it, son?” Bo winked at his son, who responded with his de facto solemn nod. Ninette and Tug each offered the boy a hand. He stared thoughtfully and then took them. The trio headed for the chicken yard, with Gopher on the seven-year-old’s heels.

“Dogs know, don’t they?” Bo said as he watched them go.

“Know what?” Maggie asked.

“When someone . . . when a kid . . . is special.”

“Xander
is
special, Bo. And in the best way that word can mean.”

Bo began gathering plates and placing them in sink. “Thanks. He liked you.”

“Really?” she said as she began rinsing dinnerware and placing it in the dishwasher. “How could you tell?”

“Eye contact. He looked you in the eye. He hardly ever does that. So it means something.”

“Wow. That’s great.” Maggie was surprised by how good this made her feel and then slightly depressed that the approval of a seven-year-old would mean so much.
The bar’s been lowered since the days when it took Julian Schnabel remembering my name to get me excited,
she thought. Maggie handed Bo a towel. “Why don’t you dry the stuff that has to be hand-washed?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The two washed and dried in a silence that felt surprisingly comfortable to her. When they finished, they worked together to put everything in its proper place. Bo wrinkled his nose. “I keep smelling some kind of chemical. I wonder if there’s a leak at one of the plants. Maybe I should call headquarters.”

“No, don’t bother,” The lingering scent of disinfectant on Maggie’s clothes had disrupted their camaraderie, and she found herself annoyed as well as mortified. “It’s me. I gave the Shexnayders some time off and I’ve been doing the cleaning.”

“That was nice of you. Although . . . interesting timing.”

“How so?” Her face flushed bright red, contradicting her innocent tone.

“It would’ve made a lot more sense to wait until after the case is solved to give your help a break. I wouldn’t think you’d want to take on the extra work right now. Of course, never know what you’ll find in other people’s rooms.”

“Boy, you detective types sure are suspicious,” she responded with what she hoped was a casual shrug.
If this investigation is going to drag on, maybe I should invest in some acting lessons,
she mused. Maggie had never been very good at disguising her “tells,” as old poker buddies, flush with winnings they’d taken off her, would attest to. She steeled herself for a scolding from Bo—“Don’t meddle, it’s not safe, you’re interfering with police business.” But instead, Bo asked, “Where does this big bowl go?”

“Oh. Bottom shelf.”

Bo had chosen to let the subject slide and she was relieved but still on guard. Years of run-ins with Bo’s slippery cousin Rufus had taught her that it was best to watch one’s back when dealing with a Durand.

“So,” said Bo as he put away the bowl. “I got your note.”

“What note? I didn’t—” Maggie was puzzled, and then it hit her. Gran’ must have found and mailed the apology note that Maggie meant to throw out. She couldn’t blame her grandmother; it was her own fault for not tearing it up.

“Thanks for sharing all that,” Bo continued.

“Glad you liked it.” Maggie kept her response neutral but inwardly panicked as she tried to remember exactly how much she’d bared her soul in that note to this virtual stranger.

“It actually made me feel better about a lot of stuff.”

Hearing Bo’s positive reaction, she relaxed. “My life is such a mess that yours looks good in comparison now?”

Bo laughed. “No. More like—we’re going through a lot of the same things. Feeling unsettled. Not sure if we’re making the right or wrong choices with our lives.”

“And you’re a dad, so that makes things even more complicated.”

“Yes. Exactly.”

Bo’s face lit up, and for a split second, Maggie felt dizzy. She shook it off and focused on putting away leftovers. “It’s weird how you can have a life that feels like an appearance of a life. Do you know what I mean?”

“Yes. That’s what my marriage was—an appearance of a marriage.”

“How long were you married?”

“Nine years. Got married right out of college. Yes, I went to college, don’t look so surprised. You can’t be an idiot and be a detective.”

“But I guess you can be an idiot and be a police chief, at least in Pelican.” Maggie winced. “Gah, I’ve got such a big mouth. Sorry, I know Ru is family.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to agree with him. Or even like him.”

“I have to be honest, it’s hard to believe you two are related. You’re the total opposite of each other. He’s such a dumbass good ol’ boy. And you’re so not.”

“That’s my mom’s doing. She was one of those old-fashioned types who wanted her kids to have a better life than she did, so she made sure we had manners, and spoke well, and got a good education.”

“You said ‘was.’”

“Died of a brain tumor when I was sixteen.”

Maggie, who had spent her entire life terrified that Ninette’s cancer would return and claim her, felt for Bo. “I’m so sorry.”

“Thanks.”

Noticing that Bo’s mood had darkened, she changed the subject. “You seem to have a good relationship with your ex. What broke you guys up?”

“Whitney and I just realized we’re different people. Different needs, different interests, different dreams . . . things you don’t give much thought to when you’re twenty-two and just hot for each other. Scientists say that the brain doesn’t fully form until we’re twenty-five. I believe that and as far as I’m concerned, there’d be a whole lot less divorces if people weren’t allowed to get married until they were over twenty-five. Whitney’s a good person and the mother of my son, but we both heaved a pretty big sigh of relief when we agreed to divorce. And it’s not the easiest thing being married to a detective. I spend a lot of time in my head.”

“So do artists.”

“See? Something else we have in common.”

Bo flashed his sexy grin, and once again Maggie felt dizzy. She downed the last drop of wine from a bottle and then tossed it into the recycle container. “I didn’t know we had anything in common.”

“We both think Ru’s an idiot.”

She had to laugh. “You have no idea how much I enjoy hearing you say that.”

“More than an idiot. He’s a right bastard. Whitney remarried a guy who works out on a rig, Zach Evans, so they moved down here to be closer for his work. I wanted to be near Xander, so Ru got me a job with PPD, and I owe him for that. Except that . . . There’s a school in Baton Rouge for kids like Xander. It’s an amazing place, but it’s
real expensive. I’d have the money if the Durand family sold Grove Hall, but thanks to the Napoleonic Code, we can’t do that unless we all agree to the sale.”

“And Rufus won’t.”

“What, Rufus give this town the satisfaction of seeing Grove Hall beautifully restored and cared for? Not gonna happen. As long as it’s a wreck, it’s his flipping the bird to Pelican.”

“Oh, that stinks on every level,” Maggie said. Bo nodded grimly. She closed the fridge door and looked straight at Bo. “Am I wrong in thinking that Ru’s personal flipping the bird to us Crozats is stonewalling Bev Clabber’s murder investigation?”

“I can’t reveal anything. All I can say is, trust your instincts.”

She appreciated Bo’s subtle honesty. It encouraged her to share what she’d learned about the Cajun Cuties. “I found out something you should know,” she said, and filled him in on the executive board shuffle that put Suzy at the financial helm of the nonprofit.

“That’s a very interesting angle,” Bo said when she was done. “I’ll get in touch with the IRS and see if they’ve sniffed out any improprieties with the organization’s returns or 501C3 status.” Bo grinned. “Nice work. Maybe we should put you on the force as a reserve.”

Maggie shook her head vigorously and waved her arms no. “Nuh-uh, this is all about survival for me and my family. Although,” she giggled, “it would be hilarious to see Ru’s reaction if he saw me behind a station desk.”

“What the heck are you thinking, bringing a Crozat in here, Coz?” Bo said in a spot-on imitation of his cousin. “The curse, man, the curse!”

Maggie and Bo were still entertaining themselves with this unlikely scenario when Tug and Ninette returned with Xander, who was clutching a bouquet of lettuce varieties that he handed to his father. “Cool,” Bo said as he admired the collection of greens. “Did you pick this yourself?” Xander nodded yes. “Well, I can’t wait to eat them. Now we better get you home to bed. It’s a school night.”

Maggie bent down and looked Xander in the eye. The young boy held her glance. “I’ll see you after school for that art lesson,” she told him, and Xander responded with one of his solemn nods. Bo thanked the Crozats for their hospitality and then took his son’s hand and led him out of the house to their car.

After they left, Maggie poured herself a glass of wine and took it with her onto the veranda. She sat in one of her family’s heirloom rocking chairs, handed down through generations of Crozats, and contemplated the evening. She knew Bo was right about trusting her instincts. But those instincts weren’t helping her answer one very important question: could she trust Bo? She feared her nascent attraction to him might be coloring her judgment.

She closed her eyes, trying to release the stress nipping at her mind and tensing her body. And as she relaxed, Maggie realized something.

Xander hadn’t said a single word the entire night.

When she woke up at dawn, Maggie ached in muscles she never knew she had. But she soldiered on with Crozat maintenance, picking up the pace as she grew more familiar with the routine. While her cleaning skills grew, her detecting ability seemed to have leveled out. Aside from discovering that Cutie Debbie was hoarding mini shampoo bottles, she didn’t dig up incriminating dirt on any of the guests.

She finished folding towels in the Rykers’ bathroom and then pushed the cleaning cart back to its home in the supply closet and locked it up, done for the day. As she strode back to the shotgun, now focused on organizing art supplies that would appeal to Xander, her frustration dissolved. Maggie walked into her bedroom, lay on the floor, and reached under the bed. She pulled out an old box of acrylic paints and threw out the few that had dried up. She checked her supply of canvases, choosing an 8' × 10" for her young charge. She was surprised to notice that her heart was racing.
I’m a little too
excited about this art lesson
, she thought, and took a few breaths to calm herself.

She remembered that she’d never confirmed a time with Bo, so she pulled her cell out of her back jeans pocket and sent him a text. Then, mindful of his reaction to the scent of cleaning fluid that permeated her being after a day of housecleaning, she jumped in the shower. An internal debate about what outfit to wear followed, as well as a light but effective application of makeup. Maggie, in slim jeans and a purple fitted T-shirt that subtly enhanced her figure, was completely ready for the arrival of father and fils when Bo texted that he and Xander wouldn’t be able to make it: “Sorry. Bad day. Xander bullied. Rain check.”

Her excitement turned to grievous disappointment, which she also noted as a disproportionate reaction to a seven-year-old’s art lesson. When Gran’ sauntered into the shotgun carrying two Sazeracs, Maggie grabbed one and took a large gulp.

“I hate bullies. They’re the worst,” she said, her tone bitter. She followed the pronouncement with a big swig of her drink.

“Hmm,” Gran’ said, as she eyed her granddaughter thoughtfully. “Not a particularly erudite observation, but I’d have to agree.” Gran’ took a dainty sip of her cocktail while Maggie drained her glass. “In fact, Yvonne Rousseau and I were talking about that very thing last night at the seniors’ bingo game. We both agreed that Francine-slash-Beverly was a terrible bully when she lived here.”

Maggie took in this revelation. “Really? I never would have guessed that from meeting Mrs. Clabber. How was she a bully?”

“Honestly, darlin’, I couldn’t say. I guess I just blocked it out. Yvonne remembers it pretty well, though. You might want to speak with her.”

“I will. Do you think now would be a good time to visit?” Maggie knew that a few of Gran’s friends suffered from Sundowning Syndrome. They might be alert and coherent in the morning, but as the day progressed, their faculties faded and dementia increased.

“Oh, Yvonne is all there mentally. It’s her poor body that’s failing her, what with that horrid rheumatoid arthritis. She’d love to see you. I’d hop on over there right now.”

“I will.” Maggie gave her grandmother a soft kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for the intel. I’ll clean up these supplies and take off.”

By the time Maggie got to the Camellia Park Senior Village, it was 4:30 p.m., and before she even entered the faux plantation building, she could hear the china clatter as residents took advantage of the dining room’s first seating. Yvonne was delighted to hear from Maggie and had given detailed instructions on how to find her one-bedroom apartment in the assisted living section of the complex. Maggie still managed to get lost in the collection of identical corridors, which seemed designed to taunt hapless seniors who were already teetering on the edge of dementia. She hoped no poor soul had ever been carted off to the Alzheimer’s wing of the facility because they were found wandering the halls in a legitimately confused daze.

“Magnolia, down here, honey!”

She was relieved to see Yvonne waving a gnarled hand from her wheelchair in front of one of the interchangeable doors. Her
silver hair was styled, and she wore an ancient Chanel suit. It touched Maggie to see that Yvonne had dressed up for their meeting. She hurried to the older woman, kissed her on both cheeks as she handed her a bouquet of flowers, and followed her into a compact apartment. The décor theme seemed to be “extended-stay motel,” but Yvonne had added some personal touches via artwork and photographs. A small, sleek Art Deco cabinet was the only piece of furniture that Maggie vaguely recognized from Yvonne’s elegant former home on the outskirts of Pelican.

“Isn’t this place wonderful?” Yvonne said with genuine enthusiasm. “My kids thought I’d miss all my space and my stuff, but I don’t, not for a minute. I don’t have to think about anything here except what’s going on in the activity room and when the next meal is. It’s like being on a cruise ship but without the seasickness.”

“I’m glad you’re happy, Mrs. Rousseau. It makes sense only keeping things that you feel sentimental about, like that gorgeous cabinet.”

Yvonne looked puzzled, and then she burst out laughing. “There’s nothing sentimental about that old thing.” She rolled over to the piece and gave the front of it a hard thump. The top sprang open and a full bar popped up, as if the cabinet were a booze-filled jack-in-the-box. “It’s five o’clock somewhere, and that somewhere is
here,
” Yvonne declared. “What can I do you for?”

“A gin and tonic, thanks.”

“You got it.”

Yvonne went to work, her crippled hands no obstacle when it came to mixing drinks. She rolled to a small table near
the kitchen area and motioned for Maggie to join her. Maggie raised the glass Yvonne handed her and toasted the older woman. “
A votre santé.
To your health.”

“Oh honey, my health is in the rearview mirror. Let’s drink to your health and happiness.
Laissez les bons temps rouler
. ’Cuz it’d be nice for something to roll around here besides me, and it might as well be good times.”

“
Eh bien. Laissez les bons temps rouler.
”

The women toasted and drank. It occurred to Maggie that she was doing way more drinking with Pelican’s eightysomethings than she’d ever done with New York’s twentysomethings.

“Now,” Yvonne said, “let’s get down to business. You want to know about that and-it-rhymes-with-witch Francine.”

“Gran’ said that you recalled Francine was something of a bully.”

“No ‘something’ about it. It was the late forties when we were all in high school together, right after the war ended. Many of the boys we knew lied about their age and went off to fight. And so many didn’t come back.”

Yvonne paused. Her eyes, faded by age to a pale gray-blue, watered. “I lost both my older brothers, you know. Papa and Ma’mere were never the same after that. In those days, a daughter didn’t count for much. Much like the Chinese girl baby these days. The Chinese have finally realized they were wrong about that. I don’t believe my parents ever did.”

Maggie gently laid her hand on Yvonne’s, and the older woman’s swollen, bent fingers gripped hers. “Thank you, dear. Listen to me, going off track like that. What I was trying to get at was that between the loss of so many, and the ones who
came home just to go off to college on the GI Bill, there was a serious lack of young men in Pelican. I’m afraid all of us gals became somewhat competitive over who was left. In other circumstances, Ignace would hardly have been considered a catch, what with his sense of superiority and fondness for brown liquids, if you know what I mean. The man never met a bottle of bourbon he didn’t like. But he was good looking enough and very much knew how to turn on the charm, so he became your Gran’s first boyfriend. And you know how intense that can be.”

“Oh, yes,” Maggie said. She felt a stab of emotional pain as she recalled the initial passion that she and Chris shared. She had never lost that feeling; when did he? Maggie found herself slipping into depression and forced herself back into the moment. She wasn’t there to moan about her sorry love life to Yvonne.

“Francine had burned through many of the other local boys, either by her choice or theirs,” Yvonne continued. “So she turned her sights on Ignace. She’d assembled a clique of girls who were terrified of retribution if they didn’t follow her lead, so when she put them to the task of spreading vile rumors about your grandmother, they jumped on it like the Wicked Witch of the West’s flying monkeys. They knew if they didn’t do Francine’s bidding, they’d be turned from aggressors to victims.”

“What kind of rumors did they spread?”

“At first it was silly stuff, like she dyed her hair and stuffed her bra. But it wasn’t enough for Francine to steal Charlotte’s boyfriend; she had to bring her down completely. So she spread the worst rumor of all.” Yvonne leaned in and whispered to
Maggie, as if the rumor still had the power to destroy. “She had her minions let it be known that your grandmother and Ignace had . . . relations.”

“What?”

“I know. You see, Francine was always what we used to call a tart. But when she started that rumor, she managed to reverse roles and paint your Gran’ as the one with loose morals. Oh my goodness, that led to such a scene. Charlotte demanding that Francine retract this horrible lie, Francine refusing. And Charlotte screaming, ‘If you don’t, I swear, I will kill you.’”

Maggie felt her stomach drop to the floor. “Gran’ said that?”

“Oh yes, to Francine, to us. Of course, when Francine ran off with Ignace to get married, everything went back as it was. Your Gran’s reputation was restored and Francine’s was back in the gutter, especially when Ignace abandoned her only weeks after their quickie wedding. From what I heard, Francine was so humiliated about the damage done to her character that she couldn’t face returning to Pelican. But my, did that trollop lord it over Charlotte while she could. She was from a very white trash family and was just sick with jealousy over Charlotte’s pedigree and beautiful breeding. You know what they say, there’s new money, old money, and no money. And around here, if you have no money, you better have class. Francine had neither. Eventually she managed to marry some money, hence that fancy crypt at Assumption of Mary Memorial Park. She wasn’t able to buy class, so she buried herself next to it. I’m guessing you didn’t notice that Francine’s crypt is right between both sets of your great-grandparents.”

Maggie tried to quell the panic coursing through her body. “Mrs. Rousseau, there’s a chance a detective may want to interview you.”

“Oh, you mean, that young Detective Durand? Who knew that family could ever produce someone so handsome? I give complete credit to the genes on his mother’s side.”

The fact that Yvonne Rousseau knew Bo was not good news. “So you’ve already been interviewed by him,” Maggie said, her voice heavy.

“Yes, but don’t you worry, dear. I didn’t say a word about your Gran’s threats when I told the detective about Francine’s visit to me last week. For heaven’s sake, that was over sixty years ago. I can’t imagine it would mean anything now.”

Maggie stared at the old woman. “Francine visited you?”

“Oh yes. Just showed up here without even a call or a box of chocolates. And I wouldn’t call it a visit. She wanted to show off. That’s when she told me about the crypt, boasting about it in a very unladylike way. I guess she never lost her grudge against your Gran’. Francine told me she was going to reveal some huge piece of news that would offer the final role reversal for her and Charlotte. She bragged that she was going to wind up on top after all.”

Yvonne rubbed her forehead and Maggie sensed the old woman was tired. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Rousseau, for sharing this all with me. And a big thank-you for being so selective about what you shared with the detective.”

“Chère, I’ve known your Gran’ since we were both born and I sincerely doubt she’d ever kill anyone.”

Maggie bid Yvonne good-bye and managed to find her way back to the parking lot. She sat in the car and stared in the distance as the sun began setting over Mississippi, but the beauty of the moment was lost on her. All she could focus on was Yvonne’s statement that she “doubted” Gran’ could kill anyone. Yvonne didn’t say she was “sure.” She “doubted.” After their conversation, Maggie was filled with her own doubts. Had Gran’ really not recognized Francine, or was she lying? Could Gran’ have been carrying a grudge against Francine that flared back to life when the woman unexpectedly showed up?

Could her beloved Gran’ have killed Francine Prepoire?