Plantation Shudders (4 page)

“It’s not a hurricane, is it?” Suzy asked after a particularly loud boom.

“No, just a typical summer storm,” Tug said with a reassuring smile. Suddenly, a fierce crackle and loud explosion of sound made everyone jump, and Crozat went
completely dark. The room filled with chatter from the nervous guests.

“It’s okay, we have a generator. It’ll come on any minute,” Maggie called to everyone. But the generator didn’t come on, and the guests stumbled around in the dark.

“Dad, what’s wrong?” she asked as Tug pulled out backup flashlights that she quickly distributed.

“I don’t know. I’ll go take a look.” Tug left to check on the generator while Ninette and Gran’ helped the guests with their flashlights. Georgia One held his under his chin and made a face.

“Arghgh, I’m a zombie.”

“Dude, that’s awesome,” Georgia Two said as he and Three broke out laughing.

“Stop it, that’s not funny,” Jan snapped.

“Arghggh.”

“I said stop it.”

“That wasn’t me, I swear,” Georgia One replied. Maggie flashed her light around the guests and finally landed on Hal Clabber, whose face was purple and hideously distorted. Angela and Suzy screamed, as did Hal’s wife Beverly.

“Hal!”

“Arghgh,” Hal choked out. Then his eyes rolled to the back of his head, an enormous shudder engulfed his body, and he did a face plant to the floor.

“Everyone, out of the way,” Kyle ordered the others, who drew back but didn’t leave the room, frozen in either fear or fascination. Kyle dropped to his knees, flipped Hal over, and began performing CPR.

Maggie grabbed the phone and dialed 911. “Help! I’m calling from Crozat, we have a very sick guest.”

“Tug, Tug!” Ninette yelled to her husband, who raced back into the house. Moments later, an ambulance roared up to the front of Crozat. Two EMTs ran in and took over from Kyle, but it became clear that lifesaving measures were unnecessary because there was no life to save.

“Hal, Hal!” Mrs. Clabber cried. She grabbed Maggie and drew blood as she dug her long nails into Maggie’s wrist. “My pills, in my purse, I need my pills.”

Being that Beverly was the kind of woman who never strayed too far from her handbag, it was dangling from a purse holder she’d attached to a nearby lamp table. Maggie fumbled through it and pulled out bottles of Xanax, Zoloft, and Abilify.
No wonder she’s always smiling,
Maggie thought, then snapped out of it and handed the bottles to Beverly. The woman’s hands shook as she tried to open them.

“Here, let me help.” Maggie opened the bottles, and Beverly grabbed them from her. She quickly choked down several pills.

“Wait, you need water.” Maggie, guided by her flashlight, found a water carafe on the bar and poured a tall glass. “Here, Mrs. Clabber.”

Beverly grabbed the glass with one hand. Then she clutched her chest with the other.

“My heart,” she gasped. Then Beverly made an awful choking noise, frothed at the mouth, and collapsed onto the floor next to the late Mr. Clabber. The EMTs instantly switched
their focus to her, but it was obvious that the task was equally hopeless. Mrs. Clabber was as dead as her husband. As the EMTs notified the coroner’s office, a dazed Maggie realized something.

Beverly Clabber had finally stopped smiling.

Given Police Chief Rufus Durand’s usual slothful gait, it was surprising how fast he and a few of his officers showed up at Crozat.

“Probably to revel in our bad luck,” Maggie muttered to Gran’ as Tug filled Ru in on the Clabbers’ deaths. After discovering that the main house’s blackout had been caused by bad fuses and not the storm, Tug restored power. Meanwhile, Ninette tended to the guests in the kitchen. Liquor calmed all of them fairly quickly, helped by the fact that no one really knew or liked the Clabbers, so the general emotion was a surface shock rather than deep sorrow. The Butlers, who’d come downstairs to get flashlights, joined the others around the kitchen’s large oak table and were filled in on the night’s startling events, as were Carrie and Lachlan Ryker. The Clabbers’ simultaneous demise was rapidly turning into the kind of bizarre story that would elevate each guest’s vacation anecdotes way above a friend’s routine stories.

“Tape off this room and the one where the Clabbers were staying,” Ru instructed a rookie officer, as the couple was bagged and loaded onto the coroner’s gurneys. “I don’t want anyone touching anything until the coroner’s report comes back.”

“Good heavens, you’re being rather dramatic, Ru,” Gran’ said. “It’s tragic those poor people died, but do you really need to turn this into some television episode?”

“Just doing my job, ma’am. Two people dying within minutes of each other could be some kind of crazy coincidence. Or it could be something else.”

“What, like murder?” Maggie scoffed. Ru didn’t say no and Maggie got a sick feeling in her stomach.

“Stop it, Magnolia,” Gran’ reprimanded her. “You’re being as ridiculous as he is.”

“Man, I am working up a powerful thirst here,” Ru said as he leaned against a wall and watched his underlings scurry around Crozat.

“Tug, why don’t you mix Rufus a Sazerac?” Grand-mère said.

Tug didn’t respond, but he fixed a drink for Rufus and handed it to him without a word. Rufus took a swig, closed his eyes, and nodded. “Yeah, that’s right good. You keep mixing Sazzies like this and Crozat might come back from the Katrina dead.”

Maggie resisted the urge to grab Ru’s drink and dump it on his head. She noticed her father clenching and unclenching his fists and hastened to change the subject before either he or she exploded. “Are your guys going to take much longer, Ru? It’s been a rough night for all of us.”

Rufus held out his glass for a refill. Tug mixed him a fresh drink, and then the police chief motioned for Gran’, Tug, and Maggie to follow him out of the room and onto the veranda. The worst of the storm had passed, but a light rain still fell.

“Now, Maggie here happened to mention murder,” Ru said as he chomped on an ice cube. Maggie winced. She could never understand how people enjoyed chewing up something that cold and hard. Rufus addressed Gran’. “You may be right, Mrs. Crozat. Me and Maggie may be making a big deal over nothing. On the other hand, what kind of law enforcement officer would I be if I didn’t at least pursue that avenue of investigation?”

“This is outrageous,” Gran’ fumed. “There hasn’t been a murder at Crozat in over a hundred years. Well, that we know of. Frederick Crozat was found hanging from one of the oak trees around the turn of the old century, but they never did determine whether that was suicide or Arvin Johnson taking revenge for Fredrick bedding his mistress.”

“My concern is the Clabbers,” Rufus said. “I’m gonna get the coroner’s office to put a rush on the autopsies. In the meantime, no one leaves Pelican until we interview every last guest, and that could take some time seeing as how shorthanded we are at Pelican PD.”

“What?” Maggie exclaimed as Tug groaned and buried his head in his hands. “You sonuva—”

“Maggie,” her father warned.

Gran’ pulled herself up to what was left of her full height, having shrunk by four inches over the years. Still,
with heels, she managed to be eye-to-eye with Rufus, who skimmed 5'6" on a good day. “If this is standard procedure, that’s one thing, young man,” Gran’ said. “But if you’re milking it to make trouble for us, that is just plain bad manners.”

“Thanks to budget cuts, we genuinely do have a personnel shortage at the station, ma’am,” Rufus responded. “But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t enjoying this a little.”

“You are a giant, steaming—”

“
Maggie,
” Tug said, his tone sharper.

“It’s all right, Mr. Crozat,” Rufus said. “I’ll chalk it up to the situation. But like I said before, I got a job to do. Right, Maggie?”

She ignored Rufus, and he took off in his squad car, kicking up dust and gravel. But Maggie knew he had a point. And she also realized Ru was brighter than she usually gave him credit for.

“Well, I guess I better break it to our visitors,” Tug said.

“I’d be surprised if any of them were terribly upset,” Gran’ said. “Especially if they’ll be staying gratis.”

“Gran’, we can’t afford to do that,” Maggie protested.

“We can’t afford not to, chère. How can we charge them for a vacation spent being grilled by the likes of Rufus Durand? Yes, it will cost us, but if our guests make a disgruntled departure, it will hurt us more in the long run when they post unflattering comments on all the travel websites.”

“I think you’re right,” Ninette said. She turned to Tug. “I don’t see any other way around this, do you?”

Her husband pursed his lips and shook his head no.

Tug assembled everyone in the parlor and filled the guests in on the police chief’s request for their continued presence, leaving out the possibility of murder. Initially, there were a few complaints. “Maybe we should see if they fixed the plumbing at Belle Grove,” Angela groused to Jan and the other Cuties.

Gran’ jumped in before anyone could respond. “Even if they did, this is Louisiana, honey. Lord knows when they’ll get rid of the mold or its awful smell.” She turned up the charm as she addressed all the guests. “Y’all seem like such lovely people and I do believe that once we get past this tragedy, you’ll have a stay at Crozat that’s memorable for the right reasons. I know this experience was not on anyone’s itineraries, so we want to make it up to y’all. The rest of your stay will be entirely complimentary. That means a week of beverages, hospitality, and home-cooked meals on us.”

That silenced the grumblers. The guests, now bonded by what had become an adventure—and a free one at that—commiserated with each other about the shocking turn the evening had taken. A few made shared plans for the morning and exchanged supportive hugs before retiring to their rooms. Only Kyle remained behind.

“Your offer is extremely generous,” he told the Crozats, “but I’d rather book a moldy room at Belle Grove than take you up on it. I’ll be paying for my stay.” The family protested, but Kyle ignored them and walked out of the room.

“What a kind man,” Ninette said.

“He’s awesome,” Maggie agreed.

Tug smiled at his daughter. “Am I picking up on something?”

“God, no.”

“He’s not her type,” Gran’ said. She’d traded her highball glass for a wine goblet. “Too stable. Maggie prefers a man who’s a hot mess.”

“Oh, nice, Gran’,” Maggie shot at her. “And by the way, men aren’t called hot messes, just women.”

“Not according to urbandictionary-dot-com.”

“That’s it, I’m cutting off your Internet access.”

“Enough, you two,” Tug admonished them. “We have bigger problems to solve than Maggie’s love life. I don’t like what Rufus Durand was intimating.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Ninette said. “Why would anyone want to kill them, especially poor Mrs. Clabber?”

“I know,” Maggie agreed. “I can see people lining up to take a whack at him, but her . . .”

“Maggie, honey,” her mother said, “the man may have been a terror, but he is gone. We should show some respect.”

“Ugh, Mom, that’s so old-fashioned. Why should we show respect to someone who didn’t deserve it? Shouldn’t respect be earned? Even posthumously? He was a nasty old coot, and I’m not going to say differently just because he’s dead.”

“Hey, don’t you talk to your mother like that,” Tug scolded Maggie.

“It’s all right, we’re all tired,” Ninette said with a sigh. “I’m going to bed.”

“I am too,” Gran’ said and followed behind her daughter-in-law.

As soon as the women were gone, Tug focused on Maggie. “You need to be more sensitive to your mother’s health,
Magnolia. Stress can make a body do bad things, and with two guests dying plus us having to float the other ones, that’s one big bag of stress.”

“You’re right.” Maggie was filled with remorse. “I’m so sorry. That was totally thoughtless of me. I’ll do anything I can to help, Dad. And as soon as things are normal around here, I’m going to work on building up my souvenir business, see if I can get more plantations to sell my stuff. Including ours. Gran’ has to get over thinking it’s ‘déclassé’ to shill our own merchandise.”

Tug looked at her, amused. “Shill?”

“I dated a guy in the garment business when I first moved to New York. And no, he wasn’t a hot mess. In fact,
he
broke up with
me
.” Maggie paused. “So maybe I’m the hot mess. Or the just plain mess.”

Tug opened his arms. “Come here.” Maggie shared a hug with her father. Tug sighed. Then he shuddered.

Maggie drew back. “What’s wrong?”

“Well . . . there’s something I didn’t want to mention in front of your mom. Did you happen to notice that the main house was the only one that went dark tonight? When I checked the generator gas line, I saw that it’d been turned off. And I swear I changed those fuses just about a month ago, but the ones that blew were old and worn out. And not even the brand I buy.”

Maggie was silent as she digested what Tug was saying.

“Look, maybe I’m the one who’s being dramatic,” Tug said. “It’s late, and my brain is worn out from all this. I’m going to
bed. But first, I’m walking you to the shotgun. I’m sure the Clabbers’ deaths are nothing more than a tragic result of old age and health issues, but I don’t want to take any chances. If Ru’s instincts are as sharp as I wish they weren’t, we’ve got way bigger problems than a lack of cash flow.”

Maggie, exhausted by the traumatic events of the night before, overslept the next morning. By the time she got to breakfast, the Georgias were heading out with the Ryker family for a day of “’sploring,” as Sam Ryker excitedly called it.

“We thought it was a good idea to distract the kids from those poor people’s deaths,” Carrie whispered to Maggie. She motioned to Georgia One, who was pretend-wrestling with Luke. “Even the big kids.”

Jan Robbins, in her role as Cajun Cuties president, opted not to let the passing of two people she barely knew and liked even less upend her group’s agenda. She even convinced Kyle to join the Cuties on a tour of local plantations. “We’re checking out some new ones for our convention next year,” Jan explained. “We’re also going to the African American Museum in St. Martinville.” The other Cuties simultaneously nodded agreement as if they were one person. Shane and Emily debated joining the tour group but then opted to stay at Crozat and enjoy some R and R, which Maggie assumed was code for making love.
She had to admit that she was a little jealous of how much sex the couple was having.

“If you’d like, I can pack y’all a picnic lunch,” Ninette offered as she entered with a plate of steaming hot beignets. The Cuties brightened, but Kyle demurred. “Lunch is on me, ladies.”

“You won’t catch any of us saying no to that,” Jan said, while the other Cuties once again nodded. They reminded Maggie of the three little maids from Gilbert and Sullivan’s
The Mikado
.

“I’m happy to at least pack you a snack,” Ninette said.

“No,” Kyle responded firmly. “You’ve got enough going on right now. I’ll take care of everything.”

Maggie realized Kyle’s generosity was inspired by his sensitivity to the expenses the Crozats would be racking up.
He’s a catch
, she thought to herself.
Almost too good to be true.
She shook her head as if to erase the thought, upset that recent events were making her unfairly suspicious.

“If anyone’s interested, there’s also the eleven a.m. Mass at St. Theresa’s,” Gran’ shared as she shook powdered sugar onto a hot beignet. “I may not have liked the Clabbers, but it would be terribly rude not to pray for them. You’re coming, aren’t you, Maggie?”

“Yes, Gran’.” Maggie cleared the table, ran the dishwasher, and then dressed for Mass. Since her wardrobe consisted mostly of T-shirts and jeans, a scoop-neck teal rayon top and black pencil skirt was the best she could do. She flipped the camera on her phone to do a quick inventory. Slim build but with an “ample bosom,” as Gran’ would say, hair the color of burnt
sienna that fell a few inches below her shoulders, a smattering of youthful freckles on the bridge of her upturned nose that contrasted with the fine lines around her eyes. Maggie didn’t completely hate what looked back at her, although she would always be bugged by the fact that her 5'4" height, once deemed average, had been reclassified as petite.

As much as she would have preferred to wear the comfy Converse high-tops that she had personalized with quirky drawings, she strapped on a pair of black platform sandals and headed outside. Since her mom, dad, and Gran’ had already left in the family sedan, she climbed into the Falcon. Jan honked from the Cuties’ minivan. “We’re going to Mass before we hit the plantations,” she yelled. “We’re practically locals now, huh, Kyle?” Jan clapped Kyle, who’d been awarded the front seat, so hard on the shoulder that he flinched, and the Cuties took off behind the Crozats.

*

As Maggie motored toward St. Theresa of Avila Catholic Church, she pondered how best to deal with the Clabbers’ passing. The Crozats were in a tough spot. They had to find the right balance between what they owed their guests and what they owed their late guests. A memorial—that’s what the situation called for. She’d ask Father Prit if he’d lead a memorial for the Clabbers. That would give everyone closure and allow her to help Crozat’s visitors formulate some guilt-free postmemorial tourism plans. This might even create the positive press that the family desperately needed, although Maggie couldn’t stop herself from imagining a travel website review
that read, “Some nasty old fart and his weird wife died, but the airboat swamp tour was awesome.”

She made a mental note to check with Pelican PD in the morning and see if the department had tracked down any Clabber relatives who could share whatever plans the couple had made for shuffling off their mortal coil. At the risk of being insensitive, the sooner they headed to their final resting place, the sooner those at Crozat could move on with their lives.

Maggie pulled into the church parking lot, which was already full of vehicles ranging from brand-new Mercedes to decades-old pickup trucks. St. Theresa’s served a tiny parish with a wide range of parishioners. There were Cajun descendants of the Acadians driven from Canada in the mid-eighteenth century by Le Grand Derangement, and Caucasian and African Creole families that could trace their Louisiana lineage back almost three hundred years. More recently, St. Theresa’s had welcomed the Vietnamese fishermen and their families who now called Pelican home.

Maggie walked into Saint Tee’s, as the locals called it, and settled into the Crozat family pew, inhaling the chapel’s unique fragrance of old wood combined with generations of gardenia perfume. Lia slid in next to her. She folded her long legs to one side and adjusted her flowing tangerine summer dress so that it covered them. “How are you doing after last night?” she asked.

Maggie shrugged. “We’re okay. There’s not much we can do until we hear the results of the autopsy. Oh God, saying that, it really hit me. Those poor people are dead.”

Lia put a comforting hand on Maggie’s knee. Maggie squeezed it back. Father Prit Vangloo began the service, which
was unintelligible to most of his parishioners. Originally from New Delhi, he’d brought a thick accent with him when he came to America barely a year before. Pelican knew its parish was too small to rate an American or even an Irish priest, so they welcomed Father Prit, who was kind and giggled like a besotted schoolgirl whenever he talked about Pope Francis, whom he idolized. Parishioners eventually came up with a way to handle his poor pronunciation. “We just pretend he’s leading a Latin Mass,” Gran’ explained. Maggie, who’d met her share of Sikh cab drivers in New York, had little problem understanding the good Father and often found herself pulled into post-Mass conversations to subtly translate.

Ever the papal fanboy, Father Prit’s homily focused on the pontiff’s familiar themes of humility and service to those less fortunate. Maggie prayed that the Clabbers had found peace, or at least less to complain about, wherever they ended up. The choir sang, the service ended, and the attendees all poured into the parish hall, where the Hospitality Committee had laid out a postservice spread that was the envy of every church in the area. Tables were piled high with fruits, homemade pies and pastries, and traditional local treats like boudin and fried oysters.

Maggie noticed Kyle staring at the spread. “I’ve got paralysis of choice,” Kyle told her. “I don’t know where to begin.”

“I’ll make it easy for you,” Maggie said. She pointed to a beautifully arranged tray of pastries. “These were made by my cousin Lia, the best pastry chef and candy maker in Louisiana, and possibly the world. Lia, come here.”

Lia, who was nodding and pretending to understand as Father Prit pontificated about something, excused herself and
came over to Maggie. “Lia, Kyle. Kyle, Lia,” Maggie said. And in the moment the two shared shy hellos, the electricity between them was so palpable that Maggie could feel it. Even Gran’, busy arranging the buffet, glanced up, drawn by the charge. The only thing missing was a chorus of angels or cartoon characters with their eyes popping out on springs as the bubble over their heads read “boooinnng!” A line from Shakespeare’s
Twelfth Night
, which Maggie hadn’t read since sophomore year of high school, popped into her head: Kyle and Lia “no sooner looked but they loved.”

“Lia, you must make a plate of your incomparable delicacies for Kyle,” said Gran’. “Oh Maggie, look, there’s Renee Harper.” Gran’ practically yanked Maggie away from Lia and Kyle, who were already so deep in conversation that they didn’t notice.

“Subtle, Gran’,” Maggie said. She started toward Renee, but Gran’ pulled her back.

“Stop, Renee will see you.”

“I thought you wanted to say hello.”

“Oh Lord, no. I just wanted to get us out of the way so that whatever was sparking between Lia and Kyle could catch fire. That Renee Harper is a Glossy if there ever was one.” Gran’ had coined the term
Glossy
as a sarcastic loose acronym for Gracious Ladies of the South. “I notice that Jim Harper isn’t with her. Too bad. That’s one man who could use a little church-bred humility. But no, as usual, God has to play second fiddle to Jim’s ‘busy schedule.’”

“That’s not very Christian of you,” Maggie teased her grandmother.

“We’re not Christians, we’re Catholics, and we can say whatever we want because we get to confess. Now, let’s find your parents, I’m ready to go.”

Maggie and Gran’ located Ninette and Tug next to the punch bowl, where they were being peppered with questions from locals eager for gossip about the recent deaths at Crozat.

“Honestly, that’s all we know right now,” Tug told the group, which dispersed disappointed at the lack of news.

Ninette downed her glass of punch. “I’ve never wished this was hard punch more than I do today,” she said as she dabbed the slight sheen on her face with a tissue.

“I happen to know where there’s a full bar,” Gran’ said. “Home again, home again, jiggity jig.” She blew an air kiss to Maggie and led the others to their car.

Maggie snacked a bit more and then made her way to the Falcon, where she was less than thrilled to find Ru Durand, dressed in uniform, waiting.

“Hey, Ru. I didn’t see you at Mass.”

“I couldn’t make it. The Lord chose to make it a work day for me instead.”

Jan and the Cuties, who were heading for their van, interrupted the perfunctory conversation. “I swear, every time I think I’ve had the best meal in Louisiana, I have another one,” Angela said.

“Oh, that is so true,” Suzy echoed.

“Suze, see if you can pry Kyle away from that pretty baker,” Jan instructed. “We need to get going.”

“Where y’all off to?” Ru asked affably.

“Plantation tour,” Jan responded gruffly. Maggie liked Jan all the more for her obvious dislike of Rufus.

“They got some beauties in Natchez, but I wouldn’t advise crossing the state line into Mississippi.”

“Why not?” Debbie asked, confused.

“Because you’re all suspects in a murder investigation,” Ru responded, his tone suddenly harsh.

The others stared at him in shock. Maggie felt her stomach start to roil and prayed she wouldn’t throw up.

“The Clabbers were murdered?” Ninette gasped.

“Not both of them,” Rufus said. “Mr. Clabber died of natural causes—a stroke. But Mrs. Clabber was poisoned.”