Plantation Shudders (5 page)

“Mrs. Clabber was poisoned?” Maggie repeated. “That makes no sense. He was the jerk, not her.”

“Yes, she seemed lovely,” Debbie interjected. “I don’t think I ever saw her without a big smile on her face.”

“Well, even people who smile a lot get offed,” Ru shrugged and then faced Maggie. “Two people dying at the same time pushes a button for us law enforcement folk, and the coroner agreed to rush the autopsies so we could rule out any funny business. Well, what do you know, we found funny business. My men are on the way to your place to take statements and collect evidence. And thanks to you Crozats, since it’s Sunday, I gotta pay overtime.”

“What do you mean, ‘thanks to us Crozats’?” Maggie snapped. “Trust me, Rufus, when you’re running a B and B, having guests murdered pretty much falls last on the list of ‘fun local activities.’” Maggie took in a calming breath; she’d been taking a lot of those lately. “Would it be okay if you interviewed us Crozats first, plus anyone who’s at the house, so that these
folks could see a plantation or two before they’re interrogated?” Maggie asked in her most conciliatory voice as she gestured to the Cuties and Kyle who, sensing something was wrong, had joined the group.

“Well, my goodness, I wouldn’t want to let a gruesome death interfere with a day of sightseeing,” Rufus said, his mock concern showing the glimmer of acting ability that had won him a lead or two in Pelican Players Community Theatre productions.

“If the ladies and I consent to have our rooms searched while we’re gone, maybe you could send one of your men in the van with us to take our statements,” Kyle offered.

“And while he’s there, maybe he can take some group shots of y’all in front of Oak Alley that you can post online.” Rufus shook his head. “The answer is nope. And if you got any complaints about the change in today’s—or this week’s—schedule, I suggest you take it up with management.” Rufus gestured to Maggie. The universe had unexpectedly gifted him with an opportunity to make life miserable for the Crozats, and he seemed determined to take advantage of it.

“Look, Rufus, it’s really not fair to drag our guests into whatever issues you have with my family. None of them even knew the Clabbers.”

“Well, someone at Crozat knew ’em well enough to murder one of ’em.”

“That’s just an assumption. Anyone who knew the Clabbers were staying with us could’ve snuck in and planted the poison.”

“Doesn’t say much for your security, does it?” Rufus turned to the Cuties. “I’d lock up my valuables while I was staying
at Crozat if I was you.” Rufus turned back to Maggie. “And I should point out that you were the one who handed Mrs. Clabber the pills that probably killed her. You’re lucky I know you well enough to know that you don’t have the clankers to murder someone.”

“I’m both insulted and relieved.”

“Sorry, Maggie, but until my men prove someone isn’t a suspect, everyone is a suspect.”

Maggie couldn’t bring herself to admit that Rufus had a point, so she didn’t say anything. Rufus doffed his hat. “See you at Crozat.” Then Rufus got into his police car and gunned it, spraying the minivan with dirt and pebbles as he peeled out of the parking lot.

“Your police chief may be a giant pain, but he’s right about all of us being suspects,” Jan said through pursed lips as her Cutie cohorts exchanged nervous looks.

“I know,” Maggie said. “I just hate letting him know that.”

“Well, there’s one bright spot,” Kyle said. “At least he won’t be taking our statements. It’s not his job. That’s up to the department detectives.”

Maggie brightened. “You’re right. And in Pelican, it’s department detective, singular—Henry ‘Buster’ Belloise. As skeevy as Rufus is, that’s how decent Buster is. We’ll be okay.”

The Cuties hoisted themselves into the minivan. Kyle gave a longing look to Lia, who was busy replenishing dishes that had been emptied of her treats, and then he got behind the wheel. Maggie followed the minivan out of the parking lot. She was relieved to know the case was in the steady hands of Buster Belloise, so relieved that she could afford to feel magnanimous
toward Ru. He was right—this was hardly the time to negotiate a sightseeing tour.

*

Maggie arrived at Crozat to find it a buzz of police activity. The department’s mobile evidence van sat at the end of the driveway close to the house. Maggie couldn’t remember when she’d seen it used for anything besides hauling a float in the town’s yearly Mardi Gras parade.

She bounded up the steps into the house, where the front parlor and the Clabbers’ bedroom were closed off with police tape. It would take a while to comb through the plantation for evidence since the Pelican police department was small, and usually the most serious crime it handled was the occasional domestic disturbance. The department could use some outside help for the Clabber case to speed up the process, but Maggie knew that was a fantasy given the reality of budgetary restrictions coupled with Rufus Durand’s ego and how much he relished seeing the Crozats twist in the wind.

Maggie found Gran’ in the kitchen plying Buster Belloise with snacks and sweets. The large belly hanging over Buster’s policy duty belt was testament to some good Cajun living.

“Oh, there you are, darlin’,” Gran’ greeted Maggie. “You want some sweet tea?”

“Thanks, Gran’, I’m okay.”

“What about you, Buster? You want a refill?” Gran’ posed the question with a hint of flirtation. Gran’ could Glossy it up with the best of them when she wanted to, and Maggie was
relieved to see that she was bringing her Southern belle A game to the conversation with Buster.

“Oh, you know I can’t turn down a refill of your sweet tea, ma’am.” Buster offered his glass, and Gran’ filled it with one hand while adding some petit fours to his plate with the other.

“So Buster can’t tell us too much about the investigation,” Gran’ said.

“Can’t compromise it, ma’am.”

“My dear man, we wouldn’t want you to. But he did very kindly share the means by which poor Mrs. Clabber met her unpleasant end.”

“Arsenic,” Buster said, or at least that’s what Maggie thought he said, since he’d stuffed his mouth with petit fours before speaking. “I can’t reveal how it was administered, but the coroner was able to determine that it was of an old variety not readily available these days. We’ve got a couple of our men searching the plantation, looking for a possible source.”

“Arsenic,” Maggie repeated. The word jogged a memory, but she couldn’t zero in on it.

“Buster’s also been taking statements, and he couldn’t have been more pleasant given what a terribly difficult position he’s in, as a friend of the family.” Gran’ graced the officer with one of her best grand dame smiles, and he blushed with pride. The Belloise family was and always had been working to lower class, and nineteenth century as it seemed, being treated as an equal by a local aristocrat like Gran’ meant something to Buster. Which, of course, Gran’ knew and played to.

Maggie helped herself to a chocolate croissant from the large assortment of desserts. “Boy, Buster, I can’t tell you how glad we are that you’re taking the lead on this case.”

“Wish I were, ma’am, but I’m not.”

Maggie stopped midbite. “What? You’re not? Why not?”

“I’m retiring at the end of the week.”

“
Retiring?
” Maggie put down the croissant. She’d lost her appetite.

“Really, Buster? Why, we had no idea, no idea at all. How wonderful for you. Isn’t that wonderful, Maggie? Just wonderful.” Gran’ was doing her best to cover her surprise with effusive charm, but she was as thrown by the news as Maggie.

“Yeah, I’m just here because Rufus asked me to take the lead until they could rush in my replacement from Shreveport. The guy is due here any minute. Wasn’t expecting to start on a Sunday. Could I bother you for some more tea?”

“Why, it’s no bother, no bother at all,” Gran’ was beginning to sound a bit like a parrot. “Now, tell us all about your plans for retirement.”

As Buster chatted away, Maggie evaluated the family’s options. With Buster off the case, they were at the mercy of his replacement. But maybe the change would be a good thing. Whoever he was, being new to the area, it was possible that he wouldn’t come with old grudges. He could provide some much-needed objectivity and impartiality. For the first time since the Clabbers had died, Maggie felt she could relax.

“Maggie, Buster and Marnie are thinking about taking a retirement trip up north to New York.”

“Really? Have you ever been?”

“No, ma’am. I’d love any recommendations you have. The wife wants a show, I want a ballgame.”

“Maybe you’ll be lucky and they’ll revive
Damn Yankees
, which was a show
about
a ballgame,” Gran’ quipped, and the three laughed.

“Excuse me.”

Maggie, Gran’, and Buster looked up to see a tall, slim man leaning against the doorframe. His pale skin provided an unusual contrast to his dark hair and coal-dark eyes. Bedroom eyes, Gran’ would call them—a little hooded and sleepy looking. But sexy—definitely sexy. His coloring was unique for a man, but it worked on him. And he
was
a man. There was nothing boy-child about him, the curse of so many guys Maggie had hooked up with back in New York. Where she could imagine all those old boyfriends pushing her aside to escape a burning building, this was someone she could see running in, throwing her over his shoulder, and then casually flipping off the fire on his way out. The image was a definite turn-on.

The man looked vaguely familiar to Maggie.
Probably because he resembles some movie star
, she thought,
but which one
?

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” the man continued, “but I’m looking for Captain Durand.”

Buster stood and walked toward the man. “You’re close. I’m Detective Belloise. Can I help you?”

The man pulled out a badge, flashed it, and then extended his hand. “Paul Durand, but everyone calls me Bo. I believe I’m your replacement.”

“Well, hey, welcome to Pelican,” Buster gave Bo’s hand a hearty shake. He eyed the newcomer. “I feel like I know you. We must’ve met before at some law enforcement function.”

Bo smiled a lazy grin, and Maggie couldn’t help noticing that his teeth were as perfect as a male model’s. “We may have,” Bo acknowledged, his voice deep yet mellifluous, his accent showing the twang that came with living close to the Texas border. “But I’m guessing I look familiar because I remind you of Rufus. I’m his first cousin.”

When Maggie was eight, Grand-père Crozat shared an age-old joke with her: What’s worse than finding a worm in your apple? Finding
half
a worm. He told it because she had just lived the joke. After taking a huge bite of a crispy, sweet apple, she noticed only half a worm in its flesh. She never thought she’d feel as horrified and sickened in her life again.

Then Maggie discovered that the handsome newcomer, the man who instantly made her body feel things that it hadn’t felt in way too long a time, was related to Rufus Durand, and she felt worse. But the news was also the slap in the face she needed. It was like falling in love with a gorgeous dress but then seeing its ridiculously expensive price tag and instantly falling out of love. The price on Bo Durand was way too high.

She forced herself to check back into the conversation.

“We’ve got a couple of guys bagging and tagging evidence and taking statements and prints,” Buster was telling Bo.

Bo nodded and then gestured to Gran’ and Maggie. “Have we gotten prints or statements from these ladies yet?”

Buster flushed with embarrassment. The tea and snack repast had registered with Bo. It was obvious to Maggie that under the man’s relaxed charm was one sharp detective.

“Uh, no, not yet, I was easing into that,” Buster said.

“I know we can be tight-asses up in Shreveport, but we’re not big on ‘easing’ into a murder investigation. Get what we need from these ladies—”

“Excuse me, we are not ‘these ladies.’ We have names, sir,” Gran’ said in a tone that had brought better men than Bo Durand to their knees. “I am Charlotte LeBlanc Crozat—Mrs. Crozat to you—and this is my granddaughter, Magnolia Marie Crozat.”

Gran’ glared at Bo, who smiled his lazy smile, completely unfazed. “Nice to meet y’all. Please cooperate with Detective Belloise and answer all of his questions to the best of your ability.” With that, Bo turned and left.

“Really, has there ever been a Durand who had anything resembling manners?” Gran’ took a bottle of bourbon off the kitchen counter, poured a shot into her sweet tea, and then offered the bottle to Buster, who hesitated. “We won’t tell,” Gran’ cooed.

That’s all Buster needed to hear. He gratefully took the bottle, spiked his own drink, and then took out a pad and pen. “Well . . . I guess we best get started.”

Maggie and Gran’ spent half an hour being printed and giving statements, and then Gran’ retreated to recover in her room while Maggie went to check on her parents. As she passed the front parlor, she saw that investigators were using a photo
from Georgia One’s cell phone of the Clabbers lying dead on the room’s priceless rug to recreate an outline of Hal and Beverly. Georgia One had scored; when he posted the picture on a social media website, he could brag about how important it was to a murder investigation.

She found Ninette and Tug outside by the generator gas line with Bo, who was examining it. Buster had made his way there too and was hovering over the new detective.

Bo shined a flashlight on the line. “Yeah, I’d say this was tampered with.”

“Sure looks like it to me,” Buster echoed.

Bo turned to him. “Make sure the evidence techs dust for prints and get pictures of this. Of the fuse box, too. And have them bag the fuses.”

“Yes, sir.” Buster’s tone was so officious that Maggie thought he might actually salute Bo, but instead he scurried off to make himself useful.

“It’s lunchtime and I’m sure everyone’s starving,” Ninette said. “Would it be all right if I fixed something for my guests? And your people, too, of course.”

“Normally I’d have my people fend for themselves,” Bo said. “But being that it’s my first day on the job, I’ll go with making a good first impression, so sure.”

“Thank you.” Ninette, who found great comfort in cooking, gave the hint of a smile. It was all she could muster, given the circumstances. Maggie was worried by how wan her mother looked. The fine lines on her faced seemed to have deepened, and she’d dropped weight from her already too-slim frame.

“I’ll help, chère.” Tug put a protective arm around his wife’s shoulder and led her back to the house. Maggie was about to follow when Gopher wobbled up to Bo and gave a deep, territorial bark.

“Gopher, quiet,” she scolded him.

“It’s okay. Hey, buddy.” Bo gave the old dog a pet. He kneeled down, took a long Basset ear in each hand, and rubbed them. “How about some ear love, huh?” Gopher gave up his alpha dog act and moaned with pleasure. Then he fell on his back, paws straight up in the air, begging for a belly scratch. Bo obliged with a brisk rub.

“You don’t have to do that,” Maggie said. “Once you start, he won’t let you stop. He’s going to follow you around the rest of the day.”

“Not a problem,” Bo said. “I had a Basset. My wife got him in the divorce. It was okay, my son’s pretty attached to Beignet. But I miss him. The dog. And my son. Of course I miss my son.”

“Beignet? That’s a great name for a dog.”

“When he was a pup, he got into a bag of ’em.” Bo finished Gopher’s tummy rub and stood up. “So I hear you’re to blame for my marriage breaking up.”

Maggie stared at him. “I’m sorry—what?”

“The curse your family put on us, damning all of our relationships.”

There it was. The curse that turned the Durands and the Crozats into the Louisiana version of the Hatfields and McCoys.

The Crozats managed to reinvent themselves after the Civil War and, if not prosper, at least survive reasonably
comfortably. The Durands, however, degenerated into low-rent victims who blamed hard luck on everyone but themselves. And they especially blamed it on the Crozats—because the swinish former fiancé of Magnolia Marie Crozat, the man she was rumored to have put a curse on in the mid-1800s, was none other than Henri Durand, the great-great-great-grandfather of Rufus. And Bo.

Bo smiled slightly. Was he making fun of the curse? Was he serious? Maggie didn’t know him well enough to tell.

“I’m sorry about your divorce,” she said, “but I really don’t think you can hold some nineteenth-century hocus pocus responsible for whatever happened.”

Gopher started barking again, this time with genuine anger. The target of his wrath, Rufus Durand, came around the corner of the house. It was a steamy day, the kind that made sweat pour off some people, and Ru was one of those people. He glared at Gopher, who barked even louder.

“Gopher, shush,” Maggie said, reaching to pet and calm him.

“I’m looking forward to the day when I find that mutt loose and can ship him off to the pound,” Ru said. “Hey, Coz, glad you made it okay. I’m guessing you met the Crozat clan by now. If they give you any trouble, just let me know.”

“So far they’ve been very helpful,” Bo said as he shook Ru’s hand. “Thanks again for working out my transfer. I owe you.”

“I’ll remember that. What’s the line from that movie,
The Godfather
? ‘Someday I may ask you to do me a favor.’ Or something like that.” Ru turned to Maggie. “Bo’s ex remarried and the guy got a job on one of the rigs, so they moved down this
way with his son, Xander. I got Bo Buster’s job so he could be closer to his boy.”

“That was really nice of you,” she said with genuine sincerity.

“Family is number one, as I’m sure you Crozats know.” Rufus gave Bo a poke in the ribs. “So remember the family that brought you here . . . and the family that brought your marriage down in the first place.”

Rufus gestured for Bo to follow him back into the house. As soon as they left, Maggie groaned and threw herself on the grass next to Gopher. “Can you believe that idiot, Goph? If there was ever an excuse for a poisoning by arsenic—”

She bolted up from the ground, her memory jogged. She knew where she’d seen arsenic before. She sauntered slowly away from the main house, and then as soon as she was out of anyone’s eye line, broke into a run.

Maggie was out of breath by the time she reached the plantation store. She was about to go in when she realized that she didn’t have the key. “Dammit,” she said, giving the door a frustrated pound. She almost fell into the store when the door unexpectedly swung open. She checked the door handle and lock. It didn’t take a law enforcement expert to see scratches on the metal where someone had jimmied it open, something that wouldn’t be too hard to do on an old door that was half off its hinges.

She stepped into the room and studied all the shelves until she found what she was looking for. There were a few cleaning products left on a shelf once dedicated to them, all covered
with dust. But there was also a clean, empty rectangle. Clean because someone had taken the product that had been sitting there untouched for eighty years—a box of rat poison with a skull-and-crossbones insignia and, in large letters, the words, “DANGER—ARSENIC.”