Body on the Bayou (15 page)

Once the gun was discovered, Maggie discerned a not-so-subtle shift of focus in the investigation. Under the guise of gossip, she did a casual polling of guests as they left Junie’s; those who’d overheard Bibi’s altercation with Trent or seen Chret deck him were interviewed briefly and dismissed. But those who’d witnessed Vanessa’s dustup with the designer were grilled by the PPD. No one claimed to have heard the gunshot. The popping balloons had masked the sound.

Vanessa didn’t help her case by at first vehemently denying the gun was hers, even after she checked her purse and saw that it was missing. The best she could do was eventually declare, “Someone stole it. So now there’s two victims here: Trent and me.”

“That’s right,” her mother parroted. Unlike her daughter, Tookie had been pounding back real beers, not near beers,
and the alcohol had kicked up her usual orneriness to just shy of red alert. She got in Chief Perske’s face, or rather his chest, since even in six-inch heels, the top of her head fit under his chin. “You best leave my child alone,” Tookie ordered, jabbing at the chief with her finger, “and find what villain stole her brand-new, pretty pistol, or there will be hell to pay, mister.”

Maggie had to give Perske credit for not tossing Tookie straight into a police car. Instead, he showed restraint and replied, “We’re working on assembling all the facts, ma’am. We won’t do anything without having a good reason for it.”

“Humph,” Tookie said. “I’m thinking I better cancel the male stripper. But I’ll lose the deposit.”

Considering the circumstances, Maggie marveled at the gall of Tookie fishing for a way not to lose that deposit. Perske gave the woman a cold stare. “Cancel the stripper,” he said.

As the night wore on, Gaynell, Lia, and Ione helped Maggie clean up. Kyle had escaped from Ru’s raucous bachelor party with Bo, so he pitched in as well. “Look at this,” he said, holding up one of the party’s souvenir pictures from the photo booth. It was a shot of Vanessa and a friend goofing off as they pretended to be in a police lineup. “You’ve been framed,” the tagline beneath the photo read. Maggie found the picture disturbingly prescient.

Midnight passed, and the last group of guests was released. Bibi was among them. “Did this really happen?” she asked Maggie as she paused on her way out. The rhetorical question didn’t beg a reply, so Maggie just gave a slight
nod. “What do I do?” Bibi continued, her voice shaking. “Trent signs the checks. I’m not authorized. I can’t conduct business. I can’t pay the bills or the rent or—”

Maggie put her hands on Bibi’s shoulders. “None of this is important right now. Go home and get whatever sleep you can. Then call Lia in the morning. She and Kyle will pay a retainer that will float you until you work things out with Trent’s estate.”

“His estate,” Bibi repeated. “Oh my God, this is so strange. I don’t know anything about him. I don’t even know where he’s from. He has—had—people. Family. I’m a horrible person.”

Maggie suddenly heard a screech from Vanessa and squawking from Tookie. She looked over and saw Vanessa bawling as Tookie chewed out Perske. Rufus was doing his best to calm both women down. Maggie ran over to Bo, who answered her question before she asked it. “Perske wants to continue their ‘conversation’ at the station,” he said.

A lock of his dark hair had slipped onto his forehead, and Maggie suppressed the urge to gently put it back in place.
Don’t engage,
she told herself.
You could wind up hurt.
She forced her attention back to the conversation.

“You better call Quentin MacIlhoney,” Bo was saying.

Quentin MacIlhoney was one of the premiere defense attorneys in Louisiana. The only thing bigger than his colorful personality was the bill he handed clients at the conclusion of their case. “If the Fleers need MacIlhoney, Vanessa must be in serious trouble,” Maggie said.

“If she’s not there, she’s on her way to it,” Bo said. “Make the call.”

*

The last place Maggie expected to be post–bachelorette party was the Pelican PD lobby. Yet there she was, in the all-too-familiar setting. Quentin MacIlhoney’s service had alerted her that he was on his way, and she didn’t want to leave until she’d explained Vanessa’s dilemma in person.

It occurred to Maggie that she hadn’t touched base with her family. She speed-dialed her father, who answered on the second ring. “Hey, Dad. Are you still at the hospital?”

“Yes. We’ve been waiting on a diagnosis for Stevens. Turns out he’s got a cardiac arrhythmia. They’re giving him a pacemaker.”

“I guess you could call that good news. I was afraid he’d been attacked by whoever killed Trent.”

“Your grandmother asked him about that when he recovered consciousness. He was in the alley because he wasn’t feeling well and had to step outside for some air. Then he passed out and didn’t hear or see anything.”

Maggie was relieved that Stevens would be okay but disappointed he hadn’t witnessed something that would target another suspect besides Vanessa. Every instinct she had screamed that the pregnant drama queen was not Trent’s murderer. “That’s too bad, for Van’s sake.”

“Huh?”

She updated her father on the recent developments, ending with, “So basically, Van is a ‘person of interest.’”

“That’s ridiculous,” Tug said, his voice incredulous. “I can see Vanessa complaining a person to death, but no way can I see her as a murderer.”

“I know.” Maggie heard the roar of a high-powered engine and glanced out the window. A gleaming, gold Bentley with a vanity plate that read “LWYR UP” had pulled into the parking lot. Purple-and-green tracer lights framed the plate. “I have to go. Quentin MacIlhoney just got here. Give Mom and Gran’ kisses for me, and tell Stevens to feel better.”

Maggie stepped outside and waited for Quentin on the steps of the nondescript building. He came toward her with a jaunty step that belied the late hour. He wore his usual pressed jeans and pricey Italian loafers, although he’d deigned to don socks on the chilly night. A black turtleneck peeked out from under a beige cashmere V-neck sweater. She was surprised to see that the sixty-something lawyer had shaved his white beard, transforming his look from fit Santa Claus to 1970s TV star who looked great for his age. “Evening, Miss Magnolia,” he greeted her with a flourish. Maggie half-expected him to bow and kiss her hand.

“Hi, Quentin. You’re looking good.”

“I do what I can.”

Maggie gestured to the Bentley, which sparkled like real gold under the parking lot lights. “I thought your Bentley was purple.”

“Yeah, that car ran out of gas, so I got a new one.”

Maggie assumed Quentin was kidding, although she could never be too sure with him. This was one of many attributes that made him a great defense attorney. He had a
showman’s ability to entertain a jury and the legal ability to confuse them, thus creating a scenario of doubt that more often than not got his clients off the hook.

“Bodies sure have been piling up in this tiny town lately,” Quentin said as they walked into the police station. “I can’t complain. Where there’s a sketchy death, there’s a suspect in need of one Quentin MacIlhoney. So, what ya putting on my plate tonight, Magnolia?” Maggie gave him a detailed explanation of the evening’s events. When she was done, Quentin chortled with glee. “A pregnant bride-to-be as a potential suspect,” he said. “Thank you for this early Christmas present, my dear. I should have Miss Fleer out of the station and on her way home in fifteen minutes.” The lawyer took off a gold watch with diamonds instead of numbers and handed it to Maggie. “Time me.”

Quentin marched ahead of Maggie into the station, where he was greeted like a long-lost fraternity brother. The defense attorney might eviscerate a police officer on the witness stand, but every station in the parish knew who was behind the “anonymous” donations to their charitable organizations or the occasional bushel of fresh crawfish that showed up in their break lounge. He caught up with Artie Belloise, who was manning the lobby desk, and insisted on seeing school photos of Artie’s four kids. Maggie texted Bo, alerting him to their presence, and then checked the watch Quentin had given her to hold. Four minutes had elapsed already, and the big hand was heading toward another diamond. She was beginning to wonder if Quentin
would meet his self-imposed deadline when he asked Artie, “So, Artie, my friend, you ever delivered a baby?”

“No, sir, and to be honest, the only reason I even watched the wife pop out ours is that it seems to be what guys do these days,” Artie confessed. “Wouldn’t want anyone calling me a wuss cuz I passed on that.”

“Well, if we don’t get my client, Miss Fleer, out of here fast, there’s a chance you won’t just be watching her give birth, you’ll be pulling that baby out of her lady business.” Artie couldn’t keep himself from recoiling. “So,” Quentin continued, “let whoever’s interviewing her know that her lawyer is here and it’s quittin’ time.”

“Yessir. In fact, I’ll take you back there myself. Lemme just call someone up to watch the desk.” Artie lifted the phone but was interrupted by shouting and what sounded like furniture being thrown coming from the back rooms. “What the hey?”

Artie started for the back, almost colliding with Bo as he threw open the door between the offices and the lobby. “Give the chief a hand,” Bo instructed the officer. “I’ll watch the desk and take care of Maggie and Mr. MacIlhoney.”

Artie nodded and ran down the hall. The door slammed shut behind him. “What’s going on back there?” Maggie asked.

“Rufus got a bug up his butt about how Perske was treating Vanessa like a suspect and went after him. Tookie piled on, so Perske tossed both of them in a holding cell, and Vanessa lost it.”

“Three potential clients in one night,” Quentin said as he rubbed his hands together with gusto. “You’re a dang cash register for me, Miss Maggie. May I?”

Quentin gestured to the door, and Bo held it open for him. “They’re all yours,” Bo said.

“Wait,” Maggie said. “Here’s your watch.”

She went to hand it to him, but Quentin pressed the watch back into her hand. “Think of it as a finder’s fee,” he said.

The lawyer disappeared down the hallway, leaving Maggie and Bo alone in the lobby. Maggie didn’t know what to say. It certainly wasn’t the time to examine her and Bo’s relationship, and she was tired of talking about murder and murder suspects. She held up Quentin’s watch. “You want a ridiculously expensive watch?” she asked.

Bo burst out laughing, breaking the tension between them. “No. You want a cheap domestic beer?”

“Yes.”

Bo bent down behind the desk and emerged with two ice-cold bottles of beer. He twisted off the bottle tops and handed one to Maggie. “You’ve got a cooler back there?” she asked.

“Minifridge. For emergency supplies, like ice packs. And these.”

He tapped her bottle with his and took a swallow. Maggie did the same. “So does Perske really think he has a case against Vanessa?” she asked.

“She had personal and financial issues with her late cousin Ginger, and that carried over to Trent,” Bo pointed
out. “They had a fight at the party and everyone seems to have heard her tell him he didn’t deserve to live—words that get thrown around in a lot of fights without actually resulting in murder, I know. But if ballistics matches her gun to the bullet that killed Trent . . .”

Bo trailed off. But he didn’t need to finish the sentence for Maggie. She could see how it ended. She heard voices coming from the hallway. The door opened, and Quentin emerged, followed by Rufus, Tookie, and Vanessa, who seemed to be in a semicatatonic state.

“Who do they think they are, treating us like that?” Tookie fumed to Quentin. “You tell those a-holes that they’ll be hearing from our lawyer.”

“He is our lawyer, you old bat,” Rufus snapped at his future mother-in-law.

“Oh, shut up,” she snapped back. “We wouldn’t need a lawyer if you hadn’t gone at that chief like you had rabies.”

“Vanessa would still’ve needed one,” was Rufus’s best defense.

“Yeah, because of
your
stupid wedding present. Who gives their beloved a gun?!”

“Someone who cares about her safety, that’s who!”

“Will you two be quiet?” Vanessa said in a dull tone that Maggie had never heard her use before. “Please.”

Both Rufus and Tookie had the decency to look abashed. Tookie put an arm around her daughter’s waist. “I am so sorry, baby. It’s been a long night. Let’s get you home.”

Rufus nudged Tookie out of the way and replaced her arm with his around his bride-to-be’s waist. “Yes, let’s. This
lawyer guy said he’d drop us there.” He grimaced and said to Quentin, “I hope you don’t charge by the mile.”

Quentin flashed a big, wide grin. “Of course not. I charge by the hour. But I drive real slow.”

Rufus gave him a suspicious look and then ushered the Fleer women out the station’s front door. Quentin lingered for a moment to speak to Maggie and Bo. “I talked that new chief of yours into releasing those stooges with just a warning. I also asked him to rush ballistics, and he agreed. He may have a stick up his you-know-what, but he’s not eager about stressing out a woman with child.” He clapped Maggie on the shoulder. “Thanks again for the referral. But you best slow down, or people around here are gonna be thinking that you’re setting up these murders just to get me business.”

Maggie managed a small smile. “I feel bad for Vanessa. I hope she makes it to her wedding without falling apart.”

Quentin hesitated. “Yeah . . . you might want to put a pin in that wedding. I’ll be talking to her tomorrow about what she can scrape together for bail, should the need arise. I take great pride in my track record for getting it lowered, but even so, it’s dang high for a murder charge.” With that, Quentin strode out of the station.

Maggie added “Help bride beat a murder rap” to her ever-growing list of maid of honor duties.

Maggie crawled into bed at two in the morning. As she drifted off to sleep, she said a silent thank-you to Vanessa for putting a day between the bachelor and bachelorette parties and the wedding so that “Rufus could sober up his sorry butt before we get hitched,” as the bride-to-be put it.

A few hours later, Maggie roused herself and showered, then threw on jeans and a T-shirt. She stepped outside and shivered. Clouds hid the sun, graying the day. The weather was getting a head start on the winter season with a twenty-degree drop in temperature. Louisiana’s famous mugginess usually turned to clamminess in the cooler months, adding to the air’s chill.

Maggie hurried to the main house, welcoming its warmth as she stepped inside. She went into the office. Gran’ had beaten her there and was seeing to the comfort of their
animal guests. Gopher roused himself from the foot of the playpen to give a proprietary bark. He sniffed Maggie and then resumed his prone position, approving her approach to the pups and kittens.

Maggie gave her grandmother a kiss on the cheek and then peered inside the playpen. Two puppies were nursing while another squeaked and rolled away from his siblings. The kittens, having finished breakfast, slept, letting out an occasional contented mew. “They grow a little more every day,” Maggie said, reaching in to pet a sleeping kitty.

“I know,” Gran’ replied. “Watching them gives me such joy. Sweet, sweet babies. All of them. Even the mamas.”

“How’s Stevens?”

“Good. Better than good, actually. It’s as if the pacemaker revived the poor man. Those little things are miracle workers. He’s being released today.” Gran’ gazed into the playpen. “He’s taken a shine to Jolie. I think having a pet would be good for him.”

Maggie frowned. “I don’t know. It might be too much for a man who has heart issues.”

Gran’ sighed and shook her head. “Oh, my darling girl. Someday you will have children. And your life will revolve around them to the point where you have only vague memories of what it was like before they entered the world. And then you will have to let them go. You won’t know what to do with yourself at first. But eventually you’ll find the life you had before, or even a better one, if such a thing is possible. And your children will always be part of that in some way. You will not lose them.” She put her arms on Maggie’s
shoulders and looked straight into her granddaughter’s eyes. “But you must let your babies go, chère. Let them go.”

Maggie’s eyes filled with tears. Gran’ had touched the nerve that connected to the part of Maggie that longed for a soulmate and family someday and feared she might never know either. She bit her lower lip to keep it from quivering. “I will,” she choked out. “I’ll start thinking about good homes for all of them.”

Gran’ enveloped her in a hug, and the two women held each other. Then Maggie pulled away and examined her grandmother. “Are you okay? I feel like you’re not completely yourself.”

Gran’ sat down on an antique wingback chair and leaned back. “Perceptive as usual. No, I am not myself. And I wish I could tell you why.”

Maggie parked herself on the arm of her grandmother’s chair. “Could it have something to do with Stevens? It’s been a long time since you had romance in your life. Maybe you’re not comfortable with it.”

Gran’ waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, that isn’t a romance—it’s a flirtation. Romance is what I had with your grandfather. I don’t expect that to come around again.”

“I don’t know, Gran’. Stevens seems to really care for you.”

“We enjoy passing time together, that’s all.”

“I think it’s more than that,” Maggie said. “And I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll give up my attachment to our fur-babies if you give up your resistance to finding love again.”

“Those seem like two very different things.”

“They’re not. They just sound like they are. You’re being stubborn. Which you passed down to me, thanks very much.”

Gran’ gave a mischievous grin. “I did, didn’t I? Well if you can fight your stubborn streak, so can I. You have a deal.”

She extended her hand. Maggie shook it and then stood up. “Now, time for me to have a very ugly conversation with Vanessa and Rufus.”

“About what?”

“About how they’re going to scrape together bail if Chief Perske brings a murder charge against Vanessa.”

*

Despite the chill outside, the living area of Vanessa and Ru’s small trailer felt stuffy. Through the trailer’s largest window, Maggie could see the wooden skeleton of one wall of La Plus Belle, the couple’s future dream home. It remained exactly that—a dream.

“Again, I am not saying that any charges will be brought,” Maggie repeated for what felt like the umpteenth time. “I’m just suggesting you have a bail plan for the
very
remote possibility that they are.”

“Bo put you up to this, didn’t he?” Rufus demanded.

Maggie groaned and dropped her head into her hands.

“He’d just love to see me lose everything. He’s always been jealous of my success.”

“I am not giving birth in ja—” Vanessa stopped herself. “I can’t even say it. I can’t say the j-word.”

“Nobody wants to see that happen, Van,” Maggie said. “That’s why Quentin’s on board. He’s going to have the same
conversation with you. I just thought I’d have it first, so you can have an answer and save some time with him.”

“Time with that shyster is money, so I do appreciate that,” Rufus said.

Vanessa gave a slight nod. “I guess if worse came to absolute worse, we could put up La Plus Belle.”

“What?!” Rufus barked. “Nuh-uh, no way. Not our baby.”

Vanessa pointed to her stomach. “This is our baby, you dumb cluck! You’d rather see it born in the j-word than put up that pile of wood to make the b-word?!”

“You mean bail? I’m just saying, let’s explore all our options,” Rufus responded. “We could always put up my pension for bail. Or my life insurance policy.”

“I’d like to start collecting on that right now!”

“It’s you making threats like that what got us into this mess in the first place!”

“No, it was your stupid wedding present! Who buys their fiancée a gun?!”

“Stop saying that! It’s a useful gift!”

Maggie held up her hands. “Whoa. Everyone take a breath. Let’s focus on the positive—worst-case scenario, you at least have assets.” She looked at her wrist. “I have to go or I’ll be late to work. Vanessa, I’ll check in with you later.”

Maggie practically ran from the trailer to her car. She hoped that neither Rufus nor Vanessa had noticed that she wasn’t wearing a watch.

Maggie was on autopilot as she led morning tours at Doucet. The events of the week—
had it only been a week? It felt so much longer
—had drained her. Aside from being upset about Ginger and Trent’s murders, Maggie felt as if her whole life was in flux. She longed to lock herself in her studio and paint away her stress for a couple of hours but didn’t see how that would fit into a schedule crammed with maid of honor chores, working at two plantations, relationship problems, and trying to track down a killer.

She walked her small group of visitors through the wide center hall of Doucet into its front parlor. “In the mid-nineteenth century, the Mississippi could be seen through these large windows, which also served as French doors that welcomed any breeze off the river,” she told the visitors. She lacked her usual desire to riff on the prepared text, so she delivered it by rote. “These days the river’s view is blocked by that high, grassy berm you see, which serves as a levee. It’s not as scenic, but it’s prevented Doucet from being swallowed up by the Mighty Mississip, unlike Uncle Sam Plantation and so many others.”

A teen girl stopped texting and looked up at a portrait of Maggie’s ancestor, Magnolia Marie Doucet, which hung above the room’s fireplace. “Who’s she?” the girl asked. “She’s pretty in an old-timey way.”

Maggie gazed at the painting. Magnolia Marie had been an iconoclast in her day. In fact, if not for the venerated Doucet name, the locals would have labeled her a nutjob. She was a widowed mother of two by the time she was twenty-three and ran Doucet on her own until she horrified neighbors by
marrying a former Union officer after the Civil War. While Maggie would never lose the guilt that came with having ancestors who owned slaves, she took comfort in Magnolia’s reputation as a kind, generous woman who actually freed the enslaved Doucet workers before the war began and offered them homes and jobs when it ended. Magnolia Marie died at age 101 in 1941, knowing that she’d helped Doucet and its employees survive three wars and the Great Depression. If Magnolia Marie could triumph over such great losses and traumas, Maggie could certainly power through the lesser obstacles that currently challenged her. “That,” Maggie told the teen, “is the woman I was named after.”

The girl grinned. “Awesome.”

“Yes,” Maggie said. “It is.”

Maggie led the group into the Doucet gift shop, marking the tour’s end. She was happy to see several tourists pick up the souvenirs she had designed—a mug, a mousepad, and yes, the thimbles she had resisted making for so long. “Ione, do you have paper and a pen back there?” she asked her boss, who was working the register.

“Here you go.” Ione handed her both. “Look how some talented artist made a lightly-colored rendition of Doucet as the background on the pad’s paper. I am
so
impressed.” Ione winked as she handed over a pad of Maggie’s own design.

“Thanks. How are they selling?”

“Surprisingly well, considering people mostly jot down notes on their phones these days. It’s your paintings and drawings, honey. They pull people in.”

Maggie was surprised at how good this made her feel. Being validated for her artwork meant something, even if it was just that a tourist would be drinking their morning brew from one of Maggie’s coffee cups.

She headed to the break area and parked herself under the big magnolia tree. It was time to stop brooding and resolve some outstanding issues in her life. First up was who killed Ginger and Trent. She felt safe in assuming that the murders of the interior designer and her lover were related. Maggie started the list of potential suspects with Fox’s name. The adage “start with the husband” seemed appropriate in this case, given Ginger’s terrible reputation and predilection for cheating on him. Next, she wrote Bibi’s name. Much as she hated adding her possible patron to the list, Bibi had undeniable motives for both murders; she desired Ginger’s husband and despised Trent. Maggie then reluctantly added Chret to the list. Did discovering Ginger was his mother push the emotionally damaged ex-soldier over the edge? There was also the possibility that he’d secretly learned he was in her will and was motivated to murder by the hefty inheritance his birth mother left him.

Ione wandered over to where Maggie sat writing and dropped onto a bench, stretching her legs and hoop skirt out in front of her. “It’s my favorite time of day here,” she said as she pulled off her wig. “The ‘whoo-hoo-this-place-is-empty-for-two-minutes’ time. Whatcha doing?”

“Making a list of suspects and motives.”

Ione pulled her legs in and sat up straight. “And?”

Maggie ran through the names she’d already written down. “I’m putting Rufus on the list because of his hot temper. Tookie for the same reason,” she explained as she continued adding names to her list. “Either of them could have snapped out of a desire to protect Vanessa, although Tookie seems more likely on that score. And I’m putting Stevens down just because he’s from Houston, although it’s hard to believe that poor guy has the strength to do in two people. I’m also leaving a blank space for any potential suspects that Bo uncovers in Texas.”

Maggie perused the list to see if she’d left anyone out. She thought for a moment and then wrote down one more name. “Who’d you add?” Ione asked.

“Lee Bertrand,” Maggie said without enthusiasm. She was fond of the garrulous repair shop owner.

“I can see that,” Ione said. “On the surface, he seems like a good ol’ boy, but he’s superprotective of Chret.”

“Lee’s from a very close family, too. What if one of his siblings knew the identity of Chret’s mother and revealed it to him when Ginger came to town? With Trent vowing to break Ginger’s will on top of that, he might have fallen into a fury so bad that it led to murder.”

Maggie’s cell rang. “Go ahead and take it,” Ione said as she stood up. “I need a mirror to help me put my wig back on. A busload of tourists from New Orleans is due in ten.”

Ione headed off, and Maggie checked her phone. She saw a Texas number that didn’t look familiar. “Hello?” she asked, her voice tentative as she answered the call.

“You still as pretty as you were in Houston?”

Maggie recognized the Texas twang of detective Johnny Tucker. “Hi, Johnny. I don’t remember giving you my cell phone number.”

“You didn’t. But my job is tracking people down. Especially when they’re ‘of interest.’”

Maggie rolled her eyes. “Next you’re going to say I’m under arrest for stealing your heart.”

Johnny roared. “I like that.”

“As did half the construction workers in Manhattan. And Rufus Durand, who wanted to put it in his vows.” While Maggie had to admit she enjoyed Johnny’s mild flirtation, she wanted to know the real reason for his unexpected call. “What’s up? Do you have any new information, I hope?”

“Bo let me know about Trent Socher’s murder. And I tracked down a cell call between Bibi and Fox that took place at 11:48
PM
, after Trent’s body was discovered.”

Maggie digested this revelation. “Who called whom?”

“Nice grammar. She called him.”

“To either share the news of Trent’s death. Or . . .”

“Let a partner in crime know, ‘mission accomplished.’”

Maggie had one more question for Johnny. “Why are you telling me this? Shouldn’t you be telling Bo?”

“I will. Right after I ask you out to dinner.”