Body on the Bayou (18 page)

“The higher the hair, the closer to God,” Maggie muttered to Lia.

“Amen,” Lia muttered back.

“Alrighty,” Tookie said. “It’s time for you put on your dress.”

She laid out the bridal gown on the floor, and Vanessa stepped into it. Maggie helped negotiate the dress around Vanessa’s baby belly and buttoned what seemed like hundreds of buttons. Vanessa stepped back to strike a model’s pose. “What do you think?” she asked.

“You look beautiful,” Maggie replied with total sincerity. The white satin gown was gathered under Vanessa’s bust line and then flowed out beneath, giving her the look of a medieval lady-in-waiting. The designer had applied lace, rhinestones, and pearls with a heavy hand, but Vanessa had the height and borderline trashy style to carry it off. For the first time since Rufus and Vanessa had trumpeted their engagement, Maggie had a good feeling about the wedding. And an even better feeling about the fact that it would all be over in a matter of hours.

A sharp rap on the trailer door interrupted the oohing and aahing over Vanessa’s dress. “Rufus, I told you a million times, you can’t come in!” Van yelled at the door.

“This isn’t Rufus, ma’am.”

Maggie recognized the voice and exchanged a worried look with Lia.

“Is that . . . ?” Lia asked. Maggie nodded. “
Why?
Why are the police here now?”

“I’m praying that it’s not my worst fear come true,” Maggie said. She opened the door to reveal Pelican PD Chief Perske, flanked by Artie and Cal. All three looked grim. Perske nodded to Cal, who entered the trailer, squeezing through the clutch of women frozen in place by shock.

“Cal, what’s going on?” Maggie asked. “Artie? Someone, please talk to us.”

Cal shook his head slightly and avoided eye contact with Maggie. Instead, he addressed Vanessa. “I’m afraid I’m gonna have to ask you to put your hands behind your back, Vanessa.”

“
What?!
” screeched Tookie. “She ain’t putting her hands anywhere.”

Tookie made a move toward her daughter, but Cal whipped up a hand to stop her. Vanessa, stunned into complacency, silently followed Cal’s order. He clamped handcuffs on her wrists and led her down the short, narrow hall to the trailer’s entrance.

“Vanessa Fleer,” Chief Perske intoned, “you’re under arrest for the murder of Trent Socher.”

As the police led her daughter away, Tookie let out a piercing scream and fell to the floor in a dead faint. Vanessa’s hair stylist and makeup artist screamed and burst into tears as the other women dropped to the floor to revive Tookie.

“Worst fear?” Lia asked Maggie as the two helped bring the mother of the bride to a sitting position. Tookie moaned as she regained consciousness, then threw up into her own lap.

“Times infinity,” Maggie said.

Maggie helped Tookie change into clean clothes and then called Rufus to alert him to the latest heinous development. His reaction necessitated holding the phone a distance from her ear to prevent deafness. The bridesmaids put on their street clothes and followed Maggie to Crozat, where they spent the next hour calling all of Vanessa’s guests to let them know that the wedding was postponed until further notice. They made sure to hang up before having to explain why.

Tug and Ninette kept the women fortified with wine and crawfish étouffée. “Please eat up,” Ninette said. “I was donating this to the wedding potluck and I’d hate for it to go to waste.”

“People in Pelican will eat well tonight, when you think of all the food that was destined for the wedding,” Maggie said as she poured herself a second glass of wine.

“I’m freezing my red beans and rice for when this crazy wedding actually does take place,” Ione said. “No one’ll know the difference.”

“Those beans may be sitting in your freezer for a while,” Tug responded. “With Vanessa under arrest, it doesn’t look like she and Rufus will be riding off into the sunset anytime soon.”

“Sunset,” Maggie repeated. The others exchanged confused glances, but she didn’t notice. A series of random images were clicking into place in her mind, forming a story. A story that just might have an ending. “I think I know who bought the Callettes’ property.” She jumped up and ran toward the door. “I’ll see y’all later. I have to talk to Bo.”

*

Maggie texted Bo to let him know that they needed to talk, then hopped into the Falcon and drove to Pelican PD headquarters. Cell reception in Pelican was quirky and calls occasionally got crossed, so Maggie didn’t feel safe sharing her theory over the phone. She pulled into the police department parking lot and found herself next to Quentin MacIlhoney’s Bentley. She ran up the steps into the building’s lobby, where she found Bo and Rufus deep in conversation. They were both in their wedding attire, and despite the gravity of the situation, Maggie couldn’t help but note how hot Bo looked in a tux. Rufus also wore a tux surprisingly well, but the glowering look on his face made him look like the evil villain next to Bo’s James Bond. “Rufus,
you are not going to lose La Plus Belle,” Bo was saying, his patience obviously strained. “It’s not like Vanessa’s going to jump bail.”

“Yeah, I know she’s not going anywhere with that big old baby belly,” Rufus responded. “The whole thing’s just a pain in my behind. How the hell could they think my Van had anything to do with that murder?”

“The fact they’re letting her out on bail tells you it’s a weak case,” Bo said. He laid a comforting hand on his cousin’s shoulder. “We’ll find the real killer.”

Maggie cleared her throat, and the men registered her presence. “Hey, Rufus. I’m so sorry you’re going through all this. Bo, can I steal you for a minute? I have a couple of thoughts I need to run by you.”

“Sure.” Bo walked away from Rufus, who slumped into a chair. “I got your text. Talk to me.”

“Ginger Fleer-Starke loved sunsets,” Maggie blurted out. “I remember her telling me that it was her favorite time to go for a run. I think she was Sunset Properties. She didn’t care about the wedding. She wanted to make sure she had the winning bid on the Callettes’ property.” Maggie showed Bo the business card that she’d found among Trent’s belongings. “Remember that story I told you about the woman in Houston, Nancy Brown Bradley? She’s the one who inherited a house from her parents that Ginger tried scamming her into selling for nothing. When that didn’t work out, I’m guessing Ginger started looking for other investments. And since she grew up in Ville de Blanc, which is only a half hour from here, it made sense to look in the area. She could build
little cabins in the woods near the bayou and market them as vacation retreats. The big question is, if Ginger didn’t get the money from Fox or her own business, where did it come from? Maybe whoever financed Ginger ended up killing her. It wouldn’t be the first business deal gone horribly wrong.”

“No, it wouldn’t. My caseload in Shreveport was full of them. I’m going to give Johnny a heads-up about this. He’s been stubborn about bringing in the FBI, but nobody can follow a money trail like they can.”

The hall door burst open, and Quentin blew into the lobby, leading a bewildered Vanessa by the hand. Her hair had deflated and her makeup was rendered stained and runny by tears, a few of which had dripped onto her bridal gown. Chief Perske followed close behind them. “I’m a fan of keeping the law on my side, so rather than bring a lawsuit for wrongful arrest, we will graciously accept your apology when you realize that you’ve nailed the wrong suspect,” Quentin told the chief. Perske replied with a skeptical grunt.

Rufus hurried to Vanessa and put his arm around her waist. “Let’s get you outta this hellhole,” he said as he nudged her toward the door.

Quentin took her arm and pulled her away. “Sorry, but that pickup truck of yours is going to bounce the baby right out of her.” He gave Vanessa’s stomach a small pat. “I can get a lot of mileage out of this situation, so let’s keep little him or her in the oven.” He addressed Vanessa. “You, my dear, get to ride in the Bentley.”

“Okay,” she responded in a robotic voice.

The lawyer put his hand around her waist and led his client toward the door, followed by Rufus, who looked as if he’d like to add a third killing to Pelican’s roster of recent murders. They were greeted by Little Earlie Waddell and his camera. As the journalist started to photograph the bedraggled, befuddled bride, Rufus made a move toward him, but Quentin held up his hand. “Hello there, young man,” he said to Earlie in a jovial tone that also managed to be terrifying. “You take one picture and I’m afraid you’ll be having that camera surgically removed from an orifice.” Little Earlie instantly retreated into the shadows. “Oh, and Chief Perske,” Quentin called back as he steered Vanessa outside, “you might take another look at that Chret Bertrand for these crimes. That boy sure did well by them. Two hundred thousand dollars well.” Then the door swung shut, and the odd trio was gone.

“Chret is a really good guy,” Maggie jumped in. “And he had no idea Ginger was his mother.”

Perske fixed her with his now-familiar glare. “Why are you here?”

“I am here because I’m Vanessa Fleer’s maid of honor,” Maggie said. “One of my tasks is to hold her bouquet when she says her ‘I dos,’ and in order for me to do that, I need to make sure she doesn’t go to jail for a crime she didn’t commit.
Comprenez-vous
?”

“Asking me if I understand isn’t any less insulting in French.” Perske turned to Bo. “Get her out of here.”

“Yessir.” Bo strode over to the front door and held it open for Maggie. She marched out of the building, determined to maintain what little dignity she had left.

As soon as she got to her car, her phone pinged. “Sorry about that,” Bo texted. “I’ll call you later.” Perske might think she was an idiot, but at least she hadn’t embarrassed herself in front of Bo. That was some small comfort.

*

As Maggie drove home, she noticed angry clouds accumulating in the early evening sky, hastening darkness. The days seemed to be growing shorter by the hour. Her phone sang out. She glanced down and saw a number she didn’t recognize. She pressed a button on her earbud. “Hello?” she said tentatively.

“Hi there. I’m calling about the lost dog and cat.”

Finally, a response to the fliers and inquiries about Jolie and Brooke. Yet instead of feeling relieved, Maggie’s heart sank. She’d become attached to the Crozats’ animal guests. “Do you know anything about them?” she asked.

The man chuckled. “We know a lot about them. We’re Spunky and Pansy’s pet parents. I’m Jerry Baylor. I’m real sorry I didn’t get in touch sooner, but my wife, Hallie, just got a new phone and only now figured out that one of our neighbors left us a message that they’d seen your flier.”

“Ah. Well . . . nice to phone-meet you, Jerry. I’m Maggie Crozat.”

“Your family owns that plantation B and B, right? Sweet.”

“Can you describe the animals to me?”

“Sure. Spunky’s a real pretty ginger kitty and Pansy’s a chi mix. I can give you more details, but if you just call them by their names, they’ll come and that’ll be proof.”

Maggie thought she heard a conch shell blow in the background. “Where
are
you?”

“Honolulu. We’re waiting on a luau. My wife’s an English professor at University of New Orleans and she’s on sabbatical teaching here at U of H. We rented out our house in New Orleans and brought the fur-babies up to our summer place in Pelican. My son was supposed to be taking care of them, but he’s a musician and got a gig on a cruise ship, so he found some dumb bunny friend of his to house-sit. Turns out the guy covered up the doggy door, so he accidentally locked out the animals. When they didn’t come back, he panicked and took off—double dumb bunny. I guess we’re just lucky he didn’t turn the place into a meth lab.”

“Jolie—I mean, Pansy and Spunky are fine, and so are their babies.”

“Babies?” Jerry yelped. “What babies?”

“They both had litters. You didn’t know they were pregnant?”

Jerry let out a string of cuss words far less tame than “dumb bunny.” “I feel terrible. We couldn’t bring Spunky and Pansy with us because of Hawaii’s quarantine laws. Spunky’s an indoor-outdoor cat, so we were worried she wouldn’t pass muster. And she and Pansy are so close to each
other that we didn’t want to separate them. We thought we were doing what was best.”

He sounded so plaintive that Maggie felt sorry for him. “Don’t worry, everyone’s healthy and happy. And we have lots of possible homes for the pups and kittens.”

“That’s a relief to hear. We’re not due back for a month at least. Can we impose on you to look after them a while longer? We’ll pay whatever you want.”

“We won’t take a dime. It’ll be our pleasure.” Maggie was feeling magnanimous. “In fact, I’m happy to check on your house, since it’s just sitting there empty.”

“Really? I hate to bother you.”

“It’s no bother at all. You can’t live that far from us. What’s your address?”

“1145 Valcour Lane.”

“Valcour Lane? We have a friend who lives on that . . .” Maggie trailed off as her heart started to race. An image flashed before her: the numbers “1147” painted dark green with light green shading. 1147—the same numbers on the business card for Sunset Properties. The numbers that would logically follow the Baylors’ street address. She swallowed and then found her voice. “Jerry . . . do you happen to live next door to Stevens Troy?”

“Maybe. Is he the guy who brought the Reeves house? They had a Doberman named Cutie who was best friends with our Pansy. Used to come in and out of each other’s doggy doors. Ours was smaller, so once poor Cutie got stuck and . . .”

Jerry continued to talk, but Maggie had stopped listening. Always the artist, she often had moments of clarity appear to her as a scene she might paint. The image that flashed in her mind was of a man crazed by anger. He was in a fierce struggle with a woman who looked frightened yet defiant. The woman was Ginger Fleer-Starke. And the man was Stevens Troy.

Maggie hurried Jerry off the phone with a promise to send photos of Jolie/Pansy, Brooke/Spunky, and their respective broods. She took a deep breath to quell the anxiety pumping through her. She knew that it would take more than a psychic flash to convince Pelican PD that Stevens was a killer. She speed-dialed Lia. “You have a magnifying glass at the store, right?” she asked without a second of preamble.

“Yes, we use it to help us make out sloppy, handwritten orders.” Lia picked up on the urgency in Maggie’s voice. “I’m at Bon Bon.”

“Be there ASAP.” Maggie’s tires squealed as she flipped the car around in a U-turn and raced to Lia. She screeched into a parking space behind the store, leapt out of the car, and ran into the Bon Bon workroom. Lia and Kyle were waiting for her.

“Kyle is a genius at deciphering chicken scratch,” Lia said.

“This is different,” Maggie said. She handed Kyle the worn business card for Sunset Properties. “There were numbers here that may be the key to Ginger and Trent’s murderer. I think I know what the 1147 is. I have to figure out what the others are.”

Kyle sat at a work desk, turned on a bright overhead light, and held the card under a magnifying glass. “Luckily, they were written in pen, so they left an indent. And there’s a little color left.”

Maggie bent over his shoulder. “That could be a three. Or an eight.”

Lia wrote both numbers down. “We’ll just make a list of whatever numbers we come up with.”

“There are indents for dashes,” Kyle said, pointing them out. “Two of them. I think this was a telephone number.”

It took half an hour, but Maggie, Lia, and Kyle were able to come up with three iterations of telephone numbers. When they tried calling the first number, they learned that it was disconnected. When they called the second number, someone yelled at them in a foreign language and then hung up. Maggie’s last hope was the third telephone number.

“I can hear your heart beating,” said Lia, who was standing a few feet from Maggie as she punched in the number.

“I know, I—”

“Robbins, Farnham, Connon, and Stern,” came a voice from the phone.

“Yes!” Maggie exulted. “I mean, hello. I got this number from someone and I can’t explain in detail, but I think it’s
important. Do you mind telling me what kind of company this is?”

“We’re not a company.” The woman on the other end of the call sounded perplexed. “We’re a law firm.”

Robbins, law, Robbins, law . . . why does that
—and then Maggie realized the connection. “Would the Robbins in your firm happen to be Lester Robbins?”

“Yes.” Now the woman sounded wary.

“Please, I need to ask Mr. Robbins about another lawyer he might know. A Stevens Troy.”

“Stevens?” Lia gasped.

Maggie raised a hand to shush her. There was silence on the other end of the telephone. “Hello?” she prayed that the woman hadn’t ended the call.

“Mr. Troy used to be a partner here.”

“What?” This was a revelation Maggie never expected. “His name isn’t in the firm title.”

The woman hesitated. “I don’t know what I should tell you. I’m just the receptionist.”

“This involves a very serious crime,” Maggie said. “If you don’t tell me, you’ll probably have to tell the police.” Maggie neglected to mention that if the woman’s information proved crucial, she’d be talking to the police anyway. But the quasi threat did the trick. The woman let loose with a flood of shocking information.

“He was let go about five years ago. He had anger issues, what they call an explosive temper. And there were improprieties with some of his client relationships. Anyway, the firm made a deal with Mr. Troy that kept everything quiet. He
‘retired’ and they even made a big donation to finagle some Lawyer of the Year award for him on his way out. It was all about damage control.”

“Thank you,” Maggie said, forcing herself to stay calm. “That’s very helpful. I just have one more question. Have you ever heard of Sunset Properties?”

“Yes, that’s a business one of our clients started.”

“Just one of them? Not two? You know that for a fact?”

“Yes. I can’t give you any names, of course, but I know because I printed out a file that the client was supposed to pick up. It’s sitting right here waiting for her.”

Her. As in Ginger.
“Thank you so much, Ms. . . .”

“I’d rather not give you my name.”

Maggie didn’t blame the woman for sounding nervous. “Of course. We’ll keep this between us.” Maggie ended the call before guilt about the lie she had just told prompted a more honest answer. Because she was about to spend the car ride back to Crozat sharing every detail of the conversation with Bo.

*

Bo was there when Maggie roared into her family’s gravel parking lot. He opened her car door and helped her out. The drizzle that had begun on Maggie’s ride home had developed into full-blown rain. “It all makes sense if you just think step-by-step,” she told Bo as they pulled jackets over their heads to ward off the wetness and ran toward the manor house. “Stevens lied to us. He knew Ginger because she was a client at his firm. Maybe they had an affair, maybe they
didn’t. But I think they planned to start a real estate development business together—Sunset Properties. Only Ginger cut Stevens out behind his back and bought the Callette property on her own. And when he found out, he snapped.”

“It does make sense,” Bo said. “Unfortunately, it’s all circumstantial. There’s not a DA in the country who’d give me a warrant.”

The two made it into Crozat’s back hallway and shook off their jackets. “Your grandmother’s been spending time with Stevens,” Bo continued. “Maybe he mentioned some small but illegal thing he’s done. I could pick him up on that and hold him until we have concrete evidence of his involvement with Ginger.”

“Good idea. Let’s ask her. She’s probably having dinner with my parents.”

They hurried into the kitchen, where they found Tug and Ninette fixing bowls of oyster soup for dinner. “We’re looking for Gran’,” Maggie said. “No time to explain why.”

“She’s out, chère,” Ninette said. “Stevens invited her over for dinner.”

“No!” Maggie exclaimed.

Bo grabbed her hand. “Come on.” He pulled her toward the back hallway, and the two ran through the rain to his car. Tug ran after them.

“Hey!” Tug yelled as Bo peeled out of the driveway. “Maggie! What’s going on?”

Maggie opened her car window and yelled back, “No time!” Cold rain whipped her face and she closed the window. “Put on your siren. We need to get there fast.”

Bo shook his head. “No. And I’m not calling PPD yet either. They’ll show up with sirens blaring and guns blazing. The more noise we make, the more we put your grandmother in danger of becoming a hostage. We need to extricate her from the premises in a nonconfrontational way and then move in on Stevens.”

“I’ll do it,” Maggie said. “I’ll get her out. It’s all my fault, anyway. I encouraged her to date that psychopath.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Bo said. “You had no idea he was dangerous.”

They reached Valcour Lane. Bo made a right, drove down to the end of the cul-de-sac, and parked in front of Stevens’s house. It emanated such a homey glow that for a moment, Maggie wondered if she was out of her mind for pegging the retired lawyer as a murderer. Then she thought of her beloved grandmother and shook off all doubt. She reached for the car door handle.

“Wait,” Bo said. He pulled out his gun. “I’m going to cover you from outside. If I see the smallest, hinkiest thing, I’m coming in.”

“Okay. Look, if anything happens to me—”

“Nothing’s going to happen to you.”

“If anything happens to me,” she continued, ignoring him, “I want you to know why I’ve been kind of weird lately. Whitney confided in me about some problems with her marriage and her conflicted feelings about her relationship with you. I felt like I should step back and let the two of you figure out your future.”

“What the—”

“No time!” Maggie jumped out of the car and dashed up Stevens’s front steps. She took a deep breath, summoned up her courage, and rang the doorbell. She heard a snippet of muted conversation, then footsteps. Stevens opened the door a crack and then, seeing who was there, opened it wider. “Maggie?”

“Yes, hi.” She flashed a wide, fake smile. “I am so sorry to interrupt your dinner, but I need to fetch my grandmother. My mother’s not well and we need to get Gran’ home.”

“Maggie, is that you?” Gran’ called from the living room. “Come inside, you’re letting the rain in.”

“I’ll wait for you out here. Just hurry.”

“You’re being rude,” Gran’ admonished her. “You can step inside for a minute so I’m not talking to you through a door.”

Maggie reluctantly stepped into the living room, where Gran’ sat in an easy chair drinking a Sazerac. “Now, what’s going on with Ninette?”

“It’s her stomach. She’s weak and throwing up. It might be food poisoning. Or it might be more serious. We never know with Mom.”

“That’s not good. Is Tug taking her to the hospital?”

“No.” Maggie cursed her innate honesty and backtracked. “Yes. Maybe. We don’t know; we just need to get you home.”

Gran’ stood up. “Of course. I’ll use the little girl’s room and then we’ll be on our way.”

“Can it wait?”

Gran’ gave her granddaughter an affronted look. “No, it cannot. I assure you I’ll be quick.”

Gran’ briskly walked down the hall, leaving Maggie and Stevens in awkward silence. “I’m sorry about your mother,” he said.

“Thank you,” Maggie replied, feeling guilty for lying to him.
Stop that!
she told herself.
He’s a murderer.

Stevens lifted a curtain and glanced outside. “Rain’s coming down harder.”

“Yes. Yes it is.”

He continued to stare out the window. “That’s not your car.”

Nerves set Maggie’s heart thumping. “I got a ride with a friend. My convertible sometimes leaks in the rain.” She congratulated herself for coming up with a plausible excuse.

“All ready,” Gran’ announced as she emerged from the bathroom.

“Great, let’s go.” Just a few more minutes and Gran’ would be safe.

Stevens retrieved Gran’s coat and helped her slip it on. He put an arm around her shoulder and gave her a squeeze. “Too bad the evening has to end early. I have a delicious tarte Tatin from Fais Dough Dough.”

“Sorry about that,” Maggie said. “Another night. Come on, Gran’.”

Gran’ took a step, but Stevens didn’t let go of her. “You’re a wonderful artist, Maggie.”

“Thank you.” Maggie tried to keep the anxiety she felt out of her voice.

“But you’re a terrible liar.” Stevens moved his arm from Gran’s shoulder to her neck.

“Stevens, what are you doing? That hurts.” Gran’s eyes were colored with fear.

“Here’s what going to happen,” Stevens said, ignoring her. “I’m going to get in my car with your grandmother and I’m going to drive. You and your ‘friend’ will not follow me. At some point, I will deposit your grandmother somewhere. Whether she’s alive or dead will depend on how well you’ve followed my directions.”

“What?!” Gran’ struggled to pull away, but Stevens tightened his grip. “Stevens, you’re talking like a madman!”

“Leave her here,” Maggie said. “Take me instead.”

“Of course you’d say that,” Stevens said. “You’re
so
predictable.”

Maggie was desperate to keep the conversation going. She didn’t dare glance toward the back of the house to see if Bo had made his way inside for fear of alerting Stevens to his presence. “You don’t have to do this,” was the best she could come up with.

“Again, predictable. Out of my way.”

Stevens pulled his arm even tighter around Gran’s neck and shoved her forward. She choked and flailed her arms. As the deranged man tried to control her, Gran’ managed to grab the waist of his pants and yank them up. Stevens yelped in pain and let go of Gran’ as his hands flew to his most sensitive parts. Gran’ fell to the floor, where she lay still. Something in Maggie snapped. She let out a roar and drove her head into Stevens’s stomach. Taken by surprise, he flew backward. Maggie pulled herself up and grabbed Stevens’s Lawyer of the Year award, but she slipped in a puddle of
rainwater that she’d dripped onto the floor earlier. Her legs shot out from under her, and she fell on her back, dropping the heavy award as she went down. Stevens was on top of her in a split second, his hands around her throat. She tried to fight him off, but insanity gave him a terrifying boost of adrenaline. As she began to succumb to Stevens’s strength, she heard Bo yell, “Maggie!” He’d made it inside.

Maggie felt herself starting to pass out when her attacker grunted. His eyes closed, and he slumped on top of her, unconscious. Maggie pushed him off and staggered to her feet. She expected to find Bo standing over Stevens with his gun drawn, but instead she saw the detective maneuvering himself through the doggy door. “Then who . . . ?”

“Are you all right, chère?”

She turned around to see Gran’ holding Stevens’s Lawyer of the Year award. It was edged with blood where it had made contact with Stevens’s skull.

“And you wonder why I don’t date,” Gran’ sighed.