Maggie inhaled and exhaled to calm herself. She kept her eyes on the road and maintained a steady speed. She pressed a button on her phone to call Bo. It went straight to voice mail. Rather than leaving a message, she hung up and called back several times, knowing the frequency of calls would sound an alarm for her husband. She was about to try for a fifth time when he called her. “What’s wrong?” he said as soon as she took the call.
“I’m being followed.”
Bo cursed. “Where are you?”
“Almost at the ferry landing.” Maggie glanced at the river, and her heart sank. She saw the ferry idling on the other side of the Mississippi. “It’s on the east bank and doesn’t look like it’s coming west any time soon.”
“Pull a U-turn,” Bo instructed. “I’m gonna get you to the nearest police station.”
Maggie checked for oncoming traffic. Seeing none, she swung the wheel. Her tires screeched as she did a one-eighty and drove north. She heard a screech behind her as the sedan followed her move.
The next fifteen minutes felt like fifteen hours. There were street closures in the nearest town due to a funeral second line, so Bo directed her to Beausoleil, a historic town upriver from Doucet. She and her pursuer fell into a bizarre, almost hypnotic ballet of speeding up and slowing down. Finally, a painted wooden sign welcomed her to Beausoleil. Maggie released the breath she’d been holding, then cried out when the sedan suddenly bumped her rear fender. She clutched the wheel so hard her knuckles whitened. The sedan bumped her again with more force. Maggie gritted her teeth and concentrated on maintaining control of the Falcon. A road sign indicating a drop in the speed limit filled her with relief. It meant they were about to enter a populated area. The sedan bumped her one more time, then made a sharp turn to the west and roared off, the sound of its engine fading with distance.
Maggie pulled over to the side of the road. She closed her eyes and rested her head against the steering wheel. Her body buzzed with an adrenaline rush of fear. She opened her eyes and raised her head. Then, hands shaking, she drove to the Beausoleil police station.
The most welcome sight in the world waited for her on the steps of the century-old red-brick building housing Beausoleil PD. Maggie fell into her husband’s arms. “Thank you for being here.”
Bo held her tight. “Like I wouldn’t be.”
Maggie rested her head against the crisp white cotton button-down shirt Bo wore under his sport jacket. “I have to admit, it was terrifying. Which was the goal. Not to kill me. To scare me.”
“Let’s go inside and file a report.”
Bo put a protective arm around Maggie’s waist and led her inside the station, where the couple was met by Beausoleil PD captain Kevin McCaffrey. He was a trim fiftysomething with a taciturn demeanor, but his pale-blue eyes radiated warmth. McCaffrey ushered the couple into his office, motioning for a patrol officer to join them. “Luneville, take notes,” he instructed the officer. “Okay, Mrs. Durand, walk me through what happened.”
Maggie’s lower lip quivered. She pressed her palms against her eyelids to hold back tears. “I’m sorry. I get like that whenever anyone calls me Mrs. Durand.” She composed herself and managed an apologetic smile. “I’ve been a ball of emotions lately.”
“Sounds like you got good reason for that. So …”
Prompted by the captain, Maggie recounted her frightening experience in detail while Officer Luneville took notes. “I got everything I need,” Luneville said when she was done. “There’s gotta be a security camera along the route that caught this SOB’s license plate number. I’ll take a patrol car and hunt them down.”
Captain McCaffrey stood up. The others followed suit. “Someone using local roadways as a bullying demolition derby ticks me off. We’re all over this. I’ll be in touch, Durand.” He shook hands with Bo and then showed them out of the building.
Maggie and Bo were far enough north to take the bridge over the river. Once home, Maggie fixed an early-bird dinner. While they ate, the couple debated who might have given chase to her, maybe the stalker or a killer who’d picked up on the fact that Maggie was nosing around Chanson’s murder. “I’d bet money on the stalker,” she said. “I haven’t sensed any of the Chansonniers—”
“Chansonniers. I like that.”
“Thanks. I haven’t sensed any of them being suspicious of me. Between the waitressing and sketching, I’ve wormed my way into the inner circle.”
Bo frowned. “Sounding a skosh cocky, chère. Don’t go there. It’s a breeding ground for mistakes.”
“You’re right,” Maggie said, chastised. “The goal is to save Junie’s. We’re taking a big step toward that tonight.” She explained the evening’s plan. “I’d love for you to come with me.”
“I’m picking Xander up from soccer practice, but I’ll try and stop by after if he doesn’t need help with his homework.”
Bo left to get Xander. Maggie trudged over to the manor house with the goal of recruiting family members for the Junie’s cleanup project. Her parents were out, but she found Gran in the front parlor mixing a drink for Kate. The restaurateur wore a stylish navy jumpsuit and expensive-looking black suede pumps. She’d pulled her sleek brown hair into a low ponytail that showed off trendy large silver hoop earrings. Gran handed her the cocktail. “A Sazerac. The recipe’s been in our family for generations. I hope you enjoy it. And don’t steal it.”
Kate released an exasperated grunt. “Like I’ve said over and over again, stealing recipes was on Phillippe, not me, and it’s not illegal. But it pushes buttons, especially for guy chefs, who can be a lethal combo of egotistical and insecure. I told Phillippe his recipe kleptomania would get him into trouble. I never thought it would get him killed.” She tasted the drink and expelled a breath. “Yikes. This is strong.”
“You’re welcome,” Gran said. She held up a bottle of rye whiskey. “Maggie?”
Maggie shook her head. “Pass. I’m due at Junie’s. We’re setting it up to reopen tomorrow. Are you up for lending a hand?”
“Absolutely,” Gran said. She gestured to her peach-patterned silk top and ivory slacks. “I’d best change into something a little more worker bee. I’ll meet you back here.”
Gran went off to change. Maggie parked herself on a barstool. “Do you really think Phillippe was killed over a recipe?”
Kate shrugged. Maggie noticed shadows under her dark-brown eyes. She’d also dropped weight, her slim frame now bony. “It’s as good a reason as any in this psycho situation. I know your mom’s off the hook. But there’s that Abel guy. And probably a bunch of other angry chefs I don’t even know about.” She took a sip of the Sazerac. “But now I’m somehow the number-one suspect in Dyer’s disappearance. My lovely staff, who apparently never heard of the word loyalty, told the police they heard me say I wanted to kill Dyer.” Maggie, feeling guilty, chose not to mention she’d also ratted out Kate. “I’d fire everyone, but we’d have to shut down. It’s bad enough that idiot Scooter’s almost useless. He’s like an exposed nerve lately. I swear, I sometimes wonder if he’s back on meth.”
This got Maggie’s full attention. “Back on? Huh.” She recalled Scooter’s edgy behavior. Her instinct that drugs were involved had been right.
“He was up front with us about it. You know, the whole twelve-step thing about being in recovery. He did time for robbery and trained for the kitchen through a prison antirecidivism program. We’d never have hired him if we thought he’d gone back to selling, but being a recovering addict isn’t a job killer in our business. You can’t swing a roast duck without hitting someone in a restaurant kitchen who either has or had a drug problem.”
“I wonder where he went to high school.”
Kate shook her head, amused. “That’s such a funny tradition in Louisiana, asking where people went to high school. Like, that’s what defines them for their entire life.”
“It’s because so many of us go to Catholic school,” Maggie said. “And the schools all have different atmospheres and reputations. So yes, at least in this parish, you do get a sense of someone from knowing where they went to high school.”
“Well, I’m from Darien, Connecticut, and went to Darien High School, which is like a hundred other upscale Connecticut high schools that breed high-strung overachievers like me,” Kate said. “Okay, that was an overshare. I blame the drink.”
Maggie chuckled. “Maybe I should have told you our nickname for Gran’s Sazeracs—Truth Serum.”
Kate put down the glass. “I better not drink any more of this or I’ll tell you my real age.”
She got off the stool and patted the wrinkles from her jumpsuit. “Great outfit,” Maggie said.
“Trick and I are going to New Orleans to meet with potential investors.” Kate ran her hands up and down the jumpsuit with a wry smile. “Dress for the job you want. And the job I want is CEO of the most successful restaurant group in the country.”
Kate left, and Maggie brought her almost-empty glass into the kitchen, placing it in the dishwasher. She returned to the front parlor and pondered Scooter’s behavior. Was it drug induced, or the by-product of keeping a deadly secret? He was a talented bad boy who had done time in prison. But was he a murderer? She tried to recall any conversations about Phillippe they’d had and any interaction she’d witnessed between the two men. The shucker hadn’t seemed particularly fond of the chef, but he hadn’t seemed to hate him or carry some kind of grudge either. Maggie’s cell alerted her to a text from Gran: On my way. Junie’s, here we come!
Sabotaging Junie’s, Maggie thought. That I can see Scooter doing. But … why? She sighed, discouraged by the lack of motives for the recent spate of crimes, from Phillippe’s murder to Junie’s to her stalker.
Gran appeared in the doorway dressed in overalls, her hair hidden under a bandanna. Maggie did a double take. “Are you wearing your Rosé the Riveter costume?”
“You betcha. It’s perfect for the task at hand.” Gran made a muscle, copying the iconic Rosie the Riveter poster. “‘We can do it,’” she said, quoting from the poster. She flashed an impish grin and added the town motto. “Yes, we Peli-can!”
Maggie and her friends lived up to the Pelican motto at Junie’s. By the time they finished scrubbing, dusting, and polishing, the charming but shabby old place looked like it had received an extreme makeover. Every surface gleamed, even the embossed tin ceiling. JJ rewarded the volunteer work crew with pots of gumbo and crawfish fricassee, and Lia and Kyle Bruner donated an array of desserts from Fais Dough Dough and Bon Bon. Gaynell jumped up on the restaurant’s small stage, where she and her bandmates had stashed their instruments. “Time to make sure the sound system’s working. Who’s up for some music?”
The question proved rhetorical as she and the Gator Gals launched into a Cajun two-step, and people traded their forks for the dance floor. Despite the mid-February date, the night was hot and humid, and the body heat emitted by the exuberant celebrants ratcheted up the temperature in the restaurant to uncomfortably stuffy. When perspiration dripped into Maggie’s eyes, making them burn, she decided to take a break. She exited into the alley next to the restaurant. Ash Garavant was already there, having a smoke. The two exchanged a casual greeting. “It’s nice of you to help the competition,” Maggie said.
“There’s always been room for two places to eat in Pelican.” Ash glanced toward Chanson’s Cajun Kitchen. “Whether there’s room for three …”
“Chanson’s does attract newcomers, which is a good thing. I hope.”
“If the newcomers decide to try other restaurants in town. If not, somebody’s going out of business. And it better not be my dad.” Ash dropped his butt to the ground and extinguished it with his foot. He picked up the butt, made sure it was out, and placed it in the garbage.
“Ash, I’ve got a question for you.”
“Shoot.”
“You grew up in Ville Platte. Did you know Scooter Pitot?”
Maggie didn’t expect Ash’s reaction to what she assumed was a simple question. He flushed, clearly taken aback. He began to stammer a response and stopped. Then he recovered. “A little, but not much. We knew some of the same people. Why do you ask?” Ash tried to sound casual but failed.
It was Maggie’s turn to force a casual response. She had no idea why she’d triggered such an emotional response from Ash, but instinct told her to diffuse the situation. “No reason, really. I’m just kind of fascinated by what an odd guy he is. Ignore me. I’m being a gossip.”
Her tactic worked. Ash relaxed. “He’s definitely that. Odd.” He checked his watch. “I better go. I told my dad I’d balance the register tonight.”
Maggie thanked him again for helping, and Ash strode off at a fast clip. Someone’s gonna be doing a whole lotta of digging on the internet tonight, Maggie thought, watching him hurry away, and that someone is me.
She went back inside. JJ waved her over to where he’d set up the trays of food. He dished out a bowl of fricassee and handed it to her. “Eat up,” he said. “I got plenty. More than I need by far. I was stress cooking.”
Maggie inhaled the aroma of vegetables, seasonings, and crustaceans. She took a bite—heaven. “JJ, I never thought you could improve on your cooking, but stress may be your new secret ingredient. Kidding! Still, whatever you did here, keep doing it. This fricassee is beyond great.”
“Thanks, chère. But …” The large man’s face creased with anxiety. He clenched and unclenched the edge of the canvas apron he wore, decorated with the image of a grinning crawfish and the sentence Who’s your crawdaddy? “What if people don’t come back? I been closed a while. Locals could find other eats in the parish. And visitors may rather go to Chanson’s place.”
“We won’t let that happen.” She motioned to the volunteers taking a spin on the dance floor or relaxing at tables, eating and chatting. “The locals will come—if not on their own, then every one of us here will call in the favors we need to fill the place the first week. After that, the food’ll bring them back. Trust me on this. And we can put together a campaign to attract the tourists. I’ll design an ad and you can run a coupon in the Penny Clipper. I’ll tell you one person who owes me plenty of favors—Little Earlie—so I’ll make sure that coupon’s a freebie. And—”
Junie’s front door opened. A hipster in his early thirties stepped into the restaurant. “Hey,” he greeted them. He glanced around. “Are y’all serving?”
“Yes,” Maggie quickly said, before JJ could respond otherwise. He shot her a quizzical glance. “We’re having a small reopening party. Come on in.”
“Awesome.” The man turned and called behind him, “They’re serving.”
A half dozen fellow hipsters of assorted sexes followed him inside. “You said you had made too much food,” Maggie muttered to JJ under her breath. “Here’s a chance to impress some newcomers.”
JJ gave a slight nod, then slapped on his sunniest smile. He held up his hands in a welcoming gesture. “Welcome to Junie’s Oyster Bar and Dance Hall. We may be sans oysters thanks to the shortage, but we are never sans fun and fabulous food. Magnolia, will you help my new friends while I change into something more festive?”
“It’d be my pleasure.” Maggie watched with fondness as JJ sashayed into his office to don one of the showy caftans he always kept on hand. She led the visitors to the buffet table. They took plates and filled them with hefty servings of JJ’s dishes. “This is great,” a young woman with a nose ring and hair dyed half pink and half black said. “We’re starving. We came up from New Orleans to try Chanson’s, but they had to close the place.”
Maggie stopped in the middle of spooning shrimp étouffée onto the woman’s plate. “Really? That’s strange. Why?”
“Whole staff got food poisoning or something.” The woman took a bite of shrimp. “Oh, this rocks.”
“Uh-huh,” said Maggie, distracted, with a perfunctory smile and nod.
She continued to serve the guests, but her mind was elsewhere. An entire kitchen staff incapacitated? Maggie found it hard to believe this could be written off as an accidental case of food poisoning. Someone wanted to cripple the restaurant. But who? And why?