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THE FOLLOWING EVENING, Mary-Alice stood before her open closet, trying to decide what to wear for her date with Boon. Her go-to white capris, of course. But should she wear the blue and green flowered blouse, or the red and yellow? Warm colors, she decided. As she pulled the red-and-yellow top over her head, she heard a knock on the door.
It couldn’t be Boon, Mary-Alice thought, glancing at her watch. Boon would never show up to a lady's house ten minutes early. He was raised better than that.
Mary-Alice quickly checked herself in the mirror. She patted her hair into place, wiped off an under-eye mascara smear, and answered the door.
There stood Celia Arceneaux, holding a small cardboard box.
Oh dear, Mary-Alice thought. I hope she hasn't found out about our investigation.
“Well, my, Celia! What a lovely surprise. Come in and have a glass of tea.”
“I don’t have time to stay and chat.” Celia said abruptly. She cast a meaningful look around Mary-Alice's house. “I just wanted to let you know how happy I am to see that you’re finally doing something worthwhile with your time. Instead of pouring your life savings into this money pit. Now you know that I’m far too busy to help you dig through all the records, but I’ve told Dorothy to give you all the help you need on your little history book. Oh, and I thought you’d need this.”
Celia thrust the box into Mary-Alice’s bewildered hands.
“These are some things of Pansy’s. Mostly newspaper clippings of her pageant successes. And some things she kept from school. You remember my Pansy, of course.”
Mary-Alice recalled a pretty young sociopath who was kicked out of kindergarten for stealing the teacher’s lighter and trying to set fire to the school.
“Your precious Pansy. Of course I remember her.”
“Now those mementos aren't yours to keep, Mary-Alice. I want them back when you're done. Make sure you handle them carefully, especially the clippings—”
Celia was interrupted by a crunch of shells behind her. Boon St. Clair stepped down from the cab of his battered red truck. He looked dashing in a collared shirt and neat khakis, perfect for a sultry summer evening in bayou country.
Celia grabbed Mary-Alice by the elbow and pulled her into the house.
“Is that Boon St. Clair?” she hissed.
“It is Boon.” Was Celia getting as nearsighted as Gertie? It was no secret that Mary-Alice and Boon had been spending time together socially. Why was Celia acting shocked?
“Mary-Alice, I do hope this isn’t a social call.”
“Yes, Celia. It is a social call. Boon is taking me to dinner.”
“I can’t believe I have to tell you this, Mary-Alice. Our kind don’t mingle with the help.”
Mary-Alice recalled overhearing her own mother saying that exact thing to her father, and in much the same tone.
“President Jefferson’s regrettable example notwithstanding,” Mary-Alice’s mother had added drily.
By the time little Mary-Alice woke up the next morning, their pretty young maid had packed and gone.
“He is not the help, Celia.” Mary-Alice yanked herself back to the present. “Gracious me, Boon is a friend. Thank you ever so kindly for stopping by. It has been just lovely to see you.”
Mary-Alice slid her arm out of Celia’s grip, set down the box of Pansy’s relics on the foyer table, and hurried outside. Boon had seen the whole thing and had been hovering uneasily by his truck. He seemed reluctant to interfere.
“Don’t forget about Dorothy helping you with the records,” Celia called from Mary-Alice's doorway, as Boon helped her up into the passenger seat. “She’d be glad of something to do. She gets so bored, you know.”
Mary-Alice and Boon waved to Celia as Boon drove away. Mary-Alice knew Celia would take the opportunity to snoop through her house, and only hoped that Celia would remember to lock up when she left.
Despite being a work vehicle, Boon’s truck was immaculate. A brand-new pine-scented deodorizer swung from the rear-view mirror. Boon’s truck was just as dressed up as he was.
“Everything all right, Miss Mary-Alice?” Boon said as he turned onto the main road. “Seems you might have something on your mind.”
Mary-Alice had a few things on her mind. She knew that Celia couldn’t help her sharp tongue, and one mustn’t hold grudges, but there was a limit. The help. Honestly.
“They found Victorin Lowery’s body,” Mary-Alice blurted. Her hand flew to her mouth. She hadn't planned on bringing up the murder right away.
Boon didn't seem the least bit shocked.
“I heard tell they found a body out in the bayou. You’re sayin’ they think it’s Victorin? Talk is, he was...hard to identify, I guess you might say.”
“Deputy LeBlanc came by and told us. He thought we should know because Ida Belle is the only suspect. Celia still won’t let the sheriff grant her bail.”
“Was that what you and Miss Celia were discussing back there?” Boon asked.
“Well, no, not exactly.”
“I don’t suppose your conversation had anything to do with me,” Boon said evenly.
“Where are we going?” Mary-Alice realized that they were driving out of Sinful.
“Landrieu’s Landing. Steaks and seafood. Little bit fancier than Francine’s. It's usually hard to get a reservation, but they had a last-minute cancellation.”
“Celia doesn't like it that I'm spending time with you,” Mary-Alice said.
“I figured as much, from the look she gave me.”
“I don’t agree with Celia, of course.” Mary-Alice glanced at Boon to see his reaction.
Boon nodded thoughtfully.
“You know something, Mary-Alice? There are people in this world like you, who are kind and good.”
“That’s nice of you to say, Boon.”
“And then there are people who, how do I put it? The ones who make you appreciate the people who are kind and good. So how are y’all going planning to get Miss Ida Belle off the hook?”
Mary-Alice stared out the window. The thick woods glowed purple in the dusk.
“How did you know we were trying to get Ida Belle out of jail?”
“I was there when she was arrested, remember? It was pretty clear to me that y'all are not goin’ to sit around and let Miss Ida Belle...anyway, here we are.”
Mary-Alice wondered how Boon was going to finish that sentence. Not going to let Ida Belle get the gas chamber? Would it come to that?
Boon turned the truck off onto an undistinguished single-lane drive, and soon Landrieu’s Landing appeared. With its single-story construction, its crushed-shell parking lot, and its bayou location, it looked like the Swamp Bar’s high-end cousin.
The interior of Landrieu's Landing was not at all like the Swamp Bar. It had white tablecloths, pleasant wait staff, and a gleaming parquet floor. Although the restaurant was crowded, Boon had somehow secured a table by the window. Outside, the surface of the water glinted under Landrieu’s strategically-placed outdoor lights.
Mary-Alice and Boon ordered dinner and continued to talk about the murder. Mary-Alice was surprised when Boon casually mentioned that Victorin had once worked for him.
“I don’t recall you saying anything about that before,” Mary-Alice said.
“I’d rather not speak ill of people if it’s not necessary. Victorin was a good boy when he was coming up. Didn’t give his mama much trouble. But when he came back from New Orleans, he was different. He’d lost ground somehow. I wanted to give him a chance, so I hired him on.”
“That was very compassionate of you, Boon.”
“It was a big mistake is what it was. He showed up drunk the first day, and I never saw his face again after that. Had let him go.”
Boon pulled a plump oyster out of his bowl and ate it with pleasure. Mary-Alice had considered ordering the oyster stew as well, but with Boon sitting right there, ordering oysters seemed like a brazenly suggestive choice. She’d decided on the baked catfish amandine with hot French bread and sweet potato on the side.
“Probably the easiest firing I ever did,” Boon continued. “I didn’t even have to tell him in person on account of he never showed up again. I just mailed his mama a check for his day’s wages. Even though I can’t say he earned it.”
“His mama’s still in town?” Mary-Alice asked.
“Miss Eulalie Cormier? Yes, ma’am, she’s still in the same house, still feuding with the neighbors.”
“Her last name’s Cormier? Not Lowery?”
“Lowery was a few husbands ago. I think that’s why she doesn’t come to church very often these days. I don’t believe she sees eye to eye with them on the question of divorce.”
“Well, that’s just a shame,” Mary-Alice said. “When you’re divorced, that’s when you’d need your church people the most. You’d be lonesome and hurting. Don’t you think?”
“Doesn’t seem to me like divorce would be much fun,” Boon agreed. “Of course, being widowed is no picnic either.”
“No, I suppose not.” Widowhood had actually been a great relief for Mary-Alice, but she knew it would not be tactful to say so to Boon.
Mary-Alice didn’t attach any particular significance to Boon’s remark.
Just as she didn’t take much note of the hostess who had greeted them by name and seated them at the best table in the restaurant. Nor the waiter who kept their wine glasses filled and kept asking if there was anything he could get them. And she barely registered Boon’s uncharacteristic nervousness.
Mary-Alice was so focused on finding clues to Victorin Lowery’s murder that she did not engage her powers of observation. And so she found herself entirely unprepared for what happened over dessert.