“You and Rufus sure have some interesting pillow talk,” Gaynell said, shaking her head, her soft blonde curls floating back and forth as she did.

“I didn’t say I heard it from Ru Ru, I just said I heard it,” Vanessa protested lamely. Maggie gagged at the nickname but filed it away as a future tool with which to annoy Ru. Right now, she needed to focus on the new information she’d picked up from the “Loch Nessa Monster,” as Vanessa’s coworkers secretly called her.

Maggie vowed to run this development by Gran’, who wasn’t much younger than Beverly and might remember her from the past, given enough clues. “Wow, Vanessa, that’s so weird,” Maggie said, hoping to stimulate more gossip. “Mrs. Clabber never said a word about it. Did the lawyer say anything else?”

Vanessa shrugged and continued her exercises. “That was all Ru Ru said. And then we got busy, if ya know what I mean.”

The women, who knew exactly what Vanessa meant, exchanged a look and managed not to recoil at the image emblazoned on their brains.

*

After finishing her shift at Doucet, Maggie clocked out and drove to Fais Dough Dough, where Briana and Clinton Poche were helping Lia restock the store shelves with gift items. “Your mugs are selling great,” Lia told her. “And you know what else are? The mouse pads. I guess people like a little history with their hi-tech devices.”

“Can we talk?” Maggie asked her cousin sotto voce.

“Sure. Briana, honey, you’re in charge of the register.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Briana said, thrilled with her newfound authority. “You hear that, Clinton?” she called to her brother. “I’m in charge.”

“Of the register, not my life,” her brother retorted. He followed this observation with a loud belch in his sister’s face.

“Okay, you two, that’s enough,” Lia said. “Briana, don’t make me sorry I asked you, and Clinton, you need to come up with a new party trick.”

Armed with chicory coffee and plates of Lia’s latest culinary inspiration, Bourbon Pecan Croissant Bread Pudding, she and Maggie retreated to a small café table in the building’s back garden. Maggie didn’t know which smelled more delicious, the pudding or the border of heliotrope sparkling with drops left by a late-afternoon rain.

“Big news,” she told Lia. “Beverly Clabber used to live in Pelican.”

“What?!”

“Yes. Total shocker.” She related Vanessa’s bombshell to Lia, who was as stunned by the news as Maggie had been.

“Do they know anything else, like what her maiden name was?”

“Vanessa and Rufus ‘got busy’ before she got any more gossip out of him.”

“Ugh.”

“I know.” Maggie finished the last spoonful of her bread pudding. She was one step away from licking the bowl but managed to control herself. Instead she ran her finger along the inside of it. “So . . . anything new between you and that tall drink of Texas water, as Gran’ would say?”

Lia laughed. “I think we like each other.”

“Want to share something not so blatantly obvious to everyone in the world?”

“We’re getting to know each other slowly and carefully.”

“How does that work when Kyle has a vacation clock on him?”

“He creates software programs, so he can work anywhere, really.”

“So, are you saying he may stick around for a while?”

“Yes. He may. I hope so.”

Lia finished the last sip of coffee in her cup and swirled the grounds absentmindedly.

“Let’s see what message your coffee sends,” Maggie said. “I’ll read the grinds.”

Lia looked at her skeptically. “You can do that?”

“When my life was imploding in New York, I visited this Iranian psychic a friend recommended. She read my grinds and taught me a little about coffee fortune telling.”

“Was she any good?”

“She foretold the death of my relationship,” Maggie said in an arch, sonorous tone, and Lia laughed. Maggie took her cousin’s cup, placed the saucer over it, and turned the cup upside down. She then righted the cup and looked inside. She grinned at Lia. “I see a shamrock. That means your wish will come true.”

Maggie left Fais Dough Dough with a tray of the bread pudding. Ninette, inspired by a rave review Maggie called in, had decided to serve it as the Crozat evening dessert. Maggie kept the Falcon’s top up for a change so the car could fill with the sweet, spicy aroma. As she pulled into the driveway behind the plantation’s main house, she noticed a nondescript silver sedan parked in her usual spot. A parking decal from the Shreveport PD tagged the car as Bo’s. Annoyed, Maggie pulled in next to it a little too close, making sure to ding Bo’s car when she opened her door. She grabbed the bread pudding tin and marched into the house. Her stomach fluttered with nerves when she found the detective in the front parlor with Gran’. He had his notebook out and was obviously interviewing her, a grim expression on his face.

Chapter Eleven

Gran’ gave Maggie a cheery little wave. She might as well have been welcoming her to a tea party. “Hello, darlin’. Have you heard the latest gossip? Beverly Clabber used to live in Pelican. Years and years ago, when we were both girls. She wasn’t Beverly Clabber then, she was Francine Prepoire. Where ‘Beverly’ came from, I’ll never know, you’d think she’d have stuck with Francine. But anyhoo, Bo here—you don’t mind if I call you Bo, do you? I feel like we’ve reached a point where informality is acceptable.”

“Bo is fine, ma’am,” Bo responded politely. He was too tall for the delicate Victorian side chair he was sitting on, and as he adjusted his position, Maggie caught a glimpse of a gun under his blazer.

“Where was I?” Gran’ said, pressing an index finger to the side of her temple. “Oh, yes. Maggie, you remember my dear old friend, Yvonne Rousseau, don’t you? Well, in a piece of impressive detecting work on Bo’s part, he discovered that during Francine-slash-Mrs. Clabber’s brief time in Pelican, she paid Yvonne a visit. Yvonne may be in a home with Parkinson’s, but her mind is still sharp, so Bo was able to interview her about their conversation. He of course can’t reveal much of what transpired, but he did share that Yvonne remembered Francine stole my first love from me, Ignace Roubideaux. Isn’t that funny? An ancient Pelican soap opera revisited after all these years.”

In what was becoming an unpleasantly familiar sensation, Maggie felt the urge to throw up. “Gran’, that makes you a murder suspect,” she said as she pointed to Bo. “That’s why he’s here.”

“I know. Isn’t that exciting?”

“No,” Maggie practically shouted as she lost patience with her grandmother. “It’s not exciting at all, it’s horrible.” She glared at Bo. “Does my grand-mère need a lawyer? Because we’ll get her one, a great one, the best in Louisiana, the best in the country, and if you’ve done anything inappropriate here, he or she will have your ass on a plate.”

“Magnolia Marie Crozat,” Gran’ said sharply. “That was incredibly rude. You apologize to Bo this instant.”

“It’s all right, ma’am, no apology necessary,” Bo’s tone was quiet but authoritative. Bo turned to Maggie. She noticed that he had well-defined cheekbones and wondered if there was some Houma Indian in his ancestry. “Mrs. Crozat and I—”

“Please, call me Charlotte.”

“I prefer Mrs. Crozat.”

“All right, fine,” Gran’ said, a little annoyed.

“Mrs. Crozat and I,” Bo continued, “are just trying to see what she remembers from the past about Francine Prepoire Clabber, Ignace Roubideaux, or anyone who knew them.”

“And I was telling Bo that Francine did me the biggest favor of my life by stealing Ignace from me. I found comfort and love in the arms of your Grand-père Crozat, the most wonderful man I’ve ever known. Francine and Ignace barely lasted a month or more, then she left town—forever, I thought, until today. Ignace moved to Baton Rouge, where he died many years ago after plowing his car into a tree while drunk. So you see, I’m not a murder suspect at all, am I, Bo?”