Maggie noticed what appeared to be a schedule slipped into a plastic holder taped to the wall and pulled the paper from its holder. She nudged an upright vacuum cleaner out of its snug space and then leaned against it and perused the schedule. She was relieved to see that Bud and Marie had carefully notated how and when to attend to each guest room. She was equally relieved to find that each guest had opted for the politically correct choice of alternate-day sheet-and-towel washing, which would save the environment a little wear and tear and Maggie a bundle of time. Still, she’d have to hustle if she was to service each room every day that the Shexnayders were gone. Maggie’s roommates in New York would have appreciated the irony of a “primo, number one slob,” as one redundantly called her, being tasked with maintaining Crozat’s pristine cleanliness.
She wheeled out the housekeeping cart, checked to make sure it was stocked with supplies, and then pushed it down the hall. As she pushed, she laid down some ground rules for herself. Initially, at least, she’d limit her investigating to whatever was in plain sight, only peeking in drawers or suitcases if nothing was obvious. For one thing, blatantly going through her guests’ belongings made her uncomfortable. For another, if she was to meet the cleaning demands of the day, she’d have to work within a tight time frame that would limit the opportunity to poke through people’s private possessions. She’d keep the possibility as a backup plan, but Maggie hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
She reached the end of the long hallway and parked the cart. The Georgia boys were bunking together in one of the upstairs bedrooms. Another housed Kyle—when he was there. Maggie was thrilled to note that the gentleman from Texas spent less and less of his time at Crozat and more and more of it at Lia’s. I’ll have to fit a gossipy update into my agenda, she thought as she trudged up the stairs laden with buckets holding cleaning supplies.
She unlocked the Georgia boys’ room, opened the door, and was assaulted by the mess and stench one would expect from three twenty-year-old frat brothers sharing a single room. Her eyes stung with tears engendered by both the locker-room-meets-old-food smell and the thought of having to plow through the piles of clutter. But Maggie would do what had to be done, so she drew in a deep breath—which she instantly regretted because it filled her nostrils with the scent of unwashed gym socks—and went to work.
After an hour of shallow breathing through her mouth, she’d finished most of the cleaning. She checked the Shexnayder schedule and was depressed to see that she’d taken three times as long as the allotted time per room. The Georgias were given the same twenty minutes of attention that the rest of the guests got. Apparently a triple threat of messy frat boys didn’t faze Bud and Marie.
Aside from a selection of graphic novels featuring buxom, borderline pornographic heroines, Maggie had yet to uncover anything of interest. She cleaned the bathroom, made the bed, gave the room’s dresser bureau a quick dusting, and straightened out a few piles of papers. Then she picked up the room’s trashcan and dumped its contents into a large plastic bag. A few items missed the transfer and fell to the floor. She picked up one, a brochure for a costume rental company, and noticed that someone had circled a Confederate Army uniform. Typical, she thought with disgust. Southern frat boys still romanticized the brutal and devastating Civil War one hundred fifty years after it ended. At least the Georgia boys’ car didn’t sport the bumper sticker, “Hell no, the war ain’t over,” like she’d recently seen on a local’s pickup truck.
She tossed the brochure into her trash bag and retrieved a crumpled piece of loose-leaf paper from the floor. She uncrumpled the paper and read the words scribbled on it: “Slaves? How much? A chase—fun!!”
Maggie sat on the edge of the room’s double bed, being careful not to disturb the hospital corners she’d almost thrown out her back making. There was something ominous in the papers she’d discovered. What exactly were the Georgia boys up to? Was it illegal or just horribly offensive? And if it was illegal, had Beverly Clabber somehow stumbled on a plan that led to her needing to be silenced? That seemed a stretch, but Maggie decided she could no longer view the trio as three harmless goofballs. She’d have to keep an eye on them. She’d also learned an invaluable lesson, something every Hollywood tabloid reporter already knew: if you wanted to dig up garbage on people, dig through their garbage.
*
Maggie spent the rest of the day tending to all the rooms. She flipped the schedule around, based on who liked to hang out their “Do Not Disturb” sign until noon (the Butlers) and who bolted early for sightseeing adventures (the Rykers and Cuties). Since this was her first day on the job and she’d already used up too much time dealing with the Georgia boys’ slobbery, she put sleuthing second to her housekeeping duties, knowing that familiarizing herself with the routine meant she’d be able to power through it faster.
By early evening she was drained, but she dragged herself to the kitchen where Tug and Ninette were preparing dinner. Maggie noticed that her dad was making a treat he’d invented that combined unsweetened chocolate, raisins, a dash of salt, and honey, which gave the candy a hard-taffy consistency. Tug had proudly named his concoction “Chulanes” as an homage to his alma mater, Tulane University. Maggie knew that putting up a batch of Chulanes relaxed her father. It was his way of dealing with tension.
“Oh, honey, you look beat,” Ninette said, casting one eye on her daughter and one on the bowl of fresh shrimp she was dumping into a pot of gumbo. “It was sweet of you to give the Shexnayders a break, but I wish you’d checked with us first. We could have timed it so we could bring in someone else to do the cleaning.”
“Unless you dug up Lafitte’s treasure, there’s no way we can pay for that,” Maggie said as she spooned a shrimp from the gumbo pot. “Especially considering that we’re not generating any income from our guests right now.”
“That’s for certain,” Tug said as he finished filling a tray with Chulanes. He put it in the freezer to harden and then turned to his daughter. “But if you need a hand, you let me know. And you be careful, okay?”
“Okay, Dad.” The look in her dad’s eyes told Maggie that he knew she was up to something. Giving his tacit approval didn’t mean he wouldn’t worry about her. “Why are you using the small pot for the gumbo, Mom?” she asked, trying to change the subject.
“Looks like it’s just us for dinner tonight. Everyone else made other plans. Even Gran’s off playing bingo at the assisted living.”
“Yay! Not that I don’t love our guests, but still . . . yay.” Maggie collapsed onto a chair at the kitchen table and put her feet up on another, relieved for a break in the 24/7 B and B hosting duties. “To celebrate, I’m not going to shower or put on makeup before dinner. Tonight, what you see is what you get, people.”
Tug poured each of them a glass of wine while Ninette dished up big bowls of gumbo and set them on the table. Maggie roused herself to cut hunks of fresh bread and then dropped one on each soup bowl, where they floated like tasty little rafts.
The family was just about to eat when Bo Durand appeared in the doorway.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt your dinner. I had a bit of good news and thought I’d share it in person. It’s just a bit, like I said, but still.”
“A bit is better than nothing and you’re not interrupting anything,” Ninette jumped up and gestured to a chair. “Why don’t you join us?”
“That’s kind of you, but I brought company.”
Bo stepped back and gently nudged a slight boy about seven in front of him. “This is my son, Xander.”