Maggie was about to climb into her car when she heard C. J. Chenier and the Red Hot Louisiana Band coming from a jukebox and the murmur of muffled laughter. She looked across the square to Junie’s Oyster Bar and Dance Hall, Pelican’s favorite watering hole. Junie was long gone, but her son, known to all as JJ for Junie Junior, despite his given name of Philippe-Jean, had inherited the family business. He ran the place under the watchful ashes of Junie, whose urn held a place of honor next to Clinton, the stuffed alligator that rested atop the hangout’s turn-of-the-century bar. Clinton had wandered out of the swamps and onto Junie’s porch one day and hung around for the next twenty years. He’d passed away the night of Junie’s funeral, so JJ honored the odd couple by making sure they spent immortality side by side.
Maggie walked across the square and into Junie’s. She breathed in a collision of scents—beer, gumbo, and a hint of mildew from the hundred-plus-year-old walls.
“There she is, there’s my Magnolia Marie,” JJ called from behind the bar, where he was filling a pitcher with Bayou Teche Biere Pale. Tonight the fifty-five-year-old had squeezed his three hundred forty pounds into one of his late mother’s evening caftans. The sequins and seed beads sparkled every time they hit the light, as did those on JJ’s matching turban. On someone else, the outfit would have been Norman Bates-y, but JJ’s charm and exuberance dispelled all creepiness. It also helped that he and Mama Junie often clothes-swapped when she was alive.
JJ maneuvered his way around the bar and gave Maggie a bear hug that almost cracked a few ribs. “Ya hungry? I got crawfish boudin.”
“Sounds great. I’ll take one, with a side of dirty rice.”
“Bien, coming right up.”
JJ sashayed into the kitchen and Maggie sat down at a small table. The place was dimly lit, the better to hide how worn everything was, but the beer was cold, the atmosphere warm, and the entertainment exceptional. Unfortunately for Pelican, Junie’s had been discovered by the New Orleans cognoscenti, so it was packed on most weekends, but the crowd was light and local this Thursday evening, even with it being the week of Fet Let. A band was setting up on stage. Maggie was happy to see a rubboard, which indicated the music would be Zydeco. A slim blonde woman, her back to the patrons, did a nimble run on the heavy accordion around her neck. She turned around and Maggie saw it was Gaynell. Maggie waved to her friend from Doucet, and Gaynell squinted into the bright stage light. She smiled when she saw Maggie and then took off her accordion, hopped off the stage, and headed over to the table.
“Hey,” Gaynell said as she hugged her. “Thanks for coming tonight. I really appreciate the support.”
“Anytime,” Maggie said, covering the fact that she’d completely forgotten about the flyer announcing the first-ever performance by Gaynell and the Gator Girls that she’d stuffed into her glove compartment. “How are you feeling?”
“Nervous but excited.” Gaynell eyed Maggie. “Are you okay? You look kinda upset about something.”
“No, I’m fine. It’s nothing.”
Gaynell plopped down in a seat across from Maggie. “I got an hour to kill that I’d love to spend not worrying about my set. Talk to me.”
Normally, Maggie would think twice about confiding in someone she barely knew that a family member might be a murder suspect. But Gaynell radiated sensitivity and intelligence, so much so that Maggie was ashamed of herself for dismissing the nineteen-year-old as just another Pelicanette who’d wind up married and pregnant by twenty. Maggie poured out every detail of her conversation with Yvonne as Gaynell listened intently. “What do you think? Could my Gran’ have actually . . .” Maggie couldn’t finish the sentence.
“This may sound awful dark, but I think every one of us has the potential to kill someone. A lot of murderers are psychopaths, but a lot are just people like you and me who get pushed too far and snap. Do I think your Gran’ wanted to kill Francine? Probably, when it all went down. I bet pretty much everyone’s fantasized at least once about taking out someone they’re really mad at. I only met your Gran’ once or twice, but you can’t live in Pelican without hearing everything there is to hear about the Crozats, and from what I heard, she and your grand-père loved each other something fierce. So, do I think that she’d hold a grudge for sixty or more years against some slutty chick who stole her loser boyfriend? No, I do not.”
Maggie was relieved by Gaynell’s blunt words. “How’d you get so smart?”
Gaynell threw up her hands. “Dumb luck.”
“Thanks,” Maggie said with a laugh. “I feel much better. You have no idea how happy I am that I came tonight.”
“Here’s hoping you still feel that way after our set.” Gaynell crossed her fingers and then returned to the stage and started tuning up various instruments.
JJ brought over Maggie’s food, which she devoured, her appetite having been restored. The restaurant slowly filled up, and Maggie was less than thrilled to see Ru Durand and Vanessa in the crowd. It struck her that everything Vanessa had on was tight, from her sequined fuchsia tank top to her consciously ripped white jeans. Even her rhinestone-encrusted sandals were too snug; the fleshy tops of her feet were so constricted that Maggie feared for her coworker’s circulation.
Vanessa leaned against rotund Rufus with her hip jutting out like Maggie assumed she’d seen actresses and models do in magazines. But Vanessa looked less like a celebrity than like the handle to Ru’s teapot. Lucky for Ru, Maggie thought to herself, that in Louisiana, a family’s pedigree still offered a level of influence found in few parts of the country. Ru happily used the fact that his family was descended from pre–Louisiana Purchase French colonists to socially intimidate the locals. So while others at the police academy had outpaced him at every challenge, he would probably retire someday still Pelican’s chief of police.
Ru retrieved drinks from Old Shari, Junie’s ancient bartender, and handed one to Vanessa, who rewarded him with a slobbery, open-mouthed kiss. A man standing next to them pulled away in disgust, and Maggie’s heart flip-flopped when she saw it was Bo. She quickly focused on her dinner plate, pretending to dig up scraps from its empty surface. It was too late—Bo saw her and walked over.
“Don’t think you’re gonna find much there. If you’re up for some company, I’ll order us popcorn shrimp.”
“Sure,” she said, giving up her fake foraging.
Bo placed the order with JJ and joined her at the table. Gaynell and the Gator Girls spared them having to make awkward small talk by taking the stage and launching into the Zydeco classic, “P’Tit Fille O’Paradis.” Junie’s dance floor filled up and stayed filled as the band delivered one great song after another. Gaynell was an enormous talent, playing the accordion, rubboard, and guitar with equal panache. Maggie forgot her discomfort. She and Bo hooted and hollered with the rest of the appreciative crowd. When Maggie heard the opening notes of her all-time favorite song, “Jambalaya,” she leapt to her feet and pulled Bo up with her. He responded by whipping her around the room in a wicked Cajun two-step, and the two sang as they danced, like the other couples on the floor. They joined in the explosion of applause that greeted the end of the song.
Gaynell followed the foot-stomper with the much gentler strains of the Cajun waltz, “Jolie Blon.” Bo didn’t give Maggie the option of returning to her table. He pulled her close and they danced together gracefully, their bodies perfectly in tune.
“You have great eyes, you know,” Bo said as he stared into them with his own chocolate orbs. “They’re green, but they have that circle of orange in them. A ring of fire. Like the Johnny Cash song.”