“I’m guessing Quentin MacIlhoney’s here,” Maggie said as she eyed the car. “He must be pretty good at his job if he can afford this.”
“Maggie . . .” Lia said, then hesitated. Maggie put a comforting hand on her cousin’s shoulder. “Can I see the picture again?”
“Sure.”
Maggie reached into her grocery bag and pulled out the photo. She handed it to Lia, who stared at it for a moment. There was no gray in Kyle’s hair, no sadness in his smile. Sarah, his new bride, had her arm entwined with his and leaned against him slightly, a lock of curled red hair resting on his shoulders.
“She was beautiful,” Lia finally said.
Maggie gently extricated the picture from Lia’s hands and placed it back in the bag. “Let’s go inside,” she said softly. “Kyle needs you.”
As they walked into the station, they were greeted by an unexpected sound—roars of laughter. A middle-aged man in pressed designer jeans and a yellow sport coat was in the middle of telling a story to a small circle of officers. He was trim and of average height with white hair and a beard that made him look like Father Christmas after a weight-loss program. His sockless feet were clad in soft, expensive-looking Italian loafers, and a top-of-the-line Rolex watch peeked out from under the French cuffs of what looked to Maggie like a bespoke cotton shirt. His gold cufflinks glittered under the florescent lights of the police station lobby, as did a medallion shaped like a Mardi Gras coin that rested on a bed of white chest hairs made visible by the fact that he left open the three top buttons of his shirt.
“So the guy says to his lawyer, ‘Lady, that’s not what I meant by ‘get me off,’ but I sure do appreciate it,” the man said to another round of laughter from the officers.
Lia stepped forward tentatively. “Excuse me, are you Mr. MacIlhoney?”
“It’s Mac, honey, which answers your question. You must be my client’s beloved.” Quentin “Mac” MacIlhoney gave Lia’s hand a hard shake. He turned to Maggie. “And you are?”
“Maggie Crozat, Lia’s cousin. My family owns Crozat, where the murder happened, and none of us believe for a minute that Kyle did it.”
“Neither do I, dear,” Mac said, then gestured to the officers. “We just have to convince these doubters here.”
“And a judge and a jury,” Artie Belloise, who was food-free for a change, retorted.
“A hundred bucks says it don’t even get that far.” Mac pulled a bill out of his blazer breast pocket—a hundred dollar bill. “Tell you what: none of you even have to put up the money.” Quentin brandished the bill and the officers gaped, as did Maggie. “I lose, this goes to your Boys and Girls Club, along with a crawfish boil on me. If I win . . .” Mac took a sharp pencil out of the same pocket, stuck the bill on it, and then flung the pencil and money up to the ceiling, where it lodged in a soft acoustic tile. “I take back my bill. Deal, boys?”
Impressed, the cops nodded. Mac walked to the door and held it open for Lia and Maggie. “Ladies, if you will,” he said with a gallant wave. As they left, he winked at Pelican’s men in blue and then followed the women out the door. The minute they cleared the officers’ eye line, Mac’s demeanor changed. “Your boyfriend is in some serious trouble,” he said to Lia tersely. Even the timbre of his voice was different—low and rough. “There are no other viable suspects and enough circumstantial evidence for the DA to build a case. I’ll talk to the judge first thing in the morning about posting bail, but around here, it’s a tough sell on a murder one charge.”
Lia, shocked into silence, simply nodded. But Maggie had to know. “Mr. MacIlhoney—Mac—what was all that?” she said as she gestured toward the police station.
“Law enforcement sees defense attorneys as the enemy,” Mac took out a key fob with the initial M emblazoned in what Maggie swore were real diamonds. “If I break the ice, pal around with them, it levels the playing field a little. Creates a friendlier atmosphere.” Mac pressed the fob and his door unlocked. “And believe me, if your boyfriend wants to beat a possible death sentence, he’s gonna need a lot of friends.”
Mac got into his car, which started so silently Maggie wasn’t sure it was actually on. She and Lia jumped when the car accelerated and pulled out onto the highway with a roar. As Quentin “Mac” MacIlhoney drove away, green-and-gold tracer lights around his vanity plate flashed in the night.
Chapter Twenty-One
Maggie offered to spend the night at Lia’s or have Lia stay over at Crozat. She was worried about her cousin being alone after experiencing one of the worst days of her life. Lia thanked her but said that she’d be okay. “Please don’t worry about me. Between what all’s going on at Crozat and your mom being sick, you’ve got enough to deal with. What you can do, though, is come up with other suspects that even Rufus Durand can’t ignore.”
“I will, I swear.”
But Maggie wasn’t as confident as she pretended to be, and she had a restless night. There was no evening break from the heat, and when she wasn’t having nightmares about Crozat guests dying in horribly gory ways, she was awake listening to the buzz of mosquitoes trying to find an opening in the net around her bed.
She forced herself to get out of bed at six and called her dad before she prepared breakfast for the guests. “The doctors knocked down your mom’s fever, so that’s the good news,” Tug reported. “But the first test they ran was inconclusive, so they want to run a couple more.”
“What kind of tests are these, Dad?”
“Who can remember all those medical names? I’m hoping to be home this afternoon. I’ll let you know for sure later.” Tug ended the call before Maggie could protest. For whatever reason, he didn’t want to talk specifics about the tests. Maybe, she thought, it’s too painful for him.
Given how preoccupied she was, Maggie’s ability to pull together a decent breakfast surprised her. Gran’ roused herself early to help out, and the two set out bowls of scrambled eggs, plates of sausage and bacon, and a basket of rolls that Maggie hoped no one would recognize as leftovers from the previous night’s dinner.
“I am tired like I done a big ironing,” Gran’ yawned as she untied her apron. “There’s a reason your dad only trots me out to entertain the visiting troops. He knows what I’ve refused to admit until now: I’m too old to do actual work.”
“You’ve been incredible, Gran’. Why don’t you go back to bed?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m outta here, as the kids say.” Gran’ tossed her apron over her shoulder and left the kitchen for the shotgun. Maggie popped a roll in her mouth and chased it with a cup of strong chicory coffee. She was worn down to the point where it would take everything short of speed to keep her going.
As promised, Gaynell showed up at Crozat promptly at 8 a.m. dressed to scrub. “Put me to work,” she told Maggie. Unfortunately, it was the one day when Crozat’s guests seemed primed to laze around the property rather than sight-see, so access to their rooms was nil. Then Maggie had an idea.
“I haven’t been able to check out anyone’s cars without looking nosy or suspicious,” she said. “What if we surprise them all with a free car wash? We’ll say that washing off the dirt and dead bugs is Crozat’s little gift to them. We won’t be able to get into the cars right away, but it gives us a way to look in the windows and see if there’s anything interesting.”
“I like it,” Gaynell said. “After we surprise them with the outside, we can ask if they want us to clean the inside too. If someone says no, it may mean they have something to hide.”
Maggie and Gaynell dragged buckets, rags, sponges, car wash detergent, and a hose to the gravel lot where guests parked. They filled the buckets and added soap and then hosed down the first car, which was the Cuties’ minivan. The two each took a sponge and a side of the car, and as they washed, peered into the windows. They saw nothing besides the usual tourist ephemera of maps and brochures. The same held true for the Butlers’ rented sedan. The inside of the Georgia boys’ truck, much like their room, resembled the inside of a trashcan. The floor was inches deep in fast food wrappers, and the stench from rotting food leaked through the closed windows.