A Cajun Christmas Killing Read online

  Also by Ellen Byron

  Body on the Bayou

  Plantation Shudders

  A Cajun Christmas Killing

  A Cajun Country Mystery

  Ellen Byron

  NEW YORK

  This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, organizations, places, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real or actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by Ellen Byron

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Crooked Lane Books, an imprint of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.

  Crooked Lane Books and its logo are trademarks of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.

  Library of Congress Catalog-in-Publication data available upon request.

  ISBN (hardcover): 978-1-68331-305-2

  ISBN (ePub): 978-1-68331-306-9

  ISBN (ePDF): 978-1-68331-308-3

  Cover illustration by Stephen Gardner

  www.crookedlanebooks.com

  Crooked Lane Books

  34 West 27th St., 10th Floor

  New York, NY 10001

  First edition: October 2017

  Dedicated to my three Louisiana Ladies: Charlotte Waguespack Allen, Jan Gilbert, and Gaynell Bourgeois Moore. Thank you for your priceless friendship and constant inspiration.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Shrimp Remoulade

  Muffaletta Frittata

  Holiday Brandy Pain Perdu

  Coconut Pecan Bars

  Spicy Cajun Sugar Cookies

  A Lagniappe About A Cajun Christmas Killing

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  For Maggie Crozat, there was nowhere lovelier than Pelican, Louisiana, during the holidays. Wrought-iron balconies were threaded with sparkling garlands, and from them dangled colorful Christmas ornaments. Town businesses painted their windows with snowy scenes that delighted the local children, most of whom had never seen real snow thanks to Louisiana’s mild winters. In a time-honored tradition, images of pelicans were hidden among the decorations, and anyone who mapped all of them received a prize: a toy pelican for the kids or a pelican-shaped shot glass for the adults. The festive atmosphere brought forth much good cheer among the locals. It also allowed them to ignore the fact that the sleepy Cajun village had been the site of four murders in three months.

  Maggie decided to join the collective state of amnesia, even though each of the murders had somehow involved Crozat Plantation Bed and Breakfast, her family’s ancestral home turned hostelry. As she drove down the Great River Road, she took in the bonfires that were in various stages of construction on the Mississippi levee. This was where Pelican’s good-natured competitive spirit really manifested itself. In centuries past, the bonfires had served as blazing signposts guiding travelers up the river, but they had evolved into a tradition of lighting the way for the Cajun Santa Claus, Papa Noel, on Christmas Eve. Eager participants who vied to create the most ornate structure often began building them right after Thanksgiving. Others didn’t care about looks, opting for the honor of loudest bonfire. Maggie couldn’t even see one of them under its layers of firecrackers. She noticed that someone else had simply roped together stacks of cane reed, which popped like firecrackers when they blazed.

  She slowed down to admire a pirate ship built of combustible logs. Its neighbor was a wooden replica of Belle Vista, one of the area’s most ornate plantations. Maggie’s own competitive spirit flared up, only to be quashed by a pang of disappointment. In past years her father, Tug Crozat, had gone log for log with Belle Vista’s bonfire by erecting a detailed model of Crozat. But this year, Tug had unexpectedly opted for the more standard pyramid structure. He also bowed out of the fireworks display that always accompanied the bonfire’s burning. This really surprised Maggie since Tug usually took to it with the glee of a ten-year-old budding pyromaniac. “The whole event’s become too much of a dang production,” Tug told his family one night as they scrubbed down the kitchen after their guests had gone to bed. Maggie noticed his broad, gently lined face was missing its usual warm smile. “We can’t not build a bonfire—our guests expect it. So instead, we’re going back to basics. Logs, gasoline, and some matches. Bing, bang, boom. Show’s over.”

  “But—” was all the protest Tug allowed his daughter to get out.

  “This is not negotiable,” he had snapped in a tone so sharp it had startled Maggie; her mother, Ninette; and her grand-mère.

  Maggie parked her 1964 Ford Falcon convertible across the road from Crozat on the shoulder below the levee. As she got out, she waved to the small group of friends and neighbors Tug had assembled to build the bonfire. A handsome, rangy man with black hair and dark eyes grinned and loped down the levee slope to Maggie.

  “Hey,” Detective Bo Durand said when he reached her. The two shared a chaste kiss. Their relationship was finally public after months of seeing each other on the sly so as not to tick off Bo’s cousin and boss at Pelican PD, Police Chief Rufus Durand. Rufus carried a long-standing grudge against the Crozat family. He was currently on leave from the force, a punishment for duking it out with the town mayor over a parking space, but Maggie and Bo were still cautious about public displays of affection.

  “Dinner tonight?” Bo asked. “Word on the street is K&B Seafood got in a bushel of Gulf crabs this morning.” As he spoke, he wiped his brow with the back of his hand to remove the perspiration threatening to drip onto his high cheekbones. Maggie noted that said perspiration was also making Bo’s T-shirt stick to his lean, well-defined torso. She managed to suppress the urge to push him to the ground and have her way with him.

  “Dinner would be great,” Maggie said. “I’ll bring a bib and a hammer.”

  Bo laughed. “Sexy as the bib look is, I’ll order ahead and make sure you don’t have to hammer apart your own crab.”

  “My hero.” Maggie glanced up to the top of the levee, where the Crozat pyramid was slowly growing. “How’s my dad? He’s been acting strange lately. Very tense and short-tempered. Not like himself at all.”

  Bo hesitated. “He’s been okay. But no, he doesn’t seem completely himself. He’s . . . preoccupied.” Maggie frowned, concerned about Tug. “We can talk about it over dinner,” Bo said. “I’ll text you a pickup time.” He kissed Maggie again. This time his lips lingered on hers. Then he pulled away and strode back up the levee.

  Maggie took in a deep breath and released it. She walked over to where Gran’ was manning a roadside stand stocked with water bottles and homemade baked goods provided by Maggie’s mother. The Crozat family sold the holiday treats to curious travelers who stopped to check out the bonfires’ progress. Proceeds paid for porta-potties that served revelers who cam
e to watch the bonfires burn on Christmas Eve. Over time, the lighting of the bonfires, like so many Pelican events, had grown from a small affair to a large, raucous party.

  “I must say, that Bo Durand has the makings of a romance novel cover boy,” Gran’ said. She handed her granddaughter the cash box for her sales shift.

  “He does, doesn’t he? I am a very lucky girl.”

  “Judging by the way he comes to life when he sees you, I think he’d declare himself the lucky one. And he’d be right.”

  “Did someone say cover boy?”

  Maggie and Gran’ turned to see Lee Bertrand, the owner of Pelican’s only service station, strike a model pose. He faked a pout when both women burst out laughing. “Oh, come on. You gotta admit, I’m one octogenarian hotty.”

  “I don’t believe such a thing exists,” Gran’ said. She unconsciously fluffed her soft silver hair, and Maggie smiled. Despite the barbs, her grandmother and Lee shared an affection for each other.

  “I’d have to disagree,” Lee said. “Because I’m looking at one right now.”

  Gran’ flushed and stammered, much to Maggie’s amusement. She rarely saw her grandmother lose her preternatural dignity.

  “I wish I could call up my great-greats from their resting places so they could see me flirting with Pelican’s dowager queen.” Lee crinkled one blue eye in a mischievous wink.

  “Is that all I am to you?” Gran’ responded, regaining her wit. “Arm candy?”

  “’Course not. But it’s one heck of a bonus.” Lee dropped a dollar on the dessert table, grabbed a coconut pecan pie bar, blew Gran’ a kiss, and sauntered back up the levee to where his employees were building a bonfire in the shape of Bertrand’s Gas and Auto Repair.

  “He smells like sweat and gasoline,” Gran’ said as she watched him go. “It’s surprisingly appealing. Did you know he once wrestled an alligator?”

  “Half the guys in Louisiana claim they’ve wrestled an alligator. If alligators could roll their eyes, they’d be doing it.”

  “I’m not a fan of the cynicism that bedevils your generation,” Gran’ said, sighing and shaking her head.

  A young man negotiated his way down the steep levee to the Crozats’ stand. He was in his early twenties, with boyish features that Maggie guessed would keep him looking younger than his age for years to come. His light-brown hair, held in place with pomade, was styled in a conservative fashion. She had a feeling he hoped the haircut would give him a gravitas that his baby face lacked. “Hey,” he said with no trace of the local accent. “Can I get two sweet potato pralines? They’re awesome.”

  “Absolutely.” Gran’ handed him a couple of plastic-wrapped candies, and he gave her a credit card.

  “We take credit cards?” Maggie asked.

  “I do, since I downloaded this app and got a cute attachment from the company.” Gran’ showed Maggie a plastic square plugged into her smartphone. She swiped the credit card and handed it back to her customer, along with the phone so he could sign for the purchase.

  “Thanks,” he said. He scribbled his name, handed back the phone, and then scarfed down a praline. Then he added to Maggie, “She’s so totally cool.”

  “Yes, she is,” Maggie said, looking at her grand-mère with affection.

  “I’m Maggie Crozat.”

  “Oh, sorry. Harrison Fenner.”

  Maggie shook his extended hand, which was sticky from the praline. “Are you visiting for the holidays?”

  “Nope.” He opened up his other praline and took a bite. “Here for a job. I work at Belle Vista Plantation Resort and Spa.”

  Belle Vista. There it was again. Maggie grimaced and then covered her expression with a smile, but Harrison didn’t seem to notice. He was looking at the magnificent log edifice being constructed on behalf of his workplace. “I heard Crozat’s bonfire usually shows us up big time,” he said. “But I guess not this year, huh?”

  “Nope. Not this year.”

  Harrison gave a “what can you do?” shrug, then nodded a good-bye and headed back up the level. Gran’ frowned at her granddaughter. “Your jealousy’s showing.”

  “Sorry, but it’s frustrating watching Belle Vista step up their game. Their bonfire gets bigger every year. I don’t know where they’re getting the money, but I know we can’t compete with it.”

  “We can’t and we shouldn’t. Our goal is to be the best we can be. It’s not to be someone or something else.” Gran’ piled Maggie’s arms with water bottles. “Before you relieve me, take this water up to our brigade. And don’t leave until you see your father take a hearty sip. He’s hardly eaten or drunk anything today. I worry he’ll become dehydrated.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Maggie struggled up the levee with her load, her sneakered feet sinking in grass made marshy by recent rains. She dropped all the bottles but one into a cooler and then walked the single bottle over to Tug, who was on a ladder steadying a row of logs. A flash from the descending sun shone on him, and Maggie noticed new streaks of gray laced into his carrot-red hair. “I brought you some water, Dad.”

  “Not thirsty,” Tug said without looking down.

  “You need it,” Maggie pressed, concern mixing with annoyance. “You can come down to me, or I’ll come up to you.” She placed a foot on the ladder.

  “Fine,” Tug said with a grunt. He made his way down, took the water from Maggie, and chugged a big gulp. “Happy?”

  “Yes, and I wish you would stop being so stubborn about—”

  Tug suddenly went pale. He staggered for a moment. “Maggie,” he gasped.

  Then Tug clutched his heart and collapsed to the ground as his daughter unleashed a terrified scream.

  Chapter Two

  Maggie was in a daze as Bo and the others rushed to Tug’s side, but one thing was clear: dating a member of law enforcement had its advantages. An ambulance materialized almost instantaneously. Maggie raced to get her mother, Ninette, from the manor house, and they were transported to the hospital with Tug at light speed. Bo slapped a siren on the roof of his SUV, retrieved Gran’, and made his way to the hospital equally fast.

  Tug had come out of his faint, but he didn’t argue when his family insisted he get thoroughly checked out. “It’s probably nothing,” he said as he lay in a hospital room waiting for the results from the ER doctor’s initial exam.

  Ninette squeezed his large hand with her tiny one. She’d been preparing breakfast biscuits for the B and B guests, and Maggie noticed her mother’s hands were still spotted with flour. “Maybe,” she said to her husband. “But we need to make sure.”

  “Mom’s right, Dad,” Maggie said, taking his other hand in hers. “In the meantime, try to relax.”

  Tug nodded and closed his eyes. Grand-mère reached over and stroked Tug’s forehead. “You’re from strong stock, son. Remember that.”

  Jennifer Nyugen, Maggie’s high school classmate and the doctor on call, stepped into the room. The first-generation daughter of Vietnamese refugees, Jennifer had attended Tulane University School of Medicine on a full scholarship. Maggie gave silent thanks that Tug had been entrusted to her care.

  “How are you feeling, Mr. Crozat?” Jennifer asked. “Any better or worse than when you arrived?”

  “A little better.”

  “Good.”

  “What do you think is wrong, Jennif—Dr. Jenn—Doctor?” Ninette asked, clutching her husband’s hand tighter as she tried to figure out the most appropriate way to address Maggie’s childhood friend.

  “I’ve checked his chart, and I don’t believe what’s happening is life-threatening—”

  “Oh, thank God,” Maggie blurted out.

  “—at the moment,” Jennifer continued, and Maggie felt her heart clutch. “Your blood pressure is high, Mr. Crozat, and that concerns me.”

  “Do you think he had some sort of mild stroke or heart attack?” Gran’ asked.

  “Possibly. Or it could be extreme stress. We’ll have a better idea after we run
a few tests. I’ll send in a nurse to get them going.”

  Jennifer left, and Maggie turned her attention back to Tug. “So what aren’t you telling us, Dad?”

  “Maggie!” Ninette said sharply.

  “I’m sorry, Mom, but this is important. You’ve seen how he’s been acting lately. Something’s wrong, and if he doesn’t tell us, it could end up killing him.”

  “My goodness, a little less drama, please, Magnolia Marie,” Gran’ said, shooting her granddaughter a warning look.

  “Yes, this is absolutely the wrong time—” Ninette began. But Tug lifted his free hand up to her lips, and she quieted.

  “Maggie’s right. Something is wrong. I’ve been avoiding bringing it up, but I guess that isn’t an option anymore.” Tug pulled himself up to a sitting position. “I got some bad news about Crozat.”

  *

  “Why do ER waiting room vending machines only sell soda and water?” Maggie vented, gesturing with the water bottle she’d purchased at the hospital as Bo drove her back to Crozat. “You know what they should sell? Little liquor bottles like you get on an airplane. If there’s ever a time you could use a belt of something, it’s in the ER.”

  Tug and Ninette had agreed that Maggie should return to the plantation. “We’ll let you know as soon as we hear any news about Dad,” Ninette promised as she walked her reluctant daughter to the waiting room. “One of us needs to tend to the guests. Given the current circumstances, we can’t afford any dings on travel websites.”

  Bo cast a wary glance at Maggie as he negotiated his way around a rickety pickup truck carrying a load of cane reed toward the levee. “You keep waving that bottle around the way you are, I’m gonna need to break out the SWAT gear to protect myself.”

  “Sorry.”

  Bo took one hand off the steering wheel and placed it on Maggie’s knee. “Your dad’s gonna be okay.”

  “I hope so. But it’s not just his health that’s the problem. He finally told us why he hasn’t been himself lately.” Maggie winced and pressed the water bottle to her forehead, as if the pressure might stop a blossoming headache. “You know how my dad’s a twin? Well, his brother, my uncle Tig, buys historic properties with a group of investors and turns the buildings into boutique hotels. He and my dad always agreed that Crozat should stay in the family and not be part of the Preferred Property Collection—that’s the name of his company—but after the murders, they thought Crozat would be better protected if it was part of PPC, so the company bought it with the understanding that absolutely nothing would change. But there’s some trouble with Tig’s investors. I’m Skyping him to get the ugly details after I check on our guests.” Maggie groaned. “I used to think my life was tough when I was a struggling artist dumped by my boyfriend for another woman. Oh, how I miss those days.”