<< Go Back

Mardi Gras and Mayhem-Small Town Girl Mysteries Book 4

By Jann Franklin

Order Now!

“Dang it, Doc? Why’d ya’ go an’ tell Elizabeth I’d load her stuff too? It’s bad enough ya’ll gotta go on a dadgum girls’ trip tuh New Orleans! But now I gotta gallivant all over town an’ cram all ya’ll’s stuff into yore Bronco?”
“I’m sorry, Shorty, but Cliff’s over at Cal’s helping him put up a new swing set. So neither one of them can load Elizabeth’s bags into my car. Besides, Annabelle says you’re a genius at taking a bunch of suitcases and getting them all settled into a small space. Why, she told me it’s downright artistic how you stack and place everything just perfectly.”
Okay, that last part was pretty much a lie. Annabelle had never told me Shorty was good at loading a car. To my knowledge, they’d never taken a trip together. Although he often helped Annabelle load her car for trips to Georgia to visit her sister. She’d mentioned Shorty kept his cool, stacking and shuffling until her two door Prius almost burst at the seams. So maybe it wasn’t technically lying.
And it worked. Shorty’s chest puffed out a couple of inches and he stopped complaining. Thank goodness! His steady stream of bellyaching slowed to just a few drops of grumbling. “Yeah, well, I am pretty good at takin’ a situation and findin’ the best solution. Ya’ see, it’s like stackin’ bales o’hog feed. Ya’ gotta look at the space, ya’ know, an’ get a good feel for how much room ya’ got…”
But honestly, was this situation an improvement? Yes, I didn’t have to hear Shorty complain, and that was a definite blessing. But listening to him explain his process step by step? Maybe the whining had been better. Sorry, Lord, for my ingratitude. You took away the complaining, and I thank You for that. Please grant me patience during this time. Help me see it as an opportunity to learn how to correctly load a car. And stack hog feed.
“Islands in the Stream” by Kenny and Dolly solved my dilemma. Not one of their best ones, in my book, but Shorty had claimed it as Annabelle’s ringtone. “Hey Baby Cakes, how’s yore day goin’? I’m jus’ about t’head over tuh Elizabeth’s an’ load her bags for yore girls’ trip. Now, Dumplin’, I jus’ can’t tell ya’ how excited I am that yer gettin’ away tuh the bright lights o’New Orleans. I hope ya’ll have a real good time, Sugar Drop.”
Oh, yeah, this was definitely the worst of all three situations. I’d much prefer Shorty’s dissertation of loading suitcases or his steady stream of complaints over this grocery list of pet names. My stomach tightened at the nauseousness of the syrupy nicknames, yet it gurgled in happiness over the visions of sugary goodness floating in my head. The two diverse reactions created an oddly cozy yet sickly sensation that lingered for hours.
“Oh no, Cupcake, I don’t mind a single bit! Ya’ know I jus’ love helpin’ yore friends. Anythin’ else I can do t’help ya’ll get ready?”
And not a single bit of sarcasm…yeah, the man was completely in love. Annabelle felt the same way, which was why she said yes.
“Ev, I couldn’t ask for a more loyal and devoted man! Did you know Shorty joined my church last Sunday? We’re attending a couples’ Bible study, and we pray together over the phone every morning. My kids adore him, and my mom thinks he’s easy on the eyes. Ev, she giggles whenever Shorty calls her ma’am. Giggles! And don’t get me wrong, I’m committed to being Mrs. Cleophas Alphonse Cormier, until death do us part. But I want just one more adventure, with my girlfriends. You know what I mean? Then I can settle down and share my life.”
I did know what she meant, but Shorty wouldn’t. He’d never understand why Annabelle needed one last hurrah with her buddies. So I’d volunteered to be the bad guy, and Shorty still hadn’t forgiven me.
“That was Annabelle, in case ya’ couldn’t figure that out. Doc, I still don’t understand why she’s gotta go all the way tuh New Orleans t’find a weddin’ dress! I bet Baton Rouge has fancy gettin’ hitched dresses. But no! Ya’ gotta call out a favor from some high falootin’ friend with some high falootin’ dress shop. Well, ya’ll better come back with a mighty fancy dress for our weddin’ day, or I’m likely t’think ya’ll are jus’ takin’ Annabelle down there so she can get away from me.”
“Oh, no, Shorty! That’s not true at all. I’ve been wanting to take Elizabeth and Annabelle to New Orleans and show off my old stomping grounds. It just worked out that Doug’s cousin Babette owns an upscale bridal shop. Honestly, it’s an offer too good to resist! Babette has excellent taste, and she’s promised a wonderful deal on Annabelle’s dress. And if we find bridesmaids’ dresses there too, well, it’s an even better deal.”
The echo of my trunk slamming reflected Shorty’s opinion of Babette’s deals. “Well, all I gotta say is my mama never drove no ninety miles t’buy no dress. An’ yore mama didn’t neither. Now, yore daddy an’ I think this little jaunt jus’ reeks of a girls’ trip. Yeah, we think ya’ll are usin’ my weddin’ as an excuse tuh hijack my bride an’ take her traipsin’ around Bourbon Street, while she’s still single.”
I didn’t need my Ph.D. to read between the lines. All I had to do was count the number of fancy words Shorty had strung together in our conversation. We had high falooting, jaunt, reeks, and traipsing. Oh, and we couldn’t forget gallivant from his earlier tirade. When my friend introduced these kinds of words into a conversation, he’d worked himself up about something. I had a separate list for mighty fancy, getting hitched, and hijack. They weren’t the same caliber as the others, but they pointed me to the same conclusion: Shorty didn’t like me taking his fiancée out of town for any length of time, especially to New Orleans during its most unpredictable season. And I wasn’t talking about hurricane season either.
“An’ why does it have t’be durin’ Mardi Gras, Doc? Why, that town’s more dangerous than gettin’ between an alligator an’ his supper. An’ it’s even worse during Mardi Gras, what with all those crazy Yankees comin’ tuh town, drinkin’ those fancy hurricane drinks, an’ passin’ out in the streets. Let the good times roll, my Aunt Fanny! Those no good tourists can jus’ roll on back home.”
A famous Mardi Gras expression, laissez les bon temps rouler, or let the good times roll, comes from the Cajun French in Southwest Louisiana. It’s the official mantra during Mardi Gras season, and people take it to heart. The words “Mardi Gras” are French for “Fat Tuesday”, representing the last night to celebrate all one’s vices before giving them up for Lent. Leave it to Louisiana to extend it into forty-seven nights of celebration, where the fun never ends and the tourists flood the streets to spend their money and trash the downtown. Doug and I had always steered clear of the more popular areas of New Orleans, opting to host our own Mardi Gras party, usually a murder mystery. Our friends would dress up as the suspects, Doug would smoke a brisket, and we’d all end the night clear headed and in our own beds.
“Shorty, you know me! I never partied on Bourbon Street when I lived in New Orleans, and I’m not about to start now. Besides, we’re staying in Babette’s bed and breakfast, over in the Gentilly District. Google says it’s safer than 78% of other Louisiana cities.”
Ah, we couldn’t have this kind of conversation without the horse snort. “Doc, that don’t make me feel a whole lot better. 78%? Why, if Gentilly was in school, that’d be a C+. My Annabelle deserves more than a C+! The woman never made less than a B in school.”
How did we head down this road? I definitely missed a turn somewhere. And could I get us back on track? No, the train had left the station, destination unknown.
“But ya’ know what would make me feel better? If ya’d take Diane with ya’. I tried t’talk Annabelle into takin’ her, but she won’t do it. I’m beggin’ ya’, Doc! Yer comfortable around guns, ya’ even have a couple. Please tell me yer takin’ one on this trip.”
Diane was Shorty’s.38 Special who occupied residence in his truck. She’d spent most of her life locked in Shorty’s glove compartment, only coming out for target practice. Since Shorty had dusted off his private investigator license, Diane had stepped out a couple of times. She reminded me of Zydeco, always ready and willing to defend.
“If it’ll make you feel better, how about I take my SIG Sauer? I do my target practice with that gun, so I’d feel more comfortable with it. Just remember, New Orleans has strict gun regulations. I can’t take my gun to most places in the city. But I can have it in the car and inside the bed and breakfast. Would that make you feel better?”
“Yeah, it would. But do me a favor, will ya’? If anybody asks, it was yore idea t’bring the gun.”

***
“All right, ladies! Let’s get this girls’ vacation started! Uh, I mean, let’s get this essential trip to find my wedding dress started.”
We gave Annabelle shotgun, since she was the reason we’d planned our extended weekend. Elizabeth was busy rooting around the backseat, rearranging Shorty’s carefully contrived stacking.
“Well, I’ve got to hand it to your fiancé, Annabelle. He sure knows how to pack a car. Trouble is, there’s no room for me and my stack of bridal magazines. I thought we were going to talk wedding details on the trip, leaving our time in New Orleans strictly for fun and frolic? How can we achieve this essential task if I have to stack everything on my lap?”
She shoved the suitcases with both hands, but nothing budged. “And why do we have so much stuff? Ladies, this is a four day weekend, not a vacation spanning five continents! Ev, I blame you and your constant over thinking. Why you need a suitcase just for shoes constantly baffles me.” For emphasis, my bestie smacked both hands on the luggage called into question.
“We’ve gone over this a million times, El. But for Annabelle’s benefit I’ll go through my list again. First, I have walking shoes that are just that: walking shoes. They’re not very cute, but they keep my feet bathed in cushiness. Then I have my cute walking shoes. This pair is when we have to park a good distance from our destination, so my feet can remain blister free but I still look trendy and chic. Next is my…”
“Okay, okay, I get it, Ev! You’ve brought a lot of shoes. It’s all good. Elizabeth, your feet are so tiny, you can probably fit a dozen pairs into a makeup bag. Now hand me a magazine, and we’ll start looking for my dress!”
“Annabelle, I’m going to ask a personal question, one that Elizabeth and I have been pondering. And if you want to tell me to mind my business, then that’s fine. But why are we shopping for a wedding dress when you don’t have a wedding date? Shouldn’t we know what month you’re saying I do, so we can choose the right dress?”
My shotgun passenger continued to flip through her magazine. “First, it’s the South. I could get married in December and still wear a sleeveless dress and sandals. The temperature’s going to range from sixty to eighty-five degrees—and anywhere in between! No, I’m not going to fit my dress to the weather. I’m going to find the perfect dress, with perfectly accessorized shoes and veil. Once I have those major life choices completed, then I’ll match the temperature to my wedding attire.”
Annabelle paused, her eyes skimming a cream A-line chiffon and sequined gown. “But I’m not getting married in July or August! No amount of air conditioning is going to cool down the church during those months. Elizabeth, what do you think of this one? Ev, keep your eyes on the road—I’ll let you weigh in once we stop for our mandatory bathroom break.”
Elizabeth marked her place with an index finger while she studied Annabelle’s choice. “It’s elegant, I’ll give you that. But the neckline plunges a little too much for my taste. As my grandmother always said, when you’ve got a blockbuster movie, you shouldn’t put any spoilers in the ads. Keep the trailers short and don’t reveal too much.” The sound of silence forced her to look up. “You know, don’t show off too much of your figure to the public. Save it for your husband behind closed doors. Did I mention my grandmother worked in a movie theater for years until she married my grandfather?”
Laughter filled my Bronco as we clued into the meaning of El’s words. “Yeah, my grandmother used a lot of movie references to get her point across.” She handed the magazine back to Annabelle.
“No, you’re right. I’ll keep looking. But I do like the cap sleeves. At fifty-four, my arms aren’t what they used to be.”
Elizabeth turned back to her magazine. “Got it—no sleeveless gowns. Ooh! How about this asymmetrical dress? It’s an A-line with sequins, like the last one. And it keeps the spoilers in the movie theater, where they belong.”

***
The miles flew and soon we’d reached our destination: Sweet Magnolia Manor, just off Mirabeau Street in the Gentilly District. Our hostess Babette and Doug’s mothers were sisters. They’d lived next door to each other after they got married, and Doug had grown up with his cousin. She was more like my sister-in-law than a cousin to me.
Babette and her husband Marcel had purchased a shotgun house near downtown New Orleans and remodeled it as a bed and breakfast. Shotgun homes get their name from the theory that if a person opened the front and back doors and fired a gun through one of them, the bullet could exit out the other door and hit nothing in the house. Babette and Marcel had painted the wood exterior white, and the doors and shutters teal, and added a front porch swing and wicker furniture to add coziness to the front of the house.
Babette Bouvier flew out the door to greet us. “Oh, ma chère cousin, I’m so glad to see you! It’s been far too long.” Babette pulled me toward her, encircling my shoulders in a hug. She stepped back and placed one manicured hand on each of my arms. “Oh, you are looking well, my love, healthy and happy. And these are your friends, yes? Marcel, come outside! Our guests are here, and they need help with their luggage!”
Marcel appeared, the yin to Babette’s yang. It’s true, many times opposites do attract. In the Bouvier’s case, their physical diversity suited them well. Marcel’s six foot four-inch lanky frame complimented Babette’s five foot two-inch pleasingly plump stature. As Mr. Bouvier’s skin darkened while toiling in his beloved garden, Mrs. Bouvier remained in the house, avoiding sunlight like a vampire as she created savory dishes from her husband’s bounty. Babette’s translucent skin bared just a handful of freckles, right across the bridge of her petite nose. Yet, as different as the couple looked, their personalities had woven together during their marriage. Marcel and Babette were one of those rare couples that could practically read each other’s minds.
“Oh! How did you sneak up behind me, mon cher? Never mind, I need you to…oh, I see you’ve almost got the car unloaded. Bon, bon! I’ll go on ahead and get out the…let me guess, you’ve already pulled out the glasses for iced tea. And the serving tray too? But did you remember…oh, of course you did. Je t’aime, cher, je t’aime!”
Our girls’ weekend was off to a fabulous start as we gathered in the dining room to feast upon Babette’s culinary delights. “Now, you are our first guests at Sweet Magnolia Manor, and we’ve been working nonstop! That didn’t leave much time for cooking, so these treats are just a little something I whipped up. They’re called Pecan Praline King Cake Cookies, isn’t that the most divine name? My friend Aimee Broussard used this recipe to win a national dessert contest, and she passed it on to me. She’s such a dear!”
Poor Annabelle almost choked on her cookie. “Aimee Broussard? You mean the Aimee Broussard, the food blogger and cookbook author? She’s my hero!”
Babette handed over a glass of mint iced tea. “Oh, yes, well, she does all that, too. But she’s so wonderful, just the picture of Southern hospitality. I’ll see if she can stop by so you can meet her. She always enjoys meeting new people. But ladies, I’m afraid Marcel and I will be out of pocket this evening and most of the day tomorrow. I’m sorry to say we have a visitation and a funeral to attend.”
How did one express the proper amount of sympathy with half a Pecan Praline King Cake Cookie in one’s mouth? Perhaps with a sip (or two) of mint iced tea? “Oh, Babette, I’m so sorry! Who passed?”,
Babette’s robin’s egg eyes filled with tears as she struggled to answer. Marcel cupped her hand. “Oh, ma chère, why don’t you go lay down for a while, before the visitation?”
A couple of sniffles and my cousin found her smile. “It’s all right, cher. Evangeline, it was Chantilly Romero. Do you remember her? She’s…she was a local businesswoman who owned the Ami Fidéle whiskey distillery, among other business ventures.”
My fifty-something brain rattled my cage of memories, and one cried out. “Yes, that name rings a bell. I saw her in the papers a lot when I lived here. As I remember, she was a prominent member of the New Orleans movers and shakers.”
Marcel’s hand tightened around his wife’s pudgy fingers, and his shoulders stiffened. “On the surface, yes. But there has been talk that she ran a high-stakes poker game out the back of Ami Fidéle. Some say the weekly poker games made more money than the whiskey. She didn’t have a gambling license, but New Orleans’ most influential people paraded in and out of the distillery every Friday night. So she never got shut down. In fact, many people speculate Clifford Benoit has broken his fair share of bones, to make sure the house always got its cut.”
Babette squeezed Marcel’s bicep. “Hush now! All you’re doing is spreading gossip. Why, if even a fourth of those rumors were true, Chantilly would have been in prison.”
I couldn’t help it, it really wasn’t my fault. But it had been a solid month since Shorty and I’d solved the Sid Hebert case. “Who’s Clifford Benoit? He sounds like some sort of enforcer to me.”
Despite Babette’s glare, Marcel continued his rumor fest. “Yes, well maybe. Chantilly called Clifford her bodyguard, and the guy never left her side. Some people think he may have helped Beau Romero to the pearly gates. Or at least helped Chantilly help her husband to his final destination.”
Babette let out a gust of air, punctuated by a French word I didn’t recognize. But Marcel loved telling stories, and he had a captive audience. “Yes, the coroner’s report stated Chantilly’s husband Beau died of natural causes. But many people, people who knew the couple well, think Chantilly had a hand in Beau’s death. But that’s all it was, just speculation. The police could never prove a thing. In fact, just this morning at the bakery, people were talking. There’s a consensus that someone took matters into their own hands.”
“Oh, Marcel, enough! These ladies came for les bon temps, not to discuss dead bodies and murderers.”
Elizabeth nearly choked on her cookie. “Uh, Babette, you must not have heard. Your cousin Ev has solved four crimes, with the help of Annabelle’s fiancé. She’d love to hear all about this latest murder!”

Order Now!

<< Go Back