“Listen, I got something for you. The business partner. Danny.”

  Mary-Alice was wide-awake now.

  “You looked into Almira’s husband’s business partner?”

  “You didn’t think we just brushed off your concerns, did you, Mary-Alice?”

  “Well, actually, it did seem a little like—”

  “His name’s Daniel Chan. And he’s squeaky clean.”

  “But now Almira’s husband is dead, he gets everything from the sale of their company. Doesn’t he?”

  “Well, for one thing, he’s been over in California for the past two weeks, meeting with investors. No way he could’ve made it out here himself to drown his business partner.”

  “He could he have paid someone to do it for him, though. Couldn’t he have?” Mary-Alice got out of bed, switched on the light, and went to her closet to find something to wear to Mass. She wasn’t going to get back to sleep anytime soon.

  “See, that’s the thing. We found an email from him to his lawyer—”

  “You saw his email? Myrtle, you can do that?”

  “Forget what I just said. Let me rephrase. When Danny learned about Geoff’s death, he did the right thing. I forget what the exact legal verbiage is, but he’s told his lawyer to split the proceeds from the company sale with the victim’s survivors. Just as if Whitbread had signed the papers.”

  “So the business partner has no motive. Not a money motive, anyway.”

  “Exactly. Now, he might have been having an affair with the wife.”

  “Myrtle!”

  “Hey, it happens. Anyway, I thought you’d like to know we checked it out. I think what we have here is a tragedy, not a crime.”

  “Thank you, Myrtle. I appreciate your following up.”

  Mary-Alice arrived at Mass just as it was starting, and slipped into a pew in the back. The pew’s only other occupant was a dapper man in a tailored gray suit. He flashed Mary-Alice a friendly grin. Mary-Alice smiled back and sat down. Her cheeks felt warm; she hoped the man couldn’t see her blushing. Who was he? And why did he look familiar?

  Mary-Alice followed the order of worship from muscle memory. She stood, sat, kneeled, and sang as appropriate, occasionally stealing sidelong glances at the man in the suit. Celia was in front next to the side exit, ready to sprint as soon as Father Michael said the last “Amen.” Mary-Alice was not up to participating in today’s banana-pudding race. It seemed irreverent in light of the recent tragedy. Mary-Alice had never enjoyed competition. Losing was no fun, and winning made her feel guilty.

  Also, she thought she might like to stick around and say hello to the man in the suit. Something about him appealed to her, although she couldn’t say what it was.

  When the service was over, the man in the gray suit stood and approached her.

  “Miz Mary-Alice.” He flashed a grin, and Mary-Alice recognized him. It was Boon St. Clair, the construction boss in charge of her kitchen remodel. My, he looked nice in a suit.

  “Mister St. Clair.” Mary-Alice beamed and clasped his hand. “How lovely to see you. I didn’t know you worshiped here.”

  “You’ve probably never seen me because I sit in the back. I’ve seen you ladies running out the door the second Mass is over.”

  “Oh, dear, I didn’t think anyone noticed.”

  “Is Francine’s banana pudding really that good? I don’t believe I’ve ever had the opportunity to try it. Someone else always seems to get to it first.”

  Mary-Alice glanced at the vacant front pew. Celia and her posse had already raced out the door in hopes of getting to Francine’s before their Baptist rivals. Most of the other parishioners had followed them outside to cheer them on.

  “The banana pudding is tasty. But I didn’t have the heart for it today.”

  “Miz Mary-Alice, would me the great honor of joining me for breakfast? I can’t guarantee banana pudding, but I imagine Francine’s has something reasonably tasty.”

  Ally seated Mary-Alice and Boon at a quiet table near the back, far from Celia and her glum crew. (The Baptist ladies had gotten there first and ordered all the banana pudding). Boon got biscuits with sausage gravy. Mary-Alice, hoping for something on the lighter side, ordered a tuna-and-tomato salad, which turned out to be massive. Nothing on Francine’s menu, Mary-Alice realized, was on the “lighter side.”

  As they tucked in, Boon asked Mary-Alice how she liked Sinful. Mary-Alice said she liked it very much, and intended to stay indefinitely. Which Boon might have already guessed, she added, from the scale of her remodeling project.

  “So you’re not one of those house-flippers, like on TV?” he asked, with a wink.

  “Heavens, no. Sinful is lovely. At first I was afraid it would be a little dull, but it’s every bit as exciting as Mudbug. In fact, more so.”

  “Oh, you can say that again.” Boon set down his coffee cup and assumed a confidential tone. “You might not know this, but we’ve had some strange goings-on this summer. Including a couple mysterious deaths.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “There’s that new family in town, the White Breads? Well, they were only here maybe a week, and they lost the father in the bayou.”

  “Yes, I know. I was just talking to the poor man’s wife yesterday. She’s quite distraught.”

  Mary-Alice had decided this was the explanation for Almira’s delusional rant about nonexistent text messages. And her attempt to chuck her dead husband’s phone into the bayou. Grief can make people do strange things, Mary-Alice knew.

  “Well, I imagine she’s even more distraught now. Did you know they found a dead raccoon on their property yesterday?”

  “Oh, dear. How did you hear about it?”

  “Ran into Cornelius’s boys yesterday out at the dump. They were the ones went out to clear it.”

  “Oh, poor Almira. It must have happened after I spoke to her yesterday. Do you think someone left it as a warning? Or a threat?”

  Boon shook his head.

  “Nah. Looked like it’d gotten into some rat poison. I mean, I won’t go into detail, Miz Mary-Alice, specially not over a nice meal, but there’s ways to tell, know what I mean? Unlucky critter just happened to expire in those poor folks’ backyard. “

  Mary-Alice set her fork down slowly.

  “Did you say poison? Where is the poor creature now?”

  Boon, chuckled, apparently moved by Mary-Alice’s tenderheartedness.

  “Well, I reckon it’s still at the dump. Don’t suppose it got up and walked away. Mary-Alice, what do you say to a peach cobbler with ice cream? Got some room for dessert?”

  Mary-Alice nodded, but her mind was already elsewhere.

  Chapter Fourteen

  AS SOON AS IT WAS POLITE to do so, Mary-Alice took her leave of Boon. He was good company, but she had more urgent matters on her mind. She’d see him Monday morning in any event.

  She hurried home and called Myrtle Thibodeaux. Myrtle’s shift at the sheriff’s office was over, so there was no point in going there.

  Myrtle wasn’t picking up. She was probably asleep. Mary-Alice tried Ida Belle, and then Gertie. Both went straight to voice mail. She might even have called Fortune, had she known her number. She had so many ideas bouncing around inside her head. It would have been nice to talk it all through with someone. She’d have to do her best by herself.

  She pulled out her journal and her sunflower pen, sat down at the dining room table, and began to write.

  A dead raccoon found in Almira’s yard. Poisoned. Maybe husband was killed by poison?

  Autopsy?

  Were they going to perform an autopsy? Had they done one already? Even if they had, Mary-Alice had it on good authority (a murder mystery she’d read recently) that they didn’t screen for everything.

  She couldn’t barge into the sheriff’s office and demand Geoff Whitbread’s remains be tested for exotic poisons. But she could call in an anonymous tip.

  “Sinful sheriff’s office,” said the voice on the phone.

  “Uh, good afternoon. I’m an... unidentified citizen. I’d like to report a possible crime of poisoning.”

  “Mary-Alice Arceneaux, is that you?”

  “Oh dear, I...”

  “Why, I recognized your voice. It’s Tilly. You got something on that Yankee family, hon? I was a little worried about you when you offered to drive that woman home. Thought we might never see you again. She was a strange one, wasn’t she? Of course, you can’t expect someone to be at her best at a time like that, can you?”

  “Oh, Tilly, yes, what a nice surprise.” Mary-Alice had been struggling to recall the name of the apricot-haired woman. “It’s just a hunch, nothing more, but I was wondering if there was going to be an autopsy of the man who passed on? Can they check for...uh, poisons?”

  The line went quiet for a moment, and Mary-Alice was afraid Tilly would laugh at her. She didn’t.

  “Oh, Mary-Alice, that ship has sailed, I’m sorry to say. His family’s already claimed the body. Not this family. His parents. They brought the remains back to Connecticut for cremation.”

  “Oh, dear. Here’s the thing. You see, I was just having lunch at Francine’s with Boon St. Clair—”

  “I know, I heard. Sinful’s most eligible widower. You go, girl! Don’t let Ida Belle know, though, she’ll kick you right out of the Sinful Ladies’ Society. So you think the vic was poisoned?”

  “I believe it’s possible. May I tell you what I know?”

  Mary-Alice wasn’t going to be one of those people who coyly kept their suspicions under wraps until they were 100% certain. People who did that in murder mysteries invariably got killed before they could reveal the truth.

  “Certainly. You go right ahead.”

  “Boon told me the family found a dead raccoon in their backyard.”

  Mary-Alice pressed her phone to her ear and began pacing back and forth in the dining room.

  “Oh, I know. They called it in to the sheriff. Those folks are not ready for country living if you ask me.”

  “Well, Boon said he thought the raccoon had been poisoned. What if it ate something it found around their house? What if his sandwich had poison in it? And the raccoon found the leftovers?”

  “But Mary-Alice, I remember. He was the one who made the sandwiches. Remember? He liked his tuna salad without jalapeno peppers and she liked them with. Or the other way around, I can’t recall. But you could tell them apart, that’s the point. Are you saying he poisoned himself? Set his family up with life insurance money or something?”

  Mary-Alice shook her head.

  “No, it doesn’t seem likely. Maybe it wasn’t the sandwiches, then. The beer? Maybe something slow-acting that wasn’t even with them on the boat? Then the raccoon found whatever it was, ate or drank it, and died.”

  “Or maybe the wife was lying,” Tilly said. “We only have her word for it that he packed the lunch. Mary-Alice, let us take it from here. You lay off snooping for a while.”

  “Lay off? Why?”

  “Because if the murderer finds out you know she killed her husband, you’re gonna be next.”

  Mary-Alice had been so excited by her insight, it hadn’t occurred to her she might be in danger herself. It was also pretty clear who Tilly thought the murderer was.

  “What should I do?”

  “I’d say just lay low and pretend you don’t know anything. It’s one good thing about being a lady of a certain age. People aren’t inclined to be wary of us. We’re just harmless busybodies.”

  Mary-Alice sank into a chair.

  “Harmless Busybody. I believe I can manage that. Oh, someone’s at the door.”

  “I bet it’s Boon St. Clair,” Tilly giggled. “Now take your time answering. You don’t want to seem too eager. Men like it when you’re a little hard to get.”

  Mary-Alice plugged her phone into the wall charger so it wouldn’t run out of battery. She closed her journal and dropped it back into her purse. Then she smoothed her hair, sucked her teeth to make sure there weren’t any unsightly specks, and made her way to the front door.

  But it wasn’t Boon calling on her. It was Almira.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “ALMIRA!” MARY-ALICE exclaimed. “Did you walk all the way into town?”

  “Yep. Can I come in?”

  “Know what?” Mary-Alice said briskly. “My kitchen’s still in pieces, and I was just going to pop over to Francine’s for a cup of coffee and a piece of pie. Won’t you join me? My treat.”

  Almira plopped down on the porch swing.

  “I’m sorry to just show up without calling. I guess with Gertie still on the inside, you’re the only friend I have in town. Sure. I’ll come to Francine’s with you. Don’t you need to bring your purse or something?”

  “Oh look at me, so forgetful. Hang on, I won’t be a minute.”

  Mary-Alice rushed back into the house and grabbed her bag, and the women started up the driveway toward the main road.

  “Almira, are you quite all right?”

  “Tristan and Rochelle are having a huge fight. I had to get out of there.”

  “I’m terribly sorry. It’s been such a difficult time for everyone.”

  If Ally was surprised to see Mary-Alice at Francine’s again, she didn’t show it.

  “Afternoon Aunt Mary-Alice, Miz Almira. Will anyone else be joining you, or just you two?”

  “Just us, Ally dear.”

  Mary-Alice slid into one side of the small booth, and Almira plumped down on the other side.

  “It’s just been nonstop.” Almira pulled her hands through her hair. “First this thing with Geoff. Then Rochelle finds a dead raccoon in our backyard and it freaks her out so badly, my son has to call 9-1-1. And now? Turns out I was right all along about the text messages.”

  “You were?” Mary-Alice glanced around the crowded restaurant. She hoped Almira wasn’t going to start hallucinating about text messages again. That would be embarrassing.

  “Yeah, that’s why my son’s having a blowout with his wife. He found messages on her phone. Between her and Geoff.”

  “But you told me you didn’t see any messages on his phone.”

  “He must’ve deleted them. Like the experienced philanderer he was. He knew how to cover his tracks. Poor little Rochelle, she was a noob.”

  “Oh. He deleted the text messages.” Mary-Alice was annoyed with herself for not having thought of this simple explanation. But then, neither had Almira. “What did the messages say? If you don’t mind my asking, that is.”

  “No idea. My darling daughter-in-law pulled out a meat tenderizer and smashed the phone to splinters. Whatever was on there had to be pretty bad, though. Tristan...I don’t think I’ve ever seen Tristan so angry. If Geoff wasn’t already dead, I honestly think Tristan would—”

  Ally appeared at their booth with her pad and pen at the ready. Almira was resting her face in her hands, so Mary-Alice ordered for both of them.

  “One coffee, one sweet tea, and two peach cobblers, please.”

  Ally nodded, shot a concerned glance at the top of Almira’s bleached-blonde head, and hurried away.

  “But you already knew,” Mary-Alice said gently. “About your husband and your daughter-in-law.”

  Almira nodded, still covering her face. Mary-Alice moved the napkin dispenser over to where Almira could reach it. Almira pulled out a napkin and blew her nose.

  “I’m so sorry, dear.”

  “I have to let it go. He’s gone. It’s over. I mean he’s dead, how much more over could it be? Oh yeah, speaking of that, Mary-Alice, do you know where I can donate this? It was stupid of me to try to throw it into the water. It’s a perfectly good phone. Someone might get some use out of it.”

  Almira placed the phone on the table.

  “As a matter of fact, yes. There’s a woman in my crafting circle back in Mudbug who collects old phones for the women’s shelter. I’ll be visiting next week and I’ll bring it to her if you like.”

  “If you don’t mind?”

  “Not at all, dear. Oh look, here’s our peach cobbler.”

  Mary-Alice really did intend to donate Geoff Whitbread’s phone. And she would.

  But first, she had to recover the missing text messages. Geoff Whitbread had deleted his text messages to hide his affair. Perhaps he was hiding something else, too.

  Mary-Alice set up her laptop on the dining room table. Geoff’s phone, she noticed, used the same connector as her own. She plugged it in with her cable.

  Mary-Alice’s computer class had not taught her how to retrieve deleted text messages, specifically. But she had learned how generous people could be with information. If you didn’t know the answer to something, you could almost certainly find it online.

  Mary-Alice couldn’t understand people like Celia, who pined for the “good old days.” She loved living in a world where you could type the words “retrieve deleted text messages” and have your answer appear like magic. Mary-Alice quickly found a downloadable program that suited her purpose, and got to work.

  Mary-Alice’s second call was to the sheriff’s office. The first was to Almira.

  Chapter Sixteen

  GEOFF WHITBREAD WASN’T supposed to die.

  The recovered text messages confirmed what Almira already knew. Geoff Whitbread was having an affair with his daughter-in-law. They also contained something else: a murder plot.

  Geoff wanted Rochelle. But he didn’t want to divorce Almira. Divorce would mean splitting his three million dollar payout with her. So he came up with the idea of an “accidental” death.

  Rochelle executed the details. She was the one who packed the picnic lunch that Geoff would take out on the boating trip. Geoff liked his tuna salad with jalapeno peppers, and Almira preferred hers without. Keeping the poisoned sandwich separate from the harmless one should have been easy.

  Except Rochelle wasn’t a good listener. And maybe she was a little prone to stereotyping. Somehow, she got it in her head that it was her Latina mother-in-law who liked jalapenos in her tuna.

  So Rochelle mixed rat poison with the jalapeno tuna, used enough of the mixture to make the death sandwich, and threw away the rest.

 

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