After they left, Maggie poured herself a glass of wine and took it with her onto the veranda. She sat in one of her family’s heirloom rocking chairs, handed down through generations of Crozats, and contemplated the evening. She knew Bo was right about trusting her instincts. But those instincts weren’t helping her answer one very important question: could she trust Bo? She feared her nascent attraction to him might be coloring her judgment.
She closed her eyes, trying to release the stress nipping at her mind and tensing her body. And as she relaxed, Maggie realized something.
Xander hadn’t said a single word the entire night.
Chapter Fifteen
When she woke up at dawn, Maggie ached in muscles she never knew she had. But she soldiered on with Crozat maintenance, picking up the pace as she grew more familiar with the routine. While her cleaning skills grew, her detecting ability seemed to have leveled out. Aside from discovering that Cutie Debbie was hoarding mini shampoo bottles, she didn’t dig up incriminating dirt on any of the guests.
She finished folding towels in the Rykers’ bathroom and then pushed the cleaning cart back to its home in the supply closet and locked it up, done for the day. As she strode back to the shotgun, now focused on organizing art supplies that would appeal to Xander, her frustration dissolved. Maggie walked into her bedroom, lay on the floor, and reached under the bed. She pulled out an old box of acrylic paints and threw out the few that had dried up. She checked her supply of canvases, choosing an 8' × 10" for her young charge. She was surprised to notice that her heart was racing. I’m a little too excited about this art lesson, she thought, and took a few breaths to calm herself.
She remembered that she’d never confirmed a time with Bo, so she pulled her cell out of her back jeans pocket and sent him a text. Then, mindful of his reaction to the scent of cleaning fluid that permeated her being after a day of housecleaning, she jumped in the shower. An internal debate about what outfit to wear followed, as well as a light but effective application of makeup. Maggie, in slim jeans and a purple fitted T-shirt that subtly enhanced her figure, was completely ready for the arrival of father and fils when Bo texted that he and Xander wouldn’t be able to make it: “Sorry. Bad day. Xander bullied. Rain check.”
Her excitement turned to grievous disappointment, which she also noted as a disproportionate reaction to a seven-year-old’s art lesson. When Gran’ sauntered into the shotgun carrying two Sazeracs, Maggie grabbed one and took a large gulp.
“I hate bullies. They’re the worst,” she said, her tone bitter. She followed the pronouncement with a big swig of her drink.
“Hmm,” Gran’ said, as she eyed her granddaughter thoughtfully. “Not a particularly erudite observation, but I’d have to agree.” Gran’ took a dainty sip of her cocktail while Maggie drained her glass. “In fact, Yvonne Rousseau and I were talking about that very thing last night at the seniors’ bingo game. We both agreed that Francine-slash-Beverly was a terrible bully when she lived here.”
Maggie took in this revelation. “Really? I never would have guessed that from meeting Mrs. Clabber. How was she a bully?”
“Honestly, darlin’, I couldn’t say. I guess I just blocked it out. Yvonne remembers it pretty well, though. You might want to speak with her.”
“I will. Do you think now would be a good time to visit?” Maggie knew that a few of Gran’s friends suffered from Sundowning Syndrome. They might be alert and coherent in the morning, but as the day progressed, their faculties faded and dementia increased.
“Oh, Yvonne is all there mentally. It’s her poor body that’s failing her, what with that horrid rheumatoid arthritis. She’d love to see you. I’d hop on over there right now.”
“I will.” Maggie gave her grandmother a soft kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for the intel. I’ll clean up these supplies and take off.”
By the time Maggie got to the Camellia Park Senior Village, it was 4:30 p.m., and before she even entered the faux plantation building, she could hear the china clatter as residents took advantage of the dining room’s first seating. Yvonne was delighted to hear from Maggie and had given detailed instructions on how to find her one-bedroom apartment in the assisted living section of the complex. Maggie still managed to get lost in the collection of identical corridors, which seemed designed to taunt hapless seniors who were already teetering on the edge of dementia. She hoped no poor soul had ever been carted off to the Alzheimer’s wing of the facility because they were found wandering the halls in a legitimately confused daze.
“Magnolia, down here, honey!”
She was relieved to see Yvonne waving a gnarled hand from her wheelchair in front of one of the interchangeable doors. Her silver hair was styled, and she wore an ancient Chanel suit. It touched Maggie to see that Yvonne had dressed up for their meeting. She hurried to the older woman, kissed her on both cheeks as she handed her a bouquet of flowers, and followed her into a compact apartment. The décor theme seemed to be “extended-stay motel,” but Yvonne had added some personal touches via artwork and photographs. A small, sleek Art Deco cabinet was the only piece of furniture that Maggie vaguely recognized from Yvonne’s elegant former home on the outskirts of Pelican.
“Isn’t this place wonderful?” Yvonne said with genuine enthusiasm. “My kids thought I’d miss all my space and my stuff, but I don’t, not for a minute. I don’t have to think about anything here except what’s going on in the activity room and when the next meal is. It’s like being on a cruise ship but without the seasickness.”
“I’m glad you’re happy, Mrs. Rousseau. It makes sense only keeping things that you feel sentimental about, like that gorgeous cabinet.”
Yvonne looked puzzled, and then she burst out laughing. “There’s nothing sentimental about that old thing.” She rolled over to the piece and gave the front of it a hard thump. The top sprang open and a full bar popped up, as if the cabinet were a booze-filled jack-in-the-box. “It’s five o’clock somewhere, and that somewhere is here,” Yvonne declared. “What can I do you for?”
“A gin and tonic, thanks.”
“You got it.”
Yvonne went to work, her crippled hands no obstacle when it came to mixing drinks. She rolled to a small table near the kitchen area and motioned for Maggie to join her. Maggie raised the glass Yvonne handed her and toasted the older woman. “A votre santé. To your health.”
“Oh honey, my health is in the rearview mirror. Let’s drink to your health and happiness. Laissez les bons temps rouler. ’Cuz it’d be nice for something to roll around here besides me, and it might as well be good times.”
“Eh bien. Laissez les bons temps rouler.”
The women toasted and drank. It occurred to Maggie that she was doing way more drinking with Pelican’s eightysomethings than she’d ever done with New York’s twentysomethings.
“Now,” Yvonne said, “let’s get down to business. You want to know about that and-it-rhymes-with-witch Francine.”
“Gran’ said that you recalled Francine was something of a bully.”
“No ‘something’ about it. It was the late forties when we were all in high school together, right after the war ended. Many of the boys we knew lied about their age and went off to fight. And so many didn’t come back.”
Yvonne paused. Her eyes, faded by age to a pale gray-blue, watered. “I lost both my older brothers, you know. Papa and Ma’mere were never the same after that. In those days, a daughter didn’t count for much. Much like the Chinese girl baby these days. The Chinese have finally realized they were wrong about that. I don’t believe my parents ever did.”