Free Plantation Shudders by Ellen Byron Page B

Maggie thought, a little envious. But “life” was the operative word, and both Clabbers’ lives had been snuffed out, one by nature, the other by design. There was the possibility that they’d visited the sumptuous establishments before coming to Doucet, but the brochures had a crisp sheen that spoke of being brand new rather than carted across an ocean and through Great Britain.
    She put down the brochures and picked up the ring. Designed for a woman, the diamonds on its flat front spelled out an ornate monogram—a small b sandwiched between two large D s. Except for the small b , the initials didn’t resemble Beverly Clabber’s. Were they from a previous marriage? Did the ring even belong to her? What if a previous guest had left it behind? Maggie could match the initials to archived reservations, but she assumed someone who’d forgotten a ring this valuable would have contacted Crozat the minute they realized that it was missing. Besides, Marie Shexnayder’s near-OCD level of maid service could be counted on to unearth anything forgotten by past visitors.
    Given that she felt safe assuming that the ring and brochures belonged to Beverly, what did it all mean? Were they connected, or had the woman just found separate hiding places for things she valued? And why exactly were the brochures so important to her? Maggie could see keeping them in a safeplace so they’d stay in pristine condition, but hiding them like they were blue chip stock certificates made no sense. Yet that’s exactly what Beverly Clabber had done.
    Maggie closed her eyes, placed her hands on the brochures and ring, and cleared her mind, just the way Gran’ had taught her. After a few meditative breaths, her intuition kicked into high gear, sending the powerful feeling that the answer to why Beverly Clabber was murdered somehow lay in the three items resting under her hands. If she could figure out how the ring and brochures were tied to Beverly’s death, it would help lead the police to who did it.
    She turned on the color printer that she’d treated herself to when she moved back home and carefully made copies of the brochures and ring. Then she hid the originals under a pile of papers she kept in the bottom drawer of the heirloom desk where generations of Doucets had sat paying plantation bills, keeping diaries, and penning the occasional lovesick note to a potential suitor or mate they were crushing on. She searched for a clean manila folder and couldn’t find one, so she stuck the copies of the brochures and the ring in an old folder labeled “Receipts.”
    Maggie locked the drawer and tugged at it to make sure this was the rare Crozat lock that did its job. Satisfied, she hid the key under the liner in her underwear drawer—it had worked for Bev Clabber—and then pulled off Gran’s evening gloves. This took some effort, since her calloused painter paws were larger than Gran’s delicate hands. She finally peeled off the gloves and headed to the main house to help her father find accommodations for any guests who wanted to bolt after their police interviews.
    She found Tug hunched over his computer in the B and B office. “How’s it going?” she asked.
    Tug crinkled his forehead and pinched the bridge of his nose as if trying to relieve a headache. “Bad,” he said. “Pelican is sold out because of Fet Let. There are three conventions in New Orleans right now, so you can’t even find a place to stay on airbnb-dot-com. LSU starts this week, so the Baton Rouge area’s a no-go. I found a Motel 6 in Metairie and a few iffy choices everywhere else. Not sure I want to take responsibility for steering our guests toward the Chateau des Femmes Motel on Airline Highway. Especially since I think it’s partly a halfway house.”
    “They could go north, or west to Lafayette.”
    “For one thing, that’s a whole different vacation. And for another, Rufus would probably make a stink about it. He doesn’t want to go chasing all over the