MARDI GRAS MADNESS by Nadia Giordana

Dayton, Minnesota

Image by Dream Studio

BITTER GREENS AND BLACKBERRIES

Wednesday, February 28, 1928

French Quarter, New Orleans

My dear Miss Emily Frost,

I'm writing in confidence to tell you of a most disturbing happenstance it was my misfortune to experience last week on the night of Mardi Gras Fat Tuesday. I trust you will keep this to yourself, as further investigation is possible, and I prefer not to be the source of any unfortunate leaks.

Let me bring you up to speed on how this debacle began:

Last week, I attended a Mardi Gras Fat Tuesday costume dinner hosted by Dr. Victor Mortimer, a well-known plastic surgeon in these parts. Handsome, charming, and rich, his intimate soirees are coveted in cultured circles. Each of us guests was a writer and author, having recently completed manuscripts, we were keen to publish. Each received an invitation letter sent by Professor Neville Partridge, a publisher and a long-time friend of Dr. Mortimer. The letter tempted us with the prospect of a financially attractive book publishing deal. What writer could resist that? Besides, Mardi Gras was always such fun. We were each given instructions to wear masks and specific colors: Colonel Stanley Gould was to wear a yellow tie, and Professor Partridge indicated we would know him by his purple ascot. Judge Reginald Parks' color was green. Our host would be wearing a black tie and tails. I was requested to wear blue, and Miss Rosemary Valentine, red.

As we arrived, the widow Mrs. Gwendolyn Winter, housekeeper and cook, answered the door and announced each of us. She wore a white dress with a crisp, black bib-style, ruffled apron so clean that you would swear it had never seen the inside of a working kitchen. Once inside, our host, Dr. Mortimer, greeted us personally in succession.

When I got there, Mrs. Winter introduced me as “Mrs. Azure Blue Aster, president of the Lafayette Garden Club, best known for her prize-winning blue flowers of nearly every known variety found in the delta.” I was pleased she mentioned my accomplishments. Too often, I am known by my husband, as he is well-known in the community as a real estate broker.

Judge Parks came dressed in a green jacket similar in color to those prestigious jackets, signifying the wearer is a Masters champion. But, of course, the judge boasted no such distinction. He was running for the mayor’s office.

Miss Valentine, a stage performer and accomplished singer, came wearing a scarlet, form-fitting, high-style dress with black pearls. Thrice-married, currently single, and famous for her beautiful eyes, the gentlemen were visibly disappointed to see her arrive in a complete mask. Not even a sideways glimpse was offered of her famous face.

Professor Partridge, English by birth, wore, as noted, a purple ascot inside the open neck of his belted khaki jacket and trousers. In addition to being a publisher, he was involved in various public-minded causes.

It was storming terribly—something that doesn’t often happen during Mardi Gras. Mrs. Winter had announced before dinner that the main bridge to our Parish was washed out. This meant we would all take long detours to return to our homes later or be compelled to stay the night. But with a festive mood presiding, we chose not to worry.

I must share with you, dear cousin, you being a food aficionado, the fantastic meal we enjoyed:

We began our meal with a fresh and lively Mardi Gras Salad of oranges, red onions, and spinach, representing Mardi Gras colors. It was dressed with a delicious, slightly sweet pomegranate vinaigrette. Our 2nd course was a light and spicy Shrimp Creole, jumping with peppers, onions, garlic, celery, and tomatoes. Louisiana Red Beans and Rice with andouille sausage came next, and at center stage, we were presented with Southern Fried Catfish served with Buttermilk Hush Puppies and coleslaw. Such a feast this was. I thought surely I would burst. Desserts nearly did us in. The cook's "Killer Chocolate Cake” was the highlight for me (I have enclosed a copy of the recipe for you, which I coaxed from the widow Mrs. Winter before things went horribly wrong). After that lovely chocolate delight, we moved on to the evening finale, King Cake, a famous Mardi Gras tradition. I was quite full from our feast, and the other guests were also satiated. By the time it was served, we were more interested in which of us had won the little plastic baby hidden inside, as it was a coveted harbinger of good fortune to come. Feeling lucky, we each tore apart our colorful wedges, eating very little. It wasn’t long before our host, Victor Mortimer, produced the baby from his cake, shouting proudly, “I have it! Eat your hearts out, peasants!” Did I mention he was a bit of a bore? We all let out a collective sigh of disappointment. Wasn't he fortunate enough already? was the unspoken thought in each of our heads. I fear it was written on my face as well. An awkward silence followed.

At that point, Colonel Gould stood up and announced, “I shall retire to the library for brandy and cigars. Please, everyone. Join me, including the ladies.” The colonel knew Dr. Mortimer intimately and was a frequent guest at the mansion. He was comfortable taking the lead.

Victor, who remained seated, encouraged us, “Yes. Follow the colonel. I will be along shortly. I have to make a few notes.” He was busily writing in a small pocket diary he carried everywhere.

One by one, we followed the colonel to the library, where a warm fire crackled in the fireplace. The men went first while we ladies indulged in a brief look around the lower level of the premises—and used the lavatory, of course. While we were touring the mansion, “Chelsea Manor,” it was called, after a previous owner’s late wife, we requested Mrs. Winter bring coffee to the library as we were neither smokers nor drinkers of brandy. Mrs. Winter assured us she would oblige as soon as she had cleared the dining room table. Immediately upon returning to the library, we heard Mrs. Winter screaming, followed by the unmistakable sound of dishes smashing. Oh, it was terrifying, I can tell you! We all rushed toward the commotion.

Our host, Mr. Mortimer, was sitting at the head of the table, right where we last saw him, slumped in his chair, a fatal wound to the back of his head and a deep, red stain soaking into the crisp-white linen tablecloth. A heavy silver candlestick, still bloody and sticky with bits of hair from the attack, lay on the floor beside him.

Colonel Gould immediately called the police, who would not arrive for some time due to the bridge. Not knowing what else to do, we all congregated back in the library, even Mrs. Winter. While we waited, our conversation orbited around the apparent knowledge that one of us was a murderer.

The colonel, pompous windbag that he was and closest to the victim, knowing the house better than any of us, took over the discussion and presided over the room as if he were a police investigator. Oh, it was chaos in the house that night. However, he was immediately put under scrutiny by Mrs. Winter, who accused him of being jealous of his friend's wealth. More importantly, she went on; he coveted—and stood to inherit Dr. Mortimer's gun collection, big game hunters that they both were. He removed his mask to look each of us in the eyes and shot right back at Mrs. Winter. "YOU were secretly in love with Victor, and he has never shown interest in you. I wonder, Mrs. Winter, if that unrequited love has driven you to murder?”

Once the colonel re-established his command of the room, he continued the argumentation. “Miss Valentine, you are looking at the professor. Do you have something to say?”

Rosemary Valentine seized the opportunity. “The professor here is an animal rights activist whom I know disapproves greatly of Dr. Mortimer’s frequent trips to Africa in pursuit of big game trophies. To me, that is a strong motive for murder. You weren’t nearly the good friend to the doctor you professed to be, were you?”

As soon as Rosemary draws attention to the professor, he removes his mask and answers her with an indignant, “How dare you!” then points the finger at Judge Parks, reminding us of his spurious political ambitions, of which Dr. Mortimer stood in the way as he too, had designs on sitting in the mayor’s chair.

Judge Parks sputtered and stammered weak denials. It seemed to me he was quite rattled. I was shocked when, amid all his blustering, Parks pointed the finger at ME, saying that I wanted Mr. Mortimer dead because I was married to a struggling real estate broker who coveted the listing of Chelsea House. It would fetch a handsome commission, I thought. But really, me? My word!

Through all the goings-on, I had been sitting quietly in the corner, as I am wont to do, wishing I hadn’t come. But when it was my turn to speak, I removed my mask, as had everyone except Miss Valentine. I turned to her and said, “You haven’t removed your mask. It’s time. The party is over. As the accusations have come and gone around the room, we have all removed our masks and kept them off.” I challenged her with a determined stare.

“I won’t. she whimpered, “I can’t.”

“She is hiding something,” I told the group, gathering my courage to speak with conviction. I went on. “I can only surmise that Miss Valentine is no stranger to Dr. Mortimer and has a strong motive. A botched face-lift? Why else would she refuse to show us her face?” I turned to Rosemary and asked, “Where did you disappear during our house tour?”

Just then, Rosemary jumped up, sobbing. “He doesn’t even remember who I am—or doesn’t care!” Trembling, she slowly lifted her mask…

And that, dear Emily, is the way my week is going.

Most sincerely,

your devoted cousin,

Mrs. Azure Blue Aster