“I’m aware,” Xavier says with tremendous authority. “Masks worn during the carnival season developed as a way for people to escape the oppressive restraints of class and societal expectations. Norms dictated all manner of behavior, including who they were allowed to interact with. Wearing masks enabled all people to separate from those expectations and restrictions so people at the festival were able to behave as they wanted and socialize with whomever they wanted to. Though that was really only applicable to men because if a woman wore a mask, she was considered of questionable reputation.”

  “Thank you, X,” I say.

  “That’s not applicable anymore. In New Orleans, anyone riding a float is legally required to be masked. Which brings me back to… who are you pretending to be? Or are you just protecting yourself legally in the event of ending up on a float? Though I think the makeup is a gray area,” he says.

  “I don’t know how to answer that,” she says after a long pause.

  “It’s all right,” I tell her. “He’s just having a conversation. He can handle both sides of it if he needs to.”

  “Well, we should probably get to our spots. We don’t want to miss the beginning of the parade,” she says.

  We follow her through the crowd to a roped-off area. A man standing right inside greets her and lets us through. We’re able to get right up on the curb, and I feel the excitement and energy coming off the people around us. It’s impossible not to get swept up in it.

  “This is a great spot,” I tell Celeste, shouting above music from a band set up on a platform in front of a business across the street.

  “It’s even better than you know,” she says. “This is right where the king is going to rise out of his float.”

  “Right here?” I ask. “Not at the beginning of the parade?”

  “No. The float is really elaborate and has performers on it. Every year it’s a little bit different, but there’s always a big reveal of the king. The excitement and anticipation build up as the float starts down the route, and then right here, the king is revealed and greets the revelers,” she says.

  “What about the people who are at the beginning of the route? Isn’t that disappointing for them?” I ask.

  “I’m sure it is for some people who don’t realize what they’re missing and get here too late to find a good spot. But for the most part, the people who get spots earlier in the round know he doesn’t show up until later and are likely to either rush for a new spot after seeing the floats or are business owners who want to see some of the parade and then go open so that the festival-goers can come to their businesses after the parade. You’ll also see families with really little children sometimes specifically choose the front of the route because the parade and the reveling get more intense the further you are down around. They like the comparatively quieter environment.”

  “That makes sense,” I say.

  We hear a new burst of music, and Celeste gasps, grabbing one of my arms.

  “It’s starting! Oh, I can’t believe I forgot to tell you. I got both of you official invites to Joseph Palmer’s party tonight. You definitely don’t want to miss it. Everybody who is anybody goes to this party,” she says.

  “If that’s the case, then why are invitations necessary? And why are there any other parties on the island?” Xavier asked.

  “We’ll think about it,” I tell her.

  She claps again and bounces up and down with excitement.

  “I want to let you know, though, that there is a dress code for the party. That way, you can get the right clothes between now and then. This year, the men at the party are supposed to wear black pants and white shirts. Masks are encouraged, but not required,” she says.

  “Okay, we’ll keep that in mind,” I say.

  The parade starts rolling past us, and I reach out to grab a strand of purple beads that one of the performers flung out into the crowd. I put them on and see that Xavier got a gold strand, which he has put on, and he seems to feel much more integrated into the celebrations. Celeste was right about the parade being impressive. The floats are huge and dramatic, the performers are amazing, and everything is even more over the top and festive than I expected.

  After several segments of the parade have passed by, Celeste bumps against me to get my attention and points down the route to an impending float. It’s larger and more impressive than the other floats, and I know exactly what it is before she even says anything.

  “That’s the king’s float,” she says. “It should stop right around here, and he’ll appear.”

  She sounds almost giddy, and I can see how much she loves this festival. Just as she described, people have rushed down from the spots they had earlier in the route and crushed into the existing crowd, forcing some to nearly tumble out onto the street as the ones who already had their spots fight to hold on to them.

  “He’s going to throw out special strands of beads you can only get from the king,” Celeste tells me. “They are a hot commodity around here during Mardi Gras. People have whole collections of them that they display every year.”

  “I need them,” Xavier says resolutely.

  The crowd has gotten louder as people anticipate the appearance of the king. The float slows and gradually pulls to a stop, and the other floats do the same so that his float won’t be left behind. I can only imagine the pausing of the other performers down the route is only building more excitement. Those people know that the parade is pausing because the king’s float has finally arrived and he’s going to be coming down the line soon.

  The throne rising up out of the float is amazing, and the dramatic beauty of the king’s outfit and headdress makes a gasp ripple out through the crowd, followed by even louder cheering. I’m waiting for him to stand up and wave to the crowd, but he doesn’t move.

  The man, whose name Celeste told me is Scott Russo, sits in the massive chair, his arms resting on the arms of the chair beside him, his head focused forward. Despite the cheering and applauding from the audience, he doesn’t shift his position or make any moves to acknowledge the crowd.

  I watch as a performer dressed as a jester mimes being confused and wondering what’s going on. Celeste laughs.

  “He’s trying to get the crowd to be louder,” she says. “He wants everybody to earn his attention by showing how much they want him to get up.”

  That makes sense. This is all one big, elaborate performance after all. The king, trying to garner extra attention by pretending to ignore the crowd, goes along with the over-the-top playfulness and indulgence of the entire festival. But as I watch the jester continue to try to get the attention of the king and have him stand up, I feel in my gut that something isn’t right.

  “Your Majesty,” the jester attendant says, “your public awaits. If it is your pleasure, please favor us with a greeting!”

  He doesn’t move from the throne. Another of the royal court performers on the float goes up to Scott Russo and leans in as if to say something to him. She stumbles back away from him, and I know in that instant—something is very wrong.

  “Something isn’t right,” I say to Celeste.

  “I’m sure it’s fine,” she says. “They’re just doing a skit.”

  I try not to lean into the feelings of dread that are starting to creep up on the back of my spine. What I’m watching unfold on the float in front of me doesn’t seem like it’s planned. The performers are trying hard to keep up the act, but something is wrong. The jester goes up to the king and touches his shoulder, causing his head to fall to the side. Celeste’s face drops.

  The performer touches the king’s arm, and from the angle I’m watching, I can see there’s something he’s looking at. The crowd is going quiet. All the excitement and cheers have dwindled down, but there’s still music and laughter coming from further down the road where no one knows what’s happening yet. I see people start to turn to the people beside them and whisper into their ears. They turn to the next person, and I know the message is rolling its way through the audience. Soon everyone will know there’s something going on.

  The jester calls out for a doctor, and a woman rushes forward. They help her onto the float, and I take a step forward as I watch her examine Scott Russo. She removes his mask, and I can see blood on his face. Celeste gasps, her hand flying up to cover her mouth. She rapidly covers his face again and presses her fingertips to his neck. She looks up at the crowd with a pale, solemn face.

  “He’s dead.”

  In an instant, everything around us dissolves into chaos. People start pushing and forcing their way out of the crowd so they can get as far away from the float as they can. Police officers rush to try to control the crowd, and I step out with them, doing what I can to prevent people from getting crushed or trampled.

  “The parade is canceled,” an officer who jumped up on the float shouts to the crowd. “Everyone disperse. Back to your homes. Do not run. Go now.”

  I take Celeste’s hand and pull her out into the street so that we can get out of the way of the people who are trying to force their way out as quickly as they can. We’ll leave as soon as the initial wave has ended, and it’s safer to try to navigate the street. The police officers gathered along the parade route are shouting and directing people, but there’s still confusion and people getting pushed and stumbling.

  Tears stream down Celeste’s face. “How could this happen?” she asks. “Who could do something like this?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Did you know him?”

  She shakes her head, brushing away tears. “Not really. I knew of him. Everybody knew of him. But I didn’t know him personally. He was getting pretty well known for his podcast. I just can’t believe I just saw something like that.”

  The people on the float, along with others who have jumped on it, have encircled the throne, creating a barrier with their bodies so nobody can look at Scott Russo. I’m instinctively listening for the sound of a siren, but I know an ambulance wouldn’t be able to get here due to the blockades at the end of the road and the number of people still swarming around. They will have to wait with the body exactly where it is until the area clears out.

  There’s more open space now, so we head for the sidewalk and move with the rest of the hurried parade-goers toward the end of the street where another officer is directing everyone toward the parking lot or the side street leading to the residential area.

  “Considering everything that’s happened, I think Xavier and I are going to go back to the hotel,” I tell Celeste. “Go home and try to relax a little. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  She hugs me, and we part ways.

  In the more open area beyond the village, people are starting to gather in small clusters while others are breaking out into a run toward the parking lot. I imagine some of them are first-time visitors to the celebrations and now just want to get off the island.

  We get back to the car and sit in silence for a while without even turning it on. There’s no point in trying to pull out into the long line that has already formed trying to get onto the ferry. It’s going to take a long time to transport all these people back to the mainland.

  Nearly two hours later, we finally make it back to our hotel room. I’m feeling very shaken up by what happened, and the only thing I can think of is my desire to know more about the victim, Scott Russo. I sit down with my computer and look him up.

  “Scott Russo did a true crime podcast,” I tell Xavier. “And it looks like it was really getting popular. I guess that’s why he was chosen to be honored in the parade. I wonder if the nature of the podcast had anything to do with what happened to him. Possibly family or friends of the victim.”

  “Or disgruntled suspects,” Xavier says.

  “That’s a possibility too,” I say. “But how would anybody have access to the float to plant the body? Was it someone who was in the parade? Possibly a technician? I just don’t understand how they did it.”

  Before Xavier can respond, my phone rings. I see that it’s Bruce.

  “Dean Steele,” I answer.

  “Dean, she’s done it. She’s done it,” he says, sounding frantic and on edge, his voice high-pitched with emotion.

  “Marcy?” I ask. “She’s done what?”

  “I can’t believe it. What am I going to do? We have to find her. We just have to find her.”

  “Bruce, you need to calm down and talk to me.”

  “The boat is missing,” he finally manages to say.

  “The boat?” I ask.

  “My family’s boat,” he says. “I came out here thinking about taking some time out on the water because it always helps clear my head, and when I got here, the boat was gone. Neither of the kids has it. She took it. Marcy is out there on that water in the state of mind she’s in. Dean, we have to find her.”

  “I’ll call you back. Try to stay calm. Stay where you are. I’ll call you back,” I say.

  I get off the phone and immediately call Detective Peter Bronson to ask about the information from the ferry boat agency.

  “I was going to call you,” he says. “Did you hear what happened on Twilight Cove earlier?”

  “I was there,” I tell him. “I saw it all happen. But I really need to know about the ferryboat. The Bassinger family boat is missing from the marina, and Bruce is extremely worried. I need to know for sure that Marcy left the island.”

  “I was able to get the information,” he says. “They can confirm that a vehicle with the license plate associated with Marcy Bassinger did go onto the island and then left late last night.”

  “That’s great, thank you. Are you going to the island to deal with the murder?”

  “Another detective was assigned to that case, but I might be asked to consult. I’ll keep you updated.”

  “Thanks again for the information.”

  I call Bruce back and find out that Clayton and Stephanie are both with him at the marina now.

  “I’m on my way. Look for Marcy’s car in the marina lot and anywhere around there. I’ll be there soon.” I hang up and turn to Xavier. “Buddy, I’ve got to go down to the marina to help Bruce. Their boat is missing, and he thinks that Marcy is out on it somewhere. You can come, but I have a feeling we’re going to end up in the water.”

  “I’ll stay here,” he says. “I’m due for a video call with Nicole and the sourdough babies, anyway.”

  “Tell them all I say hi,” he says. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. I’ll have my phone, so you can call me if you need anything.”

  “I’ll be fine,” he says.

  “I know you will.”

  I hurry out of the hotel and follow my GPS directions to the marina. I park and rush to the dock where I find Bruce, Stephanie, and Clayton waiting for me. They come toward me when they see me.

  “We found her car,” Clayton says. “It’s in one of the farther lots, not the main one.”

  “Are there cameras?” I ask. “In the lots or covering the boats?”

  “No,” Bruce says. “This isn’t like one of the fancy marinas that has all of that. People who dock here are doing it for the water, not the amenities.”

  He sounds defensive when he says it, like he thinks I’m judging his choice of space to keep his boat, as though he should have somehow known that something like this was going to happen and he needed to have a place with better security coverage.

  “That just means there’s no way to see when she got here or when she took the boat,” I say.

  This is extremely frustrating for me, but I have to stay calm. The family is depending on me to help them in a stressful moment, and I can’t let my own feelings get the best of me. But after the day I’ve already had, my patience is running thin and my nerves are very much on edge.

  Taking a few seconds to figure out what to do, I take a breath and start the conversation again.

  “Maybe she decided to go back over to Twilight Cove for the Mardi Gras celebrations,” I say. “I was over there earlier, and it was incredibly busy. She might have decided to come back here last night so that she could take the boat over and make it easier for her to access the island and then to leave. I was talking to a friend of mine who lives on the island, and she said that many people with homes on the island offer short-term rentals of their property during holiday celebrations and generally only take cash. That means the reservations aren’t traceable like they are with hotels, but it would explain why she took cash out of the ATM but still made purchases using her card.

  “It’s very possible she decided to take the boat back to the island for the celebrations and is staying there on the island for another night.”

  “But she was already on the island,” Stephanie says. “Dad said that she went shopping at some boutique and she went to the ATM. If she was already there and had a place she was staying in, why would she bother to come all the way back to the mainland, come to the marina, take the boat, and go back to the island? That doesn’t make any sense.”

  I know what she’s saying is right. Marcy was already on Twilight Cove. If she had wanted to stay for the celebrations, all she had to do was park at the short-term rental I’m assuming she has been staying in. She didn’t need to go through the hassle of taking the ferry back to the mainland and then boating back to the island for the festivities. The fact that she took the boat so soon after returning by car seems odd and a bit unnerving when I think about her at-risk status. As much as I’ve tried to push it away and keep telling myself Marcy is just an adult who wants some time to herself, worry starts building up in my gut and working its way up to my chest.

  I know I have been investigating as hard as I can, but maybe I’m not doing enough. Maybe I’ve been wrong about this entire situation.

  “Is there any way to know if the boat is in the Twilight Cove marina?” I ask.

  “We have a slip rented there,” Bruce says. “We can call up and see if the boat is in it.”