Shadow Bayou

By Suzanna Myatt Harvill

Laurette St. Cyr is the new heiress to Shadow Cove Plantation, inherited from the father she thought dead for twenty years. She arrives in a place called Shadow Bayou outside New Orleans to claim her new home but is beset by a vipers’ nest of relatives determined to keep her from staying. They will stop at nothing, murder included, to drive Laurette from Louisiana.

Before each planned attack, ghostly visitations from a long-dead ancestor warn Laurette of impending danger, which she initially discounts. Only the family lawyer and Laurette’s former nanny seem trustworthy, but she learns even those people harbor secrets from the past—her past.

Laurette is courted by the handsome sheriff, Cheyne Delacroix, and his wealthy cousin, Courtland, but soon learns Cheyne was involved in a mysterious death. Now, she has no one to trust. Laurette’s life swirls in a gumbo of lies, Voodoo, and deceit, but she is determined to lay claim to the property that is rightfully hers … or is it?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 16, 2019
• ISBN: 9781532081194

Suzanna Myatt Harvill

Suzanna Myatt Harvill is an author of suspense stories with a Southern flair and attitude. Writer’s Digest award winner. She is the author of the Shadow Bayou series and the comic mystery No Place Like Home

Book preview

Prologue

A nnie Lebeau sat on the sagging steps of her back porch, her bare toes curled in the damp, dark Louisiana earth, her threadbare dress hiked up to expose her flabby thighs. A single light bulb dangled from a cord over her head, casting a yellow glow, a bug light that kept the insects at bay. She shifted the corncob pipe in her lips and cackled through her few remaining teeth. Cocking her head to see better with her good eye, the old woman again counted the money the man had left her.

"Couillon, el vugh," she muttered the obscenities, referring to the man who had just visited her shanty. Once more satisfied the amount was what she had asked, plus a little lagniappe, she reached inside her bodice and pulled out a cloth bag pinned to her one-piece undergarment. Unhitching the sack, she tugged its drawstring apart and tucked the wad of cash inside, then put her moneybag back where it belonged, snugged safely between her pendulous breasts.

The hot, humid air was still, and the night was silent except for the low chatter of night bugs in the cattails and weeds lining the bayou. The moon appeared to be ringed with a haze, a harbinger of rain. A heavy, musky smell hung over the swamp. The waters of the bayou lapped sluggishly at the pilings of her dilapidated dock, where only the prow of a submerged pirogue was visible. Nearby, a couple of night birds called to each other, courting or hunting.

Annie rested her elbows on her knees and puffed on her pipe. The smoke wreathed her grizzled head, and she sniffed appreciatively at the odor of the expensive cherry-blend tobacco the man brought her. A large gray tabby cat emerged from the darkness and wound itself around her ankles. She absent-mindedly petted the creature.

"Mais ye," she mumbled, thinking about the rich Creole man who’d just left. He knew he better pay me good to do what he asked, him. Aloud she spat, "Fils de putain."

Annie had no use for the man or the others like him who sneaked out to her shack on Bayou Ombre and paid for her services. The rich bastards who knelt in their churches and prayed to their Christian saints and then slipped around to ask her to work spells for them, using her Voodoo magic. Just like their ancestors had done with the women in her family for almost two hundred years.

Sons o’ bitches, ev’ry one of ‘em, she muttered in English this time. But she’d take their money.

Something large and clumsy-sounding made a sucking, snuffling noise as it wallowed through the mud, before splashing into the water near the old dock, but Annie ignored it.

The photograph the man left lay on the steps beside her. She picked it up and studied the face of a four-year-old child, now a young woman. She muttered around the pipe, "I fix you, me. An’ not do it fo’ de money…but fo’ money, mo’ bien." She squinted through the smoke. A more recent picture would’ve been better for identification purposes, but Annie could see the girl had the look of the St. Cyrs about her. Dark hair, olive skin, those emerald eyes. And the old woman knew her name, would not likely forget it. Annie would have her posse on Laurette St. Cyr’s trail from the moment she arrived in New Orleans.

The old black woman rose stiffly to her feet and shuffled across the weathered floorboards. She had work to do. Her late-night visitor didn’t know for certain when the girl he paid Annie to put the fix on would be arriving, but he told her it would probably be in the next couple of weeks. No matter. Annie would have the airport covered, along with most the best hotels in the Crescent City. The petite cocotte would not be hard to find.

She paused and took the pipe out of her mouth, narrowing her eyes. What if the girl didn’t fly to New Orleans? What if she drove herself here?

The tabby on her heels, Annie opened the back screen door and went inside, letting the door slam behind her. Never to mind. She stuck the pipe between her lips and puffed. She’d find the little hussy, no matter if she arrived on angels’ wings. But considering the girl was a St. Cyr, the angels’ wings weren’t a likelihood.

Chapter 1

T he New Orleans heat and humidity slapped me in the face like a wet washrag, as I wheeled my luggage through the doors from the Louis Armstrong Airport to the concrete strip where taxis idled, waiting for passengers. I hadn’t been in the city for twenty years and had forgotten the terrarium-like ambience of the Deep South. My nose twitched at the smell of the place, a long-dormant, yet familiar odor…woodsmoke, swamp rot, the big river.

Another odor, stale sweat and cigarettes, assaulted me, as a small, wiry man, his steps paralleling mine, brushed against me. I’d caught a glimpse of him eyeing me at the baggage carousel. My skin prickled, and I stepped aside to avoid him. Mama always warned me to stay away from people like him.

A burly black man leapt out of his big black SUV, a taxi logo on its side, and offered his services. A diamond-studded gold tooth flashed in his smile. Let me help you with those bags, ma’am. His deep voice held a distinctive New Orleans accent, an echo of familiar voices from my childhood.

As he was about to take my luggage from me, the skinny stranger suddenly appeared at my elbow and tried to latch onto one of my bags. I tote them bags, missy.

The creature looked like a mangy ferret, and I turned the wheeled suitcase aside to keep him from touching my belongings. No thank, you. I glared at him.

I didn’t like his weasely looks. His light brown skin had a sickly, grayish tinge, and he just didn’t look clean; whereas, the big man had a friendly smile and wore pressed slacks and an immaculate blue shirt with his company’s logo on the breast pocket.

I got dat, podnah. The smaller man grabbed a bag. I already seen dis lady inside the airpo’t, me.

The big cabbie showed his diamond-studded tooth in a nasty grin. Back off, jackleg. I got this fare.

I shrunk from them, gripping my luggage handle. I was afraid a fist fight was about to break out over who had the privilege of driving me into the city.

I tole you I seen dis lady firs’, the smaller man insisted, baring tiny pointed teeth.

This my fare.You hear what I’m sayin’? The larger man glowered. You get yo’ butt whipped, you mess wi’ me.

I already seen….

You, get! The cab driver snatched the bag away from him.

The smaller man got, and the first driver to offer his services picked up my bags and stashed them into the cargo compartment of his vehicle.

Fine lady like you don’t need to be ridin’ wi’ trash like that. He’s only part time…works on his own, not for a reg’lar cab comp’ny. He nodded toward the man, who was getting into a ratty-looking, beige sedan and casting dirty looks our way. Don’t think he’s washed that heap in recent mem’ry.

The near altercation had given me a start. I noticed him inside the building and didn’t like his looks. I pulled my pink shirt away from my chest and fanned myself with my hand. I was sweating.

He’s jus’ trash. Knows not to mess wi’ me. He flashed another smile and held out his hand to help me climb into his vehicle. What brings you to our fair city, ma’am, if you don’t mind my askin’? You a long way from Seattle.

Obviously, he’d noticed the tags on my luggage.

I’m here to see my family and check on some property. I wasn’t comfortable discussing anything personal with a stranger, but I felt it would be rude not to answer his question. And just see the city. I haven’t been to New Orleans since I was a small child.

The cab driver walked around his SUV and jumped inside. You got fam’ly here? His tone was friendly, not pushy or nosy. I prob’ly know some of ‘em. I was born and raised right here in N’Awlins. Know mos’ ever’body, me. He settled behind the steering wheel and buckled himself in, then pulled away from the passenger pickup area.

I leaned forward and saw the sedan pull into traffic behind us but didn’t mention it to my driver. After all, the streets were public property. My family’s name is St. Cyr. I’m Laurette St. Cyr.

As the driver swiveled his head toward me, I caught a scant frown on his face. He paused a beat before commenting. My pleasure, ma’am. I’m LaRondell Duclose.

Nice to meet you. I nodded, wondering at the expression that had passed momentarily over his face. Maybe it had nothing to do with me. Maybe he’d noticed the man in the sedan tailing us.

St. Cyr, huh? The St. Cyrs live out on Bayou Ombre…Shadow Bayou. ‘Course some of ‘em live right here in the city, too. Which ones you close to?

Etienne St. Cyr was my father.

Oh, my. He jus’ passed, him. So sad. I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am. He crossed himself at the mention of my father’s death.

Before I could ask, he said, I didn’t know yo’ daddy person’ly, but any time you lose yo’ mama or daddy, it’s bad.

Yes, it is I agreed. In my case, death came as a double whammy. I’d lost both my parents within months of each other, in a matter of speaking. My mother had died only six months earlier. On the other hand, the father I’d believed dead for the past twenty years had passed only a few weeks earlier, according to the letter tucked safely in my tote. The Letter…capitalized, as I had come to think of it… from a lawyer named Claude Landrieu, had turned my life upside down. My father had left me a plantation called Shadow Cove on Shadow Bayou. I had come back to Louisiana, a place my mother had taken me from when I was only four…come back to claim my inheritance, whatever it might turn out to be. For all I knew, it was a shack in a swamp; although, I had vague memories of a large, white-pillared house, surrounded by trees dripping Spanish moss. You’ve lived here all your life? I wanted to change the subject.

I sho’ have. Wouldn’t want to live no place else. Ain’t got the Saints and Drew Brees no place else. ‘Sides, I play in this band, and I wouldn’t want to give that up, no.

What kind of band do you play in?

We play blues mostly, some jazz, a little rock. We call ourselves The Blues Juice. We get gigs all over the Quarter. He pronounced it Qwahtah. We’re usually booked up way in advance, so I reckon folks like us.

He swung the cab off the road from the airport and into the traffic on I-10. He drove fast but expertly. He chatted amiably about growing up in the city, playing football in high school, and dating a girlfriend who was studying nursing.

I listened with half an ear as I gazed out the window. Closely packed subdivisions lined the highway on both sides. We passed a few large commercial buildings, a couple of clinics, a tall water tower. I craned my neck to see if the tacky sedan was still behind us. If it was, there were so many cars on the interstate that I didn’t notice it.

This yo’ firs’ time back in our city in a long time, you gonna find all kinds of things to do and see. He grinned at me in the mirror. Katrina changed some things, but this is N’Awlins. Ain’t nothing gonna keep us down fo’ long. And you gonna find some of the fines’ food you ever put in yo’ mouth. Make you wanta slap yo’mama. He boomed a laugh.

That’s what I’ve heard. New Orleans is famous for food and music…and those cemeteries I’ve read about. The road curved, and now I saw graveyards coming up, bounding the interstate on either side. Is that what we’re seeing right here? I leaned forward to get a better look, as we sped down the road. Those old cemeteries?

These aren’t the real old ones you’ve read about. One of the old ones, St. Louis Number Two, is just a couple blocks out of our way to the hotel. If you like, I’ll swing by there and let you take a quick gander.

Okay. I almost laughed out loud. I remembered my mother saying taking a gander at something, a Southernism for taking a glimpse. I read in a guidebook that you should never go to the old cemeteries alone. Are they really that dangerous?

Yes’um, they are, so don’t you be doin’ that, no. I ain’t gonna stop, just cruise by and let you get a look. Even in the daytime, you don’t want to venture near ‘em, unless you with a group. You need to get on one of the guided tours to visit ’em properly. They’re right interestin’.

The cabbie kept up a line of chatter about the sights I needed to see in his hometown. He pulled off the interstate near the cemetery.

A brick wall surrounded the graveyard. LaRondell slowed in front of an iron gate, where a man in a red wife beater was selling tee shirts.

Seems like I’m the only one in N’Awlins not sellin’ souvenir tees. The cabbie chuckled.

Through the gate I gaped at a city of the dead. Row after row of ornate tombs flanked narrow paths laid out like streets. I moved closer the window to get a better look.

As I twisted in the seat, I looked out the rear of the cab. Slipping along slowly in our wake was a dirty tan sedan, a hatchet-faced man at the wheel. When we’d left the airport, I’d thought the skinny man might be simply returning to the city, but now it was obvious he was following us.

This place so wet, we don’t bury people, les’ they pop right back up. LaRondell laughed. Out at your fam’ly’s place, they have their own cemetery…like with most of the old homes.

Do the ones outside the city have the aboveground tombs, too? I was nervous about the man tailing us but didn’t comment on it. Maybe he had a beef with LaRondell.

The driver slowed to a stop and turned in the seat to face me. He must have seen the sedan behind us, but he gave no indication other than drawing his brows together. "Mais ye. It’s wet all around N’Awlins. If we didn’t put folks in these tombs, we have a big rain storm, like with Katrina, we have coffins in the streets, along wi’ snakes and ‘gators."

Oooh. I made a face at the image his words conjured, and he bellowed his rich laugh.

When he pulled onto Canal Street, I gawked. Three, or was it four, lanes were marked for traffic…but vehicles churned in at least five lanes. The wide boulevard looked like something I’d seen in pictures of cities in the Middle East. A few camels and donkey carts wouldn’t be noticed. Cars and SUVs of all sizes vied for space with trucks, motorcycles, Mopeds, bicycles, and people on rollerskates. The closer we got to the Mississippi River, the more crowded the street became. People carrying what LaRondell told me were called geaux cups, pronounced go, filled with cocktails, wove in and out of the traffic, paying no attention to the vehicles.

Again, I swiveled around to see if I could spy the dirty sedan. There it was, three cars back. The man from the airport was definitely following us. He didn’t know me, so he had to be looking for a fight with LaRondell. Considering the cabbie’s size, the other man was on a fool’s errand for sure.

The people swarming the street wore everything from bikini outfits to evening dress, even though it was only late afternoon. Some even wore costumes, although it wasn’t the season for Mardi Gras.

The driver rolled down the window and hollered to a bearded man wearing a pink tutu. Yo, Maxie, whereyat?

Yo, the man yelled back. I see you at Tipitina’s, me. Later.

LaRondell rolled the window back up. Tipitina’s is a blues club. Sort of a landmark. You won’t want to miss it.

I held my breath when we made the U-turn across the neutral ground, as the median separating the traffic lanes on Canal Street is called, and crossed the street car tracks. The driver drove as though he expected cars to get out of his way as he executed a tricky maneuver that brought us into the right lane to enter the Canal Street Marriott’s parking garage.

Here we are. Safe and sound. LaRondell handed me from the cab and waited as a covey of valets unloaded my bags. I’ve enjoyed havin’ you for a customer, ma’am, and I do expect you’ll enjoy your visit to our city. He handed me a business card. You be needin’ a driver, just give me a call.

I thanked him and gave him a generous tip, saying nothing about the man in the dirty sedan. He was not my problem, and LaRondell was certainly big enough to look out for himself. I felt safe now that we’d reached the Marriott. The place had Security, and I would keep my door locked.

Chapter 2

I checked into the hotel and was quickly whisked up to my room. The friendliness of the service people amazed me. They all acted as though they were delighted to have me visit their city. My mother had left me well-situated financially, and I could have afforded one of the small boutique hotels, but the big, elegant Marriott was conveniently located and had all the amenities, and it wasn’t like I was planning to take up residence in the place.

I’d brought only a few clothes with me, so it didn’t take me long to settle in. I showered and picked out something to wear to dinner.

Claude Landrieu, the St. Cyr family lawyer, had told me he would be out of town a couple of days but would pick me at the hotel Monday morning, so I was on my own this Saturday night and all day tomorrow. I was actually looking forward to prowling around the Quarter and playing tourist before settle down to the business of being an heiress.

Not sure of the dress code, for Dickie Brennan’s Palace Café, if any, I’d donned a pair of black pants with a bright cranberry stripe running through the fabric and a sheer black and cranberry print shirt, adorned with sequins, worn over a slinky camisole matching the stripe in the pants. The outfit was dressy, but not too.

As I left the hotel, a warm mist was dampening the streets, and the August sky was still light, beginning to turn a deep blue. A mélange of tourists and locals milled about under the Marriott’s porte cochere. Lights glowed all along Canal Street, street lights, varicolored lights on the buildings, the stores and hotels, Harrah’s Casino. The wide boulevard glittered like a carnival midway.

Dodging tourists with shopping bags, geaux cups in hand, I started up the block toward the restaurant.

I noticed an old woman, with prune-like skin, standing on the corner. She wore a black blouse and a multicolored skirt that hung to her ankles and held a corncob pipe between her gums. Some kind of amulet dangled around her wrinkled neck, and a dozen gold bangles decorated each scaly wrist. Even in the motley crowd common to the streets of New Orleans, the crone stood out.

She stepped into my path, blocking my way and staring at me curiously. I almost stumbled to avoid walking into her. One of her eyes was milky, the iris invisible. The old woman did not accost me or say a word to me. Her stare was unnerving. She cocked her head to favor her good eye, and I was reminded of a large, ugly bird, as she leaned toward me peering one-eyed. She studied me as though she were memorizing my features.

Her breath smelled of tobacco and rot.

I flinched from her.

Even though she had stepped into my path, not the other way around, I mumbled an apology and moved around the odd creature. I looked over my shoulder and saw her continuing to track me with one bloodshot eye. I averted my gaze, avoiding making any further eye contact with her, and hurried toward the restaurant.

When I stepped from the curb, I heard a hiss behind me. St. Cyr. I whirled around.

The old hag had vanished.

I was sure I heard her whisper my name…or at least I thought I heard her. Perhaps the sound had just been a trick of my ears in the foot traffic squishing on the rain-damp banquette, as the New Orleans sidewalks are called. A chill ran up my spine.

Chapter 3

D ickie Brennan’s Palace Café was hardly the bistro the name implied. The restaurant was multilevel, with an air of casual elegance, so my outfit was appropriate. I was seated at a table near a front window. I asked for a Bloody Mary to sip while I perused the menu of exotic sounding food. I took my time and admired the original artworks decorating the restaurant’s walls. The wall-sized paintings displayed famous characters from the Big Easy’s past.

The Crab Claws Bordelaise and the Café Spinach Salad appealed to me for starters. Something called Shrimp Tchefuncte sounded intriguing as an entrée. I wanted to save room for the pecan pie that, wondering if it was as good as Mama’s. A bottle of a moderately-priced sauvignon blanc could accompany the entire meal.

My seat facing Canal Street afforded a perfect site from which to watch the crowds meandering along the wide boulevard. While flying across the country, I’d read a current New Orleans guidebook. The more I read, the more fascinated I became by the City that Care Forgot. It was hot, humid, dirty, and stinky, but I was already falling in love with the place.

I settled back with my cocktail.

Louisiana was like a foreign country to me. Mama had never talked about the home she left so long ago. I’d leapt into the future in a place I knew little about. Instinctively I knew I belonged here, and here I would stay.

I pondered some of the tasks ahead of me. I had no idea what awaited me at this plantation I’d inherited, but it was mine. The cab driver had mentioned a family cemetery. Now I had a place for my mother’s ashes, where she belonged, with her husband and my ancestors. I would have her cremains shipped with the rest of my things. Cemeteries never held much interest for me, but there was something morbidly fascinating about a graveyard full of my ancestors.

I propped my chin on my fist and gazed out the window. Beyond my reflection, people meandered and cavorted along the wet sidewalk.

The heat and the light mist of rain created a sauna in the sultry New Orleans air. The humid heat combined with the coolness of the cafe’s air conditioning caused the windows to be frosted like the tall glass holding my cocktail. Droplets wriggled down the glass panes, making the street scene waver.

I glanced up from the crab claw appetizer the server placed in front of me and saw the old woman I’d encountered outside the hotel. The old hag stood just beyond the cluster of empty bistro tables in front of the restaurant. The unmistakable figure appeared wavy in the condensation running down the glass. What is she doing here, standing outside in the drizzle? I looked away, not wanting to make eye contact with her. When I looked back, she’d disappeared again. I shivered and pulled my light blouse-jacket closer around myself, and finished my appetizer. I wouldn’t let her appearance unnerve me. She was just another of New Orleans’s infamous street people. All big cities had them. Surely she wasn’t following me. This notion brought to mind the unsavory-looking man who had tailed my taxi from the airport.

The two things had to be coincidences. Nobody had any reason to follow me.

I nearly choked on the final bite of the shrimp in meuniere sauce, when I looked up and saw the woman again. The old witch had come closer to the window and appeared to be mouthing something at me. I grabbed my napkin and held it to my lips. She made a curious sign in the air with her fingers, pointing at me, while shaking the amulet she wore.

Are you all right, ma’am? The waiter materialized at my elbow. Is there something wrong with the food?

I blinked my eyes against the glare of the multicolored lights of vehicles and advertising signs on Canal Street. Because of the moisture beading on the windows, I saw the scene as though looking through warped antique glass.

The woman had vanished again.

No. I shook my head. "I thought I saw someone. No. I did see someone. I’m sure of it." Am I?

Okay…I’d enjoyed a Bloody Mary and most of a bottle of wine. Now I was seeing things, or imagining I was. Good thing I didn’t have to drive back to the hotel. The pecan pie and the rest of the wine still needed to be consumed.

"A friend, someone you know? The banquettes are busy at this time of evening."

This might sound a little crazy. I turned toward the young man. But there’s been some old woman standing outside, and it looks like she’s talking to me and making strange signs.

The server chuckled. It’s just Annie Lebeau. He scraped the French bread crumbs on the table cloth into his palm. I’ll be happy to close the curtains if you like. A lot of people like to sit by the windows and people-watch. He made as if to close the curtains, but I stopped him.

No. It’s my first trip to New Orleans, and I’m enjoying doing just that, people-watching. I was just starting to feel like I’m going crazy. I see the old woman one moment. I blink, and she’s gone.

"You’re not crazy…she is. She’s an old Hoodoo woman. Lives out on Bayou Ombre…or Shadow Bayou, as it’s called in English…comes into town just to hustle the tourists."

I felt the hair rise on my neck. Shadow Bayou. Do you know where it is?

Of course. I’m a N’Awlins native, he drawled. It’s up the river about twenty miles, just across a creek where Frenchy’s Landing’s located. He had a coffee-with-cream complexion and eyes a shade of greenish-gray. His hair was a cap of light brown, tight curls.

New Orleans held a large number of citizens of mixed race…mulatto, quadroon, octoroon. I wondered which one he was…and how did people keep that sort of thing straight? Is Frenchy’s Landing a town?

A small one. It used to be a place the trappers brought their furs to from the swamps so they could be shipped downriver to N’Awlins.

You said this Annie was a ‘Hoodoo woman.’ What’s that?

Hoodoo, Voodoo, he said. Whatever you want to call it. Some people consider it a religion.

Isn’t it more like some kind of black magic?

In a way, I guess you could call it that. Hoodoo came here from Africa with the first black slaves and got a big dollop of Catholicism dumped into it. The people who still practice it pray to the Catholic saints, right along with working spells with the African gods. You’d be surprised at how many people still believe in it. He straightened the folds in the hand towel on his arm. Some use it to cast spells on people…or claim to, anyway. He flashed a smile, as if to say, you can believe what you want.

"And this Annie person practices this Hoodoo?"

"Mais ye, it’s not too uncommon, mostly among people who live way out in the swamps, he explained. She claims to be a descendant of Marie Laveau."

I’ve read about her…famous witch or something?

Voodoo priestess, actually. He gave a short laugh. If all the local Hoodoo believers who claim to be descended from her were real, that poor old woman would’ve had to have birthed about two hundred kids.

The server’s assistant brought the pecan pie, and the server poured the rest of my wine.

I took a bite of the dessert. Oh, my God. This is divine. I closed my eyes in ecstasy.

I’m glad you like it. It’s one of our specialties.

It’s every bit as good as my mama’s. I dabbed my lips with my napkin. Go on with your story about that Voodoo queen or whatever she was. I’m fascinated.

Well, to say the least, old Marie Laveau didn’t have two hundred babies, he went on. In fact, she had only one daughter, same name as her mama, Marie. She toddled around town with her mother and later joined her mama in doing ladies’ hair.

She was a hairdresser?

The young man’s eyes sparkled when he laughed. I guess she liked to have something to fall back on if there were lean times in the Voodoo business.

I read about some country music singer who did the same thing, I told him.

There’s plenty of literature around town about Marie Laveau, and you can visit her tomb if you want to, but only go with a tour group. Our cemeteries are famous, but don’t ever go into them alone.

My cab driver told me the same thing about the cemeteries.

There are some gangs who prey on the tourists who go there alone, so don’t ever do that. He picked up my plate, which now held nothing but crumbs. "Can I get you a cup of coffee to top off your meal…something with a