Glory Daze: A Glory Broussard Mystery

1

Glory yearned for her old life, before everything had turned itself upside down and sideways. She strode through the heavy doors at CC’s Coffee House, the one on Ambassador Caffrey and West Congress, in the same shopping center as Albertsons and a new restaurant called Soulhaus. She had not yet tried this new restaurant, but her daughter Delphine had texted her some videos of a local newscaster consuming piles of food on TikTok. So far Glory had been able to resist because she had received a stern lecture from her doctor about her numbers–and by numbers he meant every number that can be measured by modern medicine–but she could sense her resolve weakening.

To help regain a sense of normalcy, she had just returned from church and the monthly meeting of the Red Hat Society of Acadiana, of which she was an outlier on account of her work as a bookie, but also because of a long-ago wave of food poisoning. The membership had insisted the culprit was a cooler of discounted crawfish Glory had purchased from a roadside stand in Abbeville. But honestly, they ought to have thanked her for being resourceful. Crawfish was now twenty dollars a pound on account of global warming. And no one could definitively prove that crawfish was the culprit of the food poisoning, but it had tarred Glory’s reputation, nonetheless.

As was tradition, Glory and the members wore red to these meetings. Today she wore wide-legged red pants with a coordinating blazer and a red hat. This particular hat was purchased by her daughter Delphine, who lived in New York City. It featured a wide brim with an exaggerated rosette to one side. Glory squealed when she opened the bundle, packaged in a stunning black-and-white-striped box with the most perfect ribbon you’ve ever seen. It was the kind of finery that Glory had always loved but only Delphine would spend money on.

By the time she sat down, Noah Singleton, owner of this particular CC’s franchise, was walking her way, balancing a tray of small sample cups on a tray. You have a good Christmas, Miss Glory?

Sure did, and you? Small talk was the glue that held the South together. No matter one’s political affiliation or personal beliefs, the connective tissue of Lafayette Parish had somehow remained intact with benign and comforting questions like: How’s your mama doing? You have people over for Mardi Gras? What you fixin’ for Easter? Not that most people minded. It was better than asking questions that might disturb the peace. You just look mischievous today, Noah Singleton. I can already tell you’re up to no good.

He swung a small tray with the sample cups in front of her. Try this.

She gave him a skeptical look, sipped, and coughed dramatically, as if she had ingested poison. Noah Singleton, I don’t know what you put in that drink, but I suspect I have a case of sudden-onset diabetes. What in the name of the good Lord is this?

I’m still working on the right level of sweetness, he said, with a hangdog look that reflected his disappointment. "I’m trying to create a signature drink to go viral on social media. I call it Praline Perfection. Chicory coffee, six pumps of praline syrup, whipped cream, and topped with a crumbled praline candy."

Glory had no idea why anyone would ever want to go viral. She had had a brief moment in the spotlight a few months ago and it was more than enough, thank you very much. Here’s an idea, she added. For an extra $200 you can serve it with a vial of insulin. She thought of Noah like a brother, even if he was always doing too much.

Did you know that there is no actual pumpkin in a pumpkin spice latte? Not one drop! And before Glory could respond he added, And do you know how much money Starbucks has made off that drink? Over a billion dollars! Yes, ma’am, I just need to calibrate my recipe a bit.

Noah gestured for the barista at the counter to bring Glory another cappuccino, on the house, as he often did. Before walking back to the kitchen he pointed at her and said, I’m going to perfect this recipe. You watch. It was an apology and a declaration. He disappeared behind a pair of swinging doors.

As Glory sipped her cappuccino, her clients streamed in at a steady pace, which was always the case during football playoffs. Glory worked year-round but made a good chunk of her earnings in January and February, when amateur betting and foolishness collided. She had also been busier than usual since everything went down a few months ago. Glory had become somewhat notorious in Lafayette after the murder of Amity Gay, and her role in solving it. It was attention that she had relished at first, but now it made her itchy with discomfort. Word of mouth had brought a whole new slew of customers. In the world of unsanctioned and illegal betting, publicity is not welcome. But Glory had always had a keen eye when it came to vetting her customers, and those instincts had not faded.

That is why when a lighter-skinned Black woman with caramel highlights and artfully layered hair walked toward Glory, she did a double take. She did not know this woman, or at least, that’s what she thought. She knew just about everyone who walked through those doors. But there was something about her that rang familiar, like a relative you haven’t seen in many years. She wasn’t Glory’s age, but wasn’t her daughter’s age, either. Glory judged her to be somewhere in the middle. This woman could no longer rely on her youth to be naturally firm without effort. And though she had just a few lines that feathered around her eyes and a couple that stretched across her forehead, Glory knew that her still-pretty looks would be deteriorating at a rapid clip from here on out. Glory had been there herself, many years ago.

Excuse me, are you Glory Broussard? asked the woman. Glory sized her up further, now that she was up close. She wore a patterned blouse that was too busy for Glory’s taste, jeans that clung tightly to her slender frame, and stiletto heels, which Glory noted was not a reasonable choice for a Sunday before noon.

I’m afraid not, miss. You must have me mistaken for someone else. There was something about the woman that she didn’t trust, and having more customers than she knew what to do with at the moment, she was not about to take any risks. Glory peered over her reading glasses and did some calculations to convey that she was not interested in any further conversation. Not even the polite Southern kind.

"Actually, I’m pretty sure you are. I saw your picture in The Daily Advertiser," the mysterious woman fired back.

Glory pressed the lead of her pencil harder and scratched away in her notebook, as if the woman did not exist. This was another reason Glory hated all the attention: it had shaken all the crazies loose from the trees. Old men showed up who wanted her to investigate the chattering voices that echoed in their balding heads. Throngs of women pleaded for her to surveil their husbands, who might be stepping out on them. One thing Glory knew from personal experience is that if you think your husband is stepping out, he most definitely is. You don’t need to spend hard-earned money to figure that out. And besides, Glory Beverly Broussard was not for hire.

I’m real sorry to bother you, ma’am, insisted the woman with the pretty-enough face. But my husband has gone missing, and I thought you’d like to know.

That was it. Glory snapped. Let me tell you something. I’ve done had it with you people showing up here with all of this nonsense. What I do know is that I can’t help you, and I definitely don’t know who your husband is, so please leave me to my business. And support a Black-owned business on your way out. I recommend the Praline Perfection. She shifted her focus back to her ledger. She had never formally studied math beyond basic algebra, but somehow had developed a pretty spot-on way of developing scenarios for a slate of games and estimating her earnings by the end of each weekend. Glory called it her special arithmetic while her daughter called it an algorithm, which must have been one of those ten-cent words she learned working at that law firm.

My husband is Sterling Broussard.

Glory pressed down so hard on her pencil that the lead shattered. Graphite dust smudged her algorithm. Now it was becoming clearer. The woman was vaguely familiar to Glory because this was the woman, among many women, that Sterling had cheated on her with. Years later, once emotions had been reduced from a rolling boil to a simmer, Glory kicked herself for not seeing it coming. Sterling’s purchases of new underwear, the trail of cologne left behind when he was allegedly going bowling. This wasn’t a run-of-the-mill infidelity. It was the infidelity that caused him to leave Glory. It was the infidelity that would lead to a new start for Sterling, a new marriage.

The woman took a seat across from Glory. Look, I know I’m the very last person you ever want to talk with, but I don’t know what else to do. Her voice ached with weariness, and there was not enough concealer and tinted face powder to camouflage her exhaustion. Sterling went out to see some friends two days ago, and I haven’t seen or heard from him since. It’s so unlike him.

Glory huffed. Sounds exactly like the Sterling Broussard I know…

Not the Sterling I know, the woman said, leaning her body halfway over the table. It was a confrontation. The Battle of Two Wives. Or, if Glory were framing their relationship correctly, the upstanding, righteous woman who raised him and his daughter, and the hussy who broke a family apart.

Noah’s barista delivered Glory’s cappuccino at this exact moment, allowing Glory a few moments to regroup. She smiled at the barista, took a sip of her coffee, then delicately placed the small cup on its saucer. Listen, I done unsubscribed from all that Sterling drama years ago. I’m sorry you’ve gotten yourself tangled up, but you of all people should have known what you were signing up for. She shoved her notebook into her purse and stood up.

Panic raced across the woman’s face. I thought maybe you’d want to look into it… for your daughter’s sake.

Glory glared down at her. With fire pulsing through her veins, she snapped. Keep my daughter’s name out of your mouth.

The last thing Glory wanted to be doing on a Sunday was driving. It was afternoon now, with a slate of playoff football games about to start. By now, half of Louisiana would have their meat on the grill and two to three beers down their gullets. Some of them would be hitting the road to pick up a missing ingredient for their potato salad or wings, or another case of beer to replace the case that had already been consumed. Glory should have been at home, in her favorite chair, and flipping through channels on the TV.

But because of That Woman, and the disturbance she insisted on dragging through Glory’s door, she was now on I-10, heading west to Jennings, and she would give Sterling a piece of her mind when she got there. Extracting herself from that man had been hard enough. He didn’t deserve to continue to trample on her hard-earned peace with his shenanigans.

And Glory was certain that whatever he was up to, it was definitely shenanigans. She had seen it happen enough during their marriage. He’d have a gig, even though he hadn’t managed to make his trombone sound serviceable in years. Then he’d disappear for a few frantic days at a time. Eventually he’d stagger home, enveloped by a cloud of cheap Scotch. Or there would be the times he owed clients money and had gone fishing with his buddy Maurice, only to have angry folks pounding on their door, looking for their payday, leaving her to handle it. It was the sloppy way he ran his business that inspired Glory’s no-nonsense professionalism. It had all gotten to be too much. She had gathered him up and dried him out too many times to remember.

Valerie must not have known that he had something of a crash pad in Jennings, which didn’t surprise Glory at all, because Sterling was full of secrets. But Glory knew about the place because of their divorce. The house she lived in wasn’t in dispute, because it was paid in full and inherited from her mother, in Glory’s name only. Not that Sterling would have tried to lay claim. He seemed pretty determined back then to leave the house on Viator Drive as quickly as possible to be with his new love, if that’s what you call her. But Glory knew that he had invested a tiny bit of his money in a two-unit duplex in Jennings. He rented out both for a while, until he realized he could just rent one unit and keep the other apartment for himself, his friends, and lord knows what else. Glory was glad to let him have it, uncontested. She had no desire to be a landlord and chase down rent.

On the drive she tried her daughter on the phone for what must have been the tenth time, but no answer. Glory was transported down that nondescript corridor of I-10, with little more than competing Cracker Barrels and Waffle Houses, by pure anger and annoyance. Anger because, against all good sense, she was being dragged into Sterling’s funny business again. Annoyance because Valerie LeBlanc had the temerity to show up at her place of employment, and on a Sunday.

Did Glory really care what happened to Sterling? On a personal level, she had stopped pouring feelings into all that long ago. But she did care deeply about her daughter. If only she’d answer that damn phone.

Finally, she arrived in Jennings and pulled up at the curb and parked. The house itself was gray, dull, and lifeless, like any late January day in Louisiana. The duplex was never fancy, but at least he had kept the grounds tidy. That wasn’t the case anymore. Wind whipped a Whataburger bag around a tree, which stopped its graceful tumble on a lawn that was patchy and filled with litter. She made her way through the double carport on the side of the house, in which no cars were parked. The inlay panel of glass on the side door was shattered. Flies buzzed around trash cans that hadn’t been emptied for days, judging by their sour smell.

Unsure what to do, she peered through the broken glass. She spotted a retro kitchen table with a Formica tabletop, its edges wrapped in chrome. She recognized it as one of her estate sale finds, one that he complained cluttered the garage. Apparently, he just wanted it all to himself.

For a brief moment, she contemplated calling the police but hesitated. Folks around here don’t go calling on the law unless you have no other choice. She preferred to take inventory first.

Sterling? She called out, quietly at first, and then louder and clearer. If he was in that house, there was no way he would have slept through her bellowing. From her purse she pulled out a stun gun. Delphine had laughed at her when she bought it at Lafayette Shooters. She explained to Glory that a stun gun only works at close range, and that she couldn’t envision her mother in hand-to-hand combat. Glory bought it anyway, not feeling quite ready for a gun, but wanting a little something.

Glory entered the unlocked house, stun gun at the ready. The first thing she noticed upon entering was the odor. She immediately stuck her head out the side door and gagged, her eyes tearing at the stench. She gasped for fresh air and when she gained her composure, covered her nose with a Mardi Gras handkerchief she found in her purse. She told herself she’d do one quick tour of the house and get the hell out of there. But there was no need to tour the house. Sterling was right there, in the kitchen. A black-handled knife pierced his chest. Blood smeared the floor. Maggots mounted his lifeless body.

Glory froze. The only physical reaction she could manage was to clamp her thick hand down on the stun gun. It snapped and threw white sparks from its metallic teeth.

2

Days later, Glory would revisit what happened after she found the body, because in the moment, all thought and feeling evaporated. She remembered running as fast as she could to her car, which was memorable because she hadn’t broken out in a run for at least forty years. The lack of flexibility shortened her strides, and every ligament burned. She dialed 911 and told them to hurry. Then she remembered calling her daughter and somehow managing to break the news. She would never forget the way that Delphine had cried so hard and long that she wrung herself out. Witnessing her daughter in this state, and not being able to ease her suffering, would always be stamped on her soul.

Glory was always envious of the special dispensation her daughter seemed to give Sterling, considering he had abandoned them both. Too many times, Sterling had promised to swing by to take his daughter out for a movie or shopping, only to leave Delphine peering through the curtains hours past the promised time of arrival. Yet she always managed to be happy when she saw him. It’s easier to be a father, Glory had fumed. It was a piece of cake to swoop into a clean house, and roughhouse, or go out for ice cream and all the other charming things fathers get to do. The real labor, the kind that keeps a household running, happens behind the scenes. The laundry and coordinating with other mothers for sleepovers and staying up till 2 A.M. because the next day was wear blue to school day or some other chore. Glory had done all that and more, but now wasn’t the time to keep score.

She could remember, with clarity, the wail of the sirens. It must have snapped them both into the present tense because Glory sensed that Delphine, too, was at least temporarily straightening herself out. I’m coming down as fast as I can manage. And no matter what, do not talk to the police.

Delphine, said Glory, treading gently. I don’t see how I can avoid talking to the police. Sirens blared even louder.

I see your point, said Delphine, sniffling. Just keep me on the phone.

Glory met the officer at his car, introduced herself, and waited there until the officers toured the house. When they were ready to talk, Glory handed them her phone. Delphine made it clear that her mother had an attorney, and that her client was not to be interviewed unless she was also present, by phone or videoconference. She suggested they find a quiet place for an interview. As a result, Glory unceremoniously found herself in the back seat of a Lafayette Police Department vehicle.

Maybe it was for the best that she was being hauled away in a patrol car. Now that she had broken the news to her daughter and called 911, she noticed that her hands had not stopped trembling. A sticky, sour film coated the inside of her mouth. It was not the first murder Glory had stumbled upon, but she would never grow accustomed to witnessing such godlessness. And as for Sterling, bless his soul, she felt sorry for the man. He may have been an adulterous husband, but he did not deserve to be filleted on a dingy linoleum floor. You can’t go around killing everyone who’s been unfaithful, even if you can relate to being full of murderous rage toward a man.

At the police station, Glory was led inside an interrogation room. A wreath composed of purple and gold balls was hung so haphazardly from the wall it looked like a strong fan would send it crashing to the ground. A garland of green beads was wrapped around a pole waving a flag with a pelican on a blue background and a ribbon reading Union/Justice/Confidence underneath—the Louisiana state flag. No surface was safe from Mardi Gras decor this time of year, even an interrogation room in a police station.

Glory took a seat on a stiff metal chair and took stock of herself. The bottom half of her red suede shoes were now burgundy, exactly at the point where they had sunken into Sterling’s waterlogged yard. A layer of mud ringed itself around the perimeter of her soaked shoes. She bent at the waist to wipe it off, which only caused the mud to smear. Then she took a sip of police station coffee to try to erase the sour taste in her mouth, but her stomach began to roil. It wasn’t just the bitterness of the precinct’s coffee that made her stomach turn, but also finding her ex-husband’s body dissected like a frog in a high school biology class.

The police officer behind the table had a sunburned face and wore a hat that looked more park ranger than cop. He struggled with the heavy, department-issue laptop, and after fumbling for several minutes, finally connected with Delphine on the videoconferencing link she had sent for the interrogation. On the other end, Delphine’s face was red and puffy with grief. Her head was wrapped in a scarf, which was unusual, but she had only just been notified of her father’s murder. She wouldn’t have had much time or presence of mind to pull herself together. On the screen, Glory noticed a figure scurry behind her, avoiding the camera. If Delphine had been dating someone since her divorce, Glory had not been informed.

Confirm your full name, the officer stated.

Glory looked at her daughter on the screen, who nodded. Glory Beverly Broussard.

What is your relationship to the deceased?

He is my ex-husband.

The police officer tried to hide his surprise, unsuccessfully. And what prompted you to visit the residence in Jennings this afternoon, in particular? Glory looked to her daughter to interject, but Delphine sat there, her tearstained face straining through the screen for the same answer. Glory paused and looked around the room. A small video camera was mounted above the Mardi Gras wreath, up high like one of those convenience store video cameras. It gave her pause.

There are moments when it’s better to tell the full truth, and moments when it’s better to hold back, if only a little. Glory pondered what kind of moment this was. She knew full well that the police were unlikely to investigate this with the full strength of the department. That’s just how they do things down here, she thought, and just wait until they knew more about what kind of man Sterling really was. And even if they did pull out all the stops, what did that mean, really? What was the full investigative strength of a local police department in Louisiana, anyway? And then there was the issue of her first-on-the-scene status. You didn’t have to be a federal agent to understand that her finding Sterling’s body made her suspect, because no good deed ever goes unpunished. And the fact that this was the second murder she had stumbled upon had to look a certain kind of way, especially to a police department inclined to look for easy answers.

I was just worried about the man. We sometimes checked in with one another, so I just thought I’d pay him a visit. See how he was doing. She was almost convincing. Delphine leaned in closer to her computer with a proactive posture, like she was ready to jump through the screen and end the questioning, if need be.

Did you keep in touch after the divorce? How often did you two speak?

Well, hesitated Glory, struggling to find an answer that satisfied the question without leading to perjury charges down the road. I guess you could say we had an unconventional relationship. We didn’t talk on the regular, but sometimes he would stop by for a chat, or I’d drive by to see how he was doing. Nothing too formal, you know. When you’re married for thirty years and have a child, you keep in touch. Just a little.

She went on to describe how she approached the house and what she saw when she opened the door. This didn’t require any censure or careful navigation. She wouldn’t have known how to lie about it anyway. Impaled in his chest was a knife, with some kind of design carved into the handle.

Do you know anyone who would want to harm him?

Glory paused again. If she was telling the truth, yes. There were probably a dozen folks that Sterling had crossed over the years—and those were only the ones she knew about—though she had no way to know if these were active grievances, or lessons learned and chalked up to the game. She suspected Delphine knew this, too, but she didn’t want to document years of transgressions in front of her daughter, not when her lip was still quivering.

Sir, I haven’t been married to the man for several years now. I don’t know the specifics of his social circle these days, or his comings and goings. And that was the full truth.

He narrowed his eyes on her. If asked to describe the look, she