Slash and Burn
Page 1
Synopsis
The Angels and Demons Literary Weekend brings former New Orleans resident Winter Lovelace back to town from her gig as writer-in-residence at a prestigious women’s college in upstate New York. Winter desperately needs a break from the book she is struggling to finish, and hopes that this weekend will inspire her and trigger her creativity.
But while waiting for a friend in a hotel courtyard, a body lands at her feet, and Winter is dragged into a baffling mystery quite against her will. The victim is a notorious “m/m romance” author who is also a homophobe, and the list of people who wanted her dead is quite extensive. Winter herself is considered a suspect!
To make matters worse, Winter’s ex shows up to cover the story for a local news station…an ex Winter had hoped she’d never see again.
Slash and Burn
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Slash and Burn
© 2014 By Valerie Bronwen. All Rights Reserved.
ISBN 13: 978-1-62639-023-2
This Electronic Book is published by
Bold Strokes Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 249
Valley Falls, New York 12185
First Edition: February 2014
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Credits
Editor: Stacia Seaman
Production Design: Stacia Seaman
Cover Design By Sheri (GraphicArtist2020@hotmail.com)
This is for VAB, with love.
Chapter One
If there’s a worse way to start a writers’ conference than having a dead body practically land at your feet, I’d really rather not know what it is, thank you very much.
Despite my reputation—which in all fairness is somewhat earned—I actually was minding my own business when it happened. I had made dinner plans with one of my oldest and dearest friends and had just taken a seat in the inner courtyard of the Maison Maintenon, a boutique hotel in the French Quarter, to wait for him. Jerry had texted me just as I walked in the front door of the hotel to let me know he was running a little late and to wait for him by the swimming pool. I’ve always found tardiness to be more than a little irritating, and I despise the term “fashionably late.” Since when has being rude been in fashion? But in all the years I’ve known him, I don’t think Jerry has ever once been on time to meet me.
Hope always springs eternal, however. I’m always optimistic.
So, more than a little annoyed, I walked through the front door of the hotel and down the long front hallway. It was quite lovely, with a black-and-white parquet floor, high ceilings, and some amazing oil paintings on the bright-yellow walls. A huge chandelier’s crystal teardrops sparkled overhead, and there were some large doors on the right wall. There was a small desk set up just before another door at the back, which I could see opened into a narrow room with a door opened to a courtyard filled with lush plants. I nodded to the older woman sitting behind the desk as I walked past. There was a sign nailed to an enormous live oak in the courtyard reading Pool with an arrow pointing off to the right. Once I went down the three cement steps, I could see the building continued, making an L shape around the courtyard. There was a tall brick fence to my left. I turned and walked past the ice machine in the short passage to the swimming pool.
The sparkling pool glittered in the late-afternoon sun and almost filled this interior courtyard completely. There was a cement walkway about two feet wide on the two long sides of the pool, and there was another brick fence on the other side. When I emerged from the dark passage, I could see there was a three-story building opposite the main building with a couple of iron tables and chairs set up in the shade cast by the second-floor gallery. A gate through the brick fence led to another courtyard and what appeared to be a one-story cottage back there. It was almost obnoxiously humid, and I reached into my purse for a handkerchief to blot beads of perspiration from my forehead as I walked alongside the pool to get to the shade. I gratefully slid into one of the chairs, glad to be out of the harsh early-June sun. I dug my smartphone out of my cavernous quilted shoulder bag, answered some pressing emails, and scrolled through Facebook, reading about what various online “friends” were eating or doing at their gym, when I realized Jerry was now about fifteen minutes late.
I swore under my breath. Maybe it’s all the years spent teaching, but my tolerance for lateness is much lower than most people’s. Okay, it’s nonexistent—I’m known for locking the door when it’s time for class to start, and if you aren’t in your seat, too bad so sad for you.
I was firing off a strongly worded text to Jerry about his inconsideration when I heard a door open overhead, followed by an odd sound. My mind registered it as a grunt—like someone had lifted something particularly heavy. Curious, I looked up. This was immediately followed by the groan of wood—anyone who has lived in an old house knows that sound, and I’ve lived in plenty. There was another grunt. My curiosity growing, I pushed my chair back and started to stand up just as something large fell into my line of sight and landed with a sickening crunching sound on the cement just a few feet from where I was sitting.
I have always taken a great deal of pride in my ability to rise to every occasion, no matter what that might be. I am rarely, if ever, nonplussed, nor am I one of those people who think of the proper rejoinder hours too late for it to do any good. I am equally proud to say that over my many years I have gained a well-earned reputation for having the remarkable ability to remain calm under any circumstance and being able to think logically no matter what chaos is erupting around me. Had there been a category in my senior high school yearbook for “Most Likely to Stay Calm During a Crisis”—well, my photograph would have most deservedly been above that caption.
So, given that a body had just landed at my feet, I didn’t even pause to think.
I opened my mouth and let out a bloodcurdling scream.
Maybe not the most feminist-woman-in-control reaction, I thought as it echoed off the brick walls on every side of the courtyard and I began to regain my composure, but I defy anyone not to scream under these circumstances.
I took a few deep breaths to finish clearing my head and to help get my racing heartbeat back under control. I was vaguely aware of doors opening and shutting all around me. As my scream’s echo faded away and the darkness at the edge of my vision began to clear, I also could hear anxious voices. I stood up and gave the corpse a curious look.
I immediately recognized her. There was a spreading pool of blood beneath her head, and her gray-streaked reddish braids were floating in it. Given the glassy appearance of her wide-open, staring eyes, she was clearly dead with no chance of resuscitation. I’d apparently dropped my cell phone when I screamed, so I reached for it on the table and noticed that my hand was shaking. Get a grip, dear. A corpse just landed at your feet—no one would expect you to be completely calm under these circumstances, I said to myself as I deleted the strongly worded text I’d been writing Jerry and pulled up the phone keypad. I took a few deep breaths as I punched in 9-1-1. When a bored-sounding woman answered, I patiently explained what had happened and suggested she send an ambulance and the police. I ended the call and sat back down heavily in the metal chair. People started materializing in t
he various entryways to the courtyard and the staircase landings in the main building, gasping when they realized what they were looking at.
Jerry had told me that this massive building on Toulouse Street had once been a single-family dwelling. The back building and the wing dividing the two courtyards and connecting the back building to the front had been slave quarters. The Maison Maintenon had been converted sometime in the last thirty years or so into a boutique hotel. It was actually kind of hard to fathom that this enormous brick mansion had housed only one family. They must have been rolling in cash when they built the place back in the 1870s.The Maintenon family and their fortune were long gone—I think they died out during the First World War. I didn’t know who currently owned the place, but it was one of the few privately owned hotels remaining in the French Quarter, as chains had taken over the majority of them. The slave quarters were now deluxe luxury suites with kitchenettes and large living rooms. Since there was no gallery on the third floor of the slave quarters, I assumed the second-floor suites were two-story lofts. What had been the main house was four stories high, and I had no idea how many rooms there were for rent. As with many old homes in southeastern Louisiana, the staircase and hallways on the upper floors of the main building were open air from this side, and even more people were coming to the railings at the end of those halls to look down at the grisly scene. The ice machine in the dark passage into the jungle-like courtyard on the other side rumbled as it created another load of ice, and I heard the cockatoo that lived in a gigantic bamboo cage hanging from an ancient live oak branch over there squawk rather loudly.
I shoved my phone back into my shoulder bag and wished I had a glass of bourbon or wine or something—anything—alcoholic, and cursed myself for leaving my flask back in my own room before heading over, thinking I wouldn’t need it. I drummed my fingers on the tabletop, trying not to look back at the corpse.
That resolve lasted about twenty seconds, and I shook my head.
Because I recognized her—but I barely knew her.
Yesterday I wouldn’t have known her from Adam.
I had met her earlier in the day at the airport in Atlanta—a hellhole if there ever was one. As I made my way through the crowds in the enormous concourses to the gate for my connecting flight to New Orleans, I couldn’t help but wonder what Dante would have made of it. He certainly would have made it one of the outer circles of hell, I thought as I bought an overpriced bottle of water from a bored cashier in a convenience store and took a sip before venturing back out into the crowds. What I really needed was coffee, but I’d had several cups of airline coffee on the flight down and my stomach felt like sulfuric acid was trying to eat through the lining despite the antacids I’d been gulping down. I really needed to eat something, but the lines at every place I’d seen were so long and the connection so tight I was afraid to risk it.
I had to take one of those horrible underground trains to another concourse, where I gratefully sat down in the waiting area for Delta flight 3724. I quickly checked my phone for emails—and finding none that couldn’t wait, retrieved the book I was reading out of my bag. I was lost in Megan Abbott’s dark world of high school cheerleading, sipping at my water bottle and peacefully minding my own business when someone plopped down so heavily in the seat next to me that I dropped my book, promptly losing my place. I did manage to hang on to the bottle of water. Irritated, I gave her a stern look.
“Oh, terribly sorry, did I make you drop that?” she said in a squeaky high-pitched voice that seemed more appropriate for a twelve-year-old than the rather large older woman squeezed into the seat next to mine. She also didn’t sound in the least bit sorry. She had a British accent, but from an area of the country I couldn’t quite place. It definitely wasn’t London, and she didn’t sound posh—she definitely hadn’t been to Oxford or Cambridge. If I had to go out on a limb I would have said it was one of the northern counties. When I’d been in London for a year in college I’d dated a girl named Moira from Yorkshire, and there were definite similarities in this woman’s accent to Moira’s.
The woman blinked her watery, bloodshot blue eyes at me a few times, her enormous smile exposing yellowed, crooked teeth, and I could smell her stale breath.
I leaned forward and picked up my book. Be polite. Remember, you don’t know this woman and she didn’t make you do it on purpose. “No problem,” I replied, making my voice neutral yet pleasant and forcing a smile. “No harm done, really.” I started flipping through the pages to find my lost place.
“This is my first time in the States, you know,” she said, reaching into the huge canvas shoulder bag she’d plopped down in the seat on the other side of her and pulling out a bag of barbecue-flavored pork rinds. “I’m so bloody excited, I really am, but all I’ve seen so far is the inside of this bloody airport and of course the terribly rude people at your customs and I can’t say I much care for it so far.” She used her grayish, crooked front teeth to tear the bag open and grabbed a fistful of the pork rinds, which she shoved into her mouth, dusting the front of her polyester print blouse with crumbs.
Don’t engage, do not engage, I told myself as I found my place and started reading again, pointedly ignoring her.
I might have known she wasn’t the type to take the hint.
She hadn’t even finished chewing the abominable pork rinds before she started speaking again, crumbs flying out in every direction with each syllable. “I suppose New Orleans’ll be more of the same.” She sniffed disdainfully, rustling the bag as she dug out another handful of fried pig skin. “Americans really like having everything new and the same, don’t you? I simply don’t understand it. In England we appreciate history and character, you know. We don’t simply bulldoze over everything and try to make it all the same.” She chortled. “Can you imagine?”
Okay, that’s it. I marked the page with my bookmark and closed the book with a decisive snap. “Actually, New Orleans is nothing like Atlanta, and even Atlanta isn’t like its airport—after all, you can’t really judge London if all you’ve seen is Heathrow, can you?” I said slowly, counting to ten in my head as I turned my head to look at her, using my patented I’m-your-teacher-don’t-fuck-with-me glare.
She goggled at me again with her small, watery blue eyes as she shoved another handful of pork rinds into her mouth. She had a moon face, with several extra chins hanging underneath. Her skin was incredibly pale—the kind that can get a nasty sunburn just by stepping out into direct sunlight. Her wispy, coppery hair was shot through with gray and pulled back into a loose bun at the base of her neck. Stray strands floated about in the air around her head. Her nose was broad and flat, with a turned-up tip that unfortunately gave it a rather snout-like look. The polyester orange-and-brown geometric patterned blouse she was wearing had flounces at the neck and all the way down the front. The blouse was an unfortunate choice, as it made her look larger.
Her stomach was so large she was forced to sit with her brown stretch-panted legs spread apart. The blouse was short-sleeved, and her large, flabby upper arms jiggled every time she moved. There was also a slightly sour smell underneath the cloying lavender scent she’d drenched herself in, a combination of sweat and body odor. On her right wrist she was wearing a gold bracelet with what appeared to be Midnight character charms hanging from the links.
Oh dear God, she’s one of those, I thought with a slight recoil.
Midnight was a series of books, extremely popular with teenage girls (and some older women), that had sold millions upon millions of copies since the first one was released around the turn of the century. It was about a pair of twins—one boy, one girl—who find out, upon reaching puberty, that they are actually descended from a long line of witches when a mage shows up at the home of their (naturally quite abusive) foster parents. They are whisked away from their horrible home life to a training camp for supernatural teens, and of course, both become involved in turgid romances with classmates. The girl, Megara, apparently had the power to make
every male who came into contact with her fall madly in love with her, whether it was a ghost, a vampire, a werewolf, a shifter, a faerie—pretty much if it had a pulse and a penis, it fell madly in love with Megara. The young girls who were fans of the books became completely devoted to them, even choosing sides (or “teams,” as they preferred to be called) about who Megara should spend all of eternity with.
Her unfortunate twin brother, Orion, didn’t quite inspire the passion Megara did in the fans, at least not that I was aware of—but I didn’t follow the phenomenon that closely. It was hard to not get some knowledge by osmosis, though—the Midnight books and the films based on them were everywhere. The fans called themselves “Twelvers” (as in “twelve midnight”) and would line up at bookstores the night before the latest edition was going to be released. The books, films, and merchandise were a billion-dollar industry, and the not-particularly-talented author was so filthy rich she annually made the Forbes list of wealthiest Americans.
I’d tried to read the first one but it was so poorly written, the characters so derivative and cardboard that not only did I throw it away unfinished, I buried it in the bottom of a trash bag. I didn’t want anyone seeing it in my garbage and knowing that I’d actually wasted fourteen dollars on that crap.
The woman sitting beside me tilted her head back and emptied the debris left inside the bag into her mouth, then smiled at me.
Pork rind dust covered her teeth.
“So, what brings you to New Orleans?” I asked, knowing I’d hate myself in a moment for continuing the conversation rather than getting up and moving to another seat, but I was actually curious.
She beamed proudly at me before rummaging in her bag again. She pulled out a book and shoved it at me. “I’m going to Angels and Demons, the gay writers’ conference.”