by G. T. Herren
The Tujague house is a gorgeous Greek Revival style house with upper and lower galleries running the length of the front of the house. I turned off the Avenue, and my tires splashed up the driveway until I was safely beneath the side carport. There was another car parked there, but the little red Lamborghini convertible didn’t belong to Athalie or any of her six children. I turned off the engine, retrieved my phone and nervously called Ryan.
Ryan wasn’t happy, but he’d been dealing with his mother’s imperiousness his entire life. He knew only too well how futile it was to say no to Athalie. “The boys are sorry to miss you,” he said. “Maybe we can drive in later and stay at the apartment tonight? Maybe have dinner later?”
“That would be great!” Ryan was a partner in a law firm in the city, so he kept an apartment in the Poydras Tower on Poydras Street in the Central Business District. He really preferred the house in Rouen, though, and so did the boys. He sometimes talked about letting the apartment go, leaving unspoken the implication he would just stay with me when he was in the city. He often spent the night at my place already, but when the hint would surface I always managed to change the subject. I also knew he wanted to retire early and move to Rouen permanently, maybe start his own small law practice there, but that also begged the question of our future. “I miss you. Call me when you get in,” I said.
I hung up the call and dashed for the front door of the Tujague house. I ran pretty quickly, but was still drenched by the time I got to the veranda. My hair was plastered to the side of my head, my shoes, socks and sweats were soaked through. I knew I looked like the wreck of the Hesperus as I rang the bell. The look on the face of Manuela, Athalie’s housekeeper, pretty much said it all.
“Oh, Miss Tourneur,” she said in her accented English. “You take off those socks and shoes right now. I bring you a robe and some towels, you wait right here.” She hurried away on flat shoes that didn’t make a sound. I stood there, my teeth chattering, until she came back an armful of bath sheets, a robe, and a pair of slippers. She ushered me into an enormous bathroom just off the main hall. “Miss Athalie waiting for you in the parlor,” she said. “You go on in there when you dry. I’ll bring you some hot tea. Leave your clothes, I’ll put them in the dryer.”
I stripped off my soaked clothes and rubbed myself dry with the lush towels. I washed my face and found a brush in my purse and tried to make my hair look somewhat presentable. I slipped my feet into the slippers and lost myself in the enormous Turkish cotton terry cloth robe. I smiled at myself in the mirror. “Okay, here goes nothing.” I walked down the hall and rapped my knuckles on the door frame before walking into Athalie’s parlor.
The moment I walked in, I saw Rebecca Barron sitting in one of the cream-colored antique wingback chairs. I was instantly mortified. I could feel blood rushing to my face.
“Oh, my God,” I gasped out, as Rebecca’s big green eyes took in my bedraggled appearance. The corners of her mouth twitched as she tried not to laugh. “I wasn’t expecting…” I let my voice trail off. Manuela slipped up beside me and handed me a cup of steaming hot tea resting on a china saucer. I took a big sip of the tea as I sat down across from her and Athalie.
“I’ll put your clothes in the dryer,” Manuela said softly, disappearing on silent feet.
I smiled at Rebecca. I hadn’t known Athalie knew her, but then again she was always full of surprises. “I must look like something the cat dragged in.”
“Paige darling!” Athalie crossed the room to greet me, and gave me a quick hug. As usual, she was impeccably dressed. Even though it was a Saturday, she was wearing a pair of black silk slacks with a gray cashmere sweater, and black leather loafers that had probably cost more than my car payment for two months. Her make-up was flawless and not a silver hair was out of place.. “You poor thing! We’ll have to make sure you don’t catch a cold. I’d never forgive myself if you got sick because of me.” She grabbed both of my hands in hers and brushed her cheek against mine. “Thank you so much for changing your plans— I definitely owe you. Do you feel all right?” She brushed her hand against my forehead.
“I’m fine, really,” I replied, “Just got a little wet—”
“Don’t be absurd, you could catch your death of cold.” She dismissed my protests with a wave of her impeccably manicured hand. “Drink your tea, dear, and we’ll get you something stronger. Brandy. Have you met Rebecca Barron?”
“You probably don’t remember me,” Rebecca said, rising more gracefully than I would have thought possible, given the enormous implants. She took my cold hand in both of hers, which were warm and dry. “You came to the house to interview my late husband when you were still with the newspaper. Do you remember? We’d just been married.”
“Of course I remember,” I smiled back at her, quickly taking in that her enormous, wide-set eyes were bloodshot and her hands were trembling slightly. Her make-up wasn’t quite perfect— I could see mascara clumps on her lengthy eyelashes, and her pinkish lipstick was slightly smeared at the corners of her mouth. She was wearing a pair of black skinny jeans so tight they had to be painful, and her enormous breasts were straining the seams on her tight black T-shirt, with BARRON’S written across the front in gold glitter. She was taller than me, but it was hard to gauge her height, given the heels on the black patent Jimmy Choo pumps. Her thick platinum blonde hair was pulled into a side ponytail. “It’s been a while, though. How are you?”
Rebecca sat back down and took a healthy swig of what looked to be an enormous Bloody Mary. I couldn’t get over how tiny her waist was. Despite the enormous breasts— which had to be hell on her back— mine weren’t nearly as big and the drag sometimes made me want to cry— she couldn’t have been more than a size 2.
But how could she squeeze the breasts into a size 2?
Then again, she’d inherited the Barron restaurant empire intact. She could afford to have her clothes made for her if she wanted.
She could afford to buy anything she wanted, really.
“Would you like some brandy, Paige?” Athalie asked, walking over to the side bar. “I’ve a bottle of champagne open— care for a Mimosa?” Athalie drank only champagne during the day, switching to harder liquors after sunset. She’d told me once ‘a lady only sips champagne while the sun is out.’
What the hell, I thought. “Brandy’s fine. Just a little bit, though. I still have to drive home.”
Lightning flashed so close by that the immediate roar of thunder rattled the windows as Athalie poured herself another Mimosa and brought me a little crystal glass of brandy. I smiled and took a sip. It was good brandy, and it warmed me a lot more than the tea had. I drank it down, and placed it on the table with a glance over at Rebecca.
What on earth was going on here, and how did I figure into it?
Athalie took her seat, and looked expectantly back and forth between Rebecca and me, waiting for one of us to say something. When it became apparent neither one of us was going to talk first, she rolled her eyes slightly and said, “Paige, Rebecca needs your help.” She turned to Rebecca and raised her eyebrows, encouraging her to speak.
Rebecca took another giant gulp of her Bloody Mary before saying, “I might be in trouble, and you’re the only person who can help me.” There was a note of pleading in her tone.
I frowned and glanced over at Athalie. “I really don’t know what I can do for you, Rebecca.” I left unspoken the words unless you tell me what it is.
“As you might know, my husband left his entire estate to me when he died.” Rebecca took a deep breath, and I was afraid the fabric stretched across her breasts was going to shred. “Steve had two sons from previous marriages and three ex-wives. None of them were thrilled about the will, needless to say. But Steve’s sons had worked for him since they got out of college, and he wasn’t happy about the direction they were trying to take the company.” She made a face. “He wasn’t happy about Billy’s messy divorce. Billy is his older son.” she explained. The one I’d seen wit
h Fidelis at the premiere. Her face darkened. “Steve was furious about the divorce. He said Billy had made a laughing stock of the entire family, and he was even more furious because Billy wasn’t smart enough to have his wife sign a pre-nup.”
I frowned. “Why would that matter to Steve? It didn’t affect his money, did it?”
She shook her head. “No, but he thought it showed a lack of business sense. He said if he couldn’t trust Billy to have the sense to protect himself from losing everything in a divorce, how could he trust Billy’s business sense when it came to the future direction of the company?”
“What direction was that?” I was puzzled. Steve Barron, despite his enormous success, wasn’t popular or respected in a city that prized food. His original chain of fast food fish stores had been sold at an enormous profit, and he’d tried to break into the higher end restaurant market. The problem was, Steve wasn’t a chef, he was a businessman, and his success with the fast food chain had convinced him that was the way to run a restaurant. His first Barron’s had opened on St. Charles Avenue, taking over a building that had been empty for decades and turning it into a hideous display of multi-colored pastel neon and art deco atrocities that had pretty much appalled the entire city. The place was enormously successful— the food wasn’t bad and the servings were large enough to give great value for the price. But his not being a chef showed in the menu. Rather than hiring a great chef and giving him free reign to design the menu, Steve didn’t want to miss any opportunities. The menu at Barron’s was as varied and as thick as one at a TGIFriday’s or Chili’s. Locals tended to avoid Barron’s, but tourists loved it. Within a year he’d opened another one in Metairie, and within five years, there was a Barron’s in Houston, Dallas, Jacksonville, Tampa, Salt Lake City and Birmingham. Now, they were as ubiquitous as the Hard Rock Café.
“The boys wanted to—” she hesitated, looked over to Athalie for support, and continued, “they wanted to sell the chain and open a five-star restaurant. Steve wouldn’t have any part of it, and he knew once he was gone if he left them the restaurants, that’s exactly what they would do. So he left everything to me. Oh, he always intended to change the will back— he changed it really, just to show them he could and to let them know whose money and company it was, but then he had his heart attack and was gone.” She gave a slight little shrug. “It’s not my fault he died before he could do it.”
That’s cold, I thought but said nothing.
“You think I’m a bitch, don’t you?” Rebecca gave me a sardonic glance, a corner of her mouth twitching. She gave a little shrug. “I won’t bore you with the stories of how the two of them— and their mothers— did everything they could to make my life miserable.” She barked out a laugh. “Bleach your hair and get some implants and everyone thinks you’re an idiot. For the record, I have an MBA in Business from Duke University.” She leaned back in her chair. “I’ve been running the company since Steve died, and profits are up.”
“But—” I was impressed, and angry at myself for presuming she was a bimbo— which I had done even when I interviewed Steve. “Why did you agree to do a reality show?”
She glanced over at Athalie, who gave her a slight nod as though giving her permission to speak, which was odd. Rebecca cleared her throat. “I joined the show because I wanted to— my stepsons are contesting the will and fighting me for control of the company.” She blew out a breath. “Now I realize it was a mistake— but my thinking was, if I went on this show and could show everyone in America what a good businesswoman I actually am…” Her mouth twisted. “After seeing the way they edited the first episode last night, I’d swear Abe Golden was on my stepsons’ payroll.”
I had to agree with her. The woman sitting across the room from me today was nothing like the woman I’d seen on the screen last night. The show had clearly been edited to make her look and sound like someone who could barely read, rather than the cool, competent professional head of a major restaurant company.
“And that Fidelis Vandiver.” Her face twisted into a sneer. “That fucking bitch needs to be slapped.”
Obviously, she hadn’t heard the news.
“I got the distinct impression there’s some history there,” I said cautiously, deciding to withhold it for the moment.
She again glanced over at Athalie. “Fidelis was involved with Steve briefly— before he met me.” She rolled her eyes. “She apparently thought she was going to be the next Mrs. Barron. Steve thought she was an idiot— he never would have married her. But she resents me. She’s said some pretty awful things about me around town… and she’s working with my stepsons, I know it.”
“But I really don’t understand.” It was my turn to look at Athalie, whose face was completely blank and unreadable. “Why did you agree to do with show with her if…”
“I didn’t know she was a member of the cast.” Rebecca finished her Bloody Mary and set her glass down. “I didn’t know until Margery’s cocktail party who the other women were, other than Margery, of course. I’ve known Margery for years— obviously, we use Black Mountain Liquor for the local restaurants. I was horrified when I saw Fidelis there.” Her jaw set. “And to hear the things she said about me! Things that are going to air on national television!”
I made a mental note to get Rachel on the trail of getting a tape of the premiere episode, again berating myself for getting so stoned before the viewing. I couldn’t really remember anything specific that Fidelis might have said that deserved such ire.
Then again, I wasn’t in the middle of an ugly legal battle for control of a multi-million dollar food empire.
“The point being,” Rebecca went on when I didn’t say anything, “that I need your help. No one really knows about what’s going on at BRG behind the scenes, and I want to go public, get my side of the story out there.” She glanced over at Athalie again. “And Crescent City is where I want the story to break.”
I glanced over at Athalie again, raising my eyebrows.
“Rebecca and I have become friends— she’s very interested in the symphony,” Athalie replied. “So, of course, when she called me this morning I immediately knew you were the right person to call.”
It was all I could do not to laugh. Ryan was going to be livid that this was the ‘emergency’ that disrupted our weekend plans. It was perfectly obvious to me this entire thing was merely a gambit to get Rebecca to write a big check to the symphony, if she hadn’t already done it. Athalie not only sat on their board, but she was also on their development committee.
“And of course, that horrible Vandiver woman can’t be allowed to get away with this,” Athalie continued. “A truly horrible woman. All that work on her face— she barely looks human any more, and all that bronzer she slathers on! Why, when she came to the tea party fundraiser I had for the ballet association last summer, she left stains on my chairs! She’s just a walking, talking human stain.”
I’m afraid I stared.
“What?” Athalie said. “I said ‘human’, didn’t I?”
“Um, I hate to break it to you, but Fidelis Vandiver is dead.” I bit my lower lip and looked back and forth between the two of them. “I heard it on the radio this morning.”
“Dead?” Athalie’s hand went to her throat. “But she was so young!”
“The police suspect foul play,” I replied, watching Rebecca. Her face had gone pale, but other than that, she didn’t react. “Rebecca, you said you believe she was working with your stepsons?” I remembered again the little interaction between Billy and Fidelis at the party. “Billy was at the premiere last night, wasn’t he?”
She nodded. “We don’t speak except through lawyers, so we kept our distance.”
It couldn’t hurt to ask. “Who was the woman he was with?”
“I didn’t see him with anyone.” She swallowed. “Fidelis is dead. Wow.”
“I’m afraid so.” I got up and refilled my glass with brandy. “But I can tell you that Crescent City already planned on doing a feat
ure story on the cast.” I took another sip of the brandy and sat back down. I pulled my phone out of my purse, and switched on the calendar function. “I can come to your offices on Monday morning if you like—” my entire morning was free, but there was a hideous staff meeting that afternoon “— or I can come to the house.”
She gave me her private cell phone number, which I plugged into my phone along with the address of her office. She gave me a quick air kiss, hugged Athalie, and exited in a cloud of Poison. I heard the front door close, and I turned back to Athalie. “No offense, Athalie, but this was what was so important that I had to come back to town? Ryan’s going to be furious.”
She stared at me for a moment before she burst out laughing. It took her a few moments to get hold of herself, even going so far as to dab at her eyes with a napkin. She took another drink of her Mimosa, and once she’d swallowed, she put it back down on the table and leaned forward. “No, that’s not why I called you. That was just a bizarre coincidence.” She started to laugh again, but managed to get control of herself in the nick of time. “I’d already called you when she showed up unannounced.” She pursed her lips. “A sign of bad breeding, you know.” She waved her hand. “Yes, I am trying to get a substantial donation from her for the symphony, and of course, I am not above using your position at the magazine to get Rebecca to open her checkbook.” She gave me a smile that would frighten someone who didn’t know her as well as I. “But when she came here with her absolutely ridiculous story, wanting my help to convince you to do a puff piece on her— and you were already on your way here, well, what could I see it as besides divine providence?”
“The Lord does work in mysterious ways,” I replied. I knew better than to rush Athalie. She’d get to the point eventually.
“Indeed.” She nodded her head. She chuckled again. “I have to say, the Barron civil war is going to be interesting to watch, don’t you think? It’s amazing how they’ve managed to keep this all so quiet. Of course, after the will was read, I’d heard something, you know, the sons were going to fight the will, all of that nonsense. But since it wasn’t really more than idle gossip, I just assumed everything was fine.”
