G.T. Herren - Paige Tourneur 02 - Dead Housewives of New Orleans

by G. T. Herren

  As I might have mentioned, New Orleans is a very small town and Chanse swears there’s no more than one degree of separation among the entire population. Everyone in the city loves to gossip— I do include myself in that number. There must be something in the water here that makes us all storytellers. Athalie was right. If things behind the scenes at Barron Restaurant Group were indeed that fractious, it was strange no one had heard about it before.

  Which meant I could break the story in the magazine— and that made me one very happy editor-in-chief.

  And would make Rachel one happy publisher.

  This Grande Dames story was really turning into something.

  “The great irony, Paige, is that the favor I wanted to ask you has to do with another woman on that ridiculous show.” She went on, interrupting my reverie and dreams of issues flying off the shelves. She shook her head. “I’ve really been grande damed this morning.”

  I typed that into my phone— Grande Damed would make a great title for the article, maybe even to put on the cover.

  “I’m surprised they didn’t try to get you on the show,” I said, without thinking.

  Athalie looked at me as if I had completely lost my mind. “I would never expose myself to public ridicule in such a fashion,” she said, her voice dripping icicles. “I cannot imagine what kind of character flaw one would have to have in order to do so.” She finished her Mimosa and mixed herself another. “Rebecca’s excuses are just that— excuses. She’s an exhibitionist, of course. I’ve no doubt that horrible husband of hers made her have her breasts enlarged to the point of caricature, but he’s been gone over a year— why doesn’t she have them removed? Because she likes being looked at, that’s why. She is doing a good job running that company, I’ll give her that, but how could she she honestly think she was going to be depicted as a smart, competent, successful businesswoman on that show— I mean, really. Had she never watched any of the other versions before? They hardly ever show those women in a positive manner, do they?”

  “No, they really don’t.” I replied absently, and then the import of what she’d just said hit me. “You don’t watch, do you?”

  For the first time in all the years I’d known her, Athalie Tujague actually blushed. She took an enormous drink of her Mimosa, and said, in a very small voice, “Don’t tell Ryan, please. But yes, yes I do, and I’m not proud of it.”

  “Athalie, there’s nothing to be ashamed of,” I said, using every last bit of my will power to keep myself from laughing. She would never forgive me for laughing at her. But it was funny. Athalie was one of the most cultured women I’d ever known. “I watch, myself. You’d be surprised at how many people do.” I shrugged. “Just call it a guilty pleasure and stop worrying about it. Everyone watches movies or shows or reads books they’re ashamed of. It just means you’re human.” I couldn’t resist asking, though. “Which one of the shows is your favorite?”

  She grinned, and there was a devilish glint in her eyes. “Manhattan, of course. Those women are crazy.”

  “Aren’t they?” I shook my head. “I just want to throttle that Dana sometimes.”

  “Oh, I like Dana!” Athalie insisted. “She tells it like it is. She’s not a liar, like that horrible Laura. You can’t believe a word she says.”

  We discussed the pros and cons of the Manhattan cast for a good few moments, before I reluctantly decided to change the subject. “So, if Rebecca wasn’t the favor…”

  “Margery Lautenschlaeger.” Athalie seemed relieved not to be talking about her trashy television habits any more. “She really does need your help, and not for any such nonsense as Rebecca was spouting.” Her eyebrows furrowed together. “It has to do with that woman who used to work for the paper. You know her, don’t you? Didn’t you used to work with Chloe Valence? You were at the paper at the same time. She always loves to tell me what good friends you two are.” The corner of her mouth twitched again. “Now, I’d love to know why she went on the show, with her gay husband and all.”

  “Friends?” I took a few deep breaths to keep from exploding. “I wouldn’t say Chloe and I are friends.” Of course Chloe would tell Athalie we were friends, the social climbing bitch. I could gladly ring her scrawny neck. I’d never really given Chloe much thought since I stopped working at the paper. If I had, I would have realized that as Mrs. Remy Valence she would come into contact with Athalie socially.

  She sniffed. “I never thought you were. I really don’t much care for that woman. Something about her just rubs me the wrong way. Remy’s mother is spinning in her grave, undoubtedly.” She made a face. “Melanie had her problems, of course— for years that relationship with Roger was a little too Suddenly Last Summer, if you ask me.” She shuddered delicately. “You could have knocked me down with a feather when he got married. Terrible the way some mothers try to control their children’s lives.”

  You mean like getting their son and his girl friend to cancel their plans for the weekend to do you a favor?

  I would never dare say it out loud, of course.

  “So what exactly is Margery’s problem with Chloe?”

  “Chloe’s suing her.” Athalie held up her hands. “Don’t ask me anything— she didn’t tell me and I don’t want to know. I don’t know why she wants to talk to you about it, either. She just asked me to get you in touch with her.”

  “And did she also promise to write a substantial check to the symphony?”

  Her grin widened. “Oh, yes. Very substantial.”

  Chapter Four

  The rain seemed to be subsiding as I drove home down St. Charles Avenue.

  I got lucky, for once, too— the street I lived on was unusually empty of parked cars. There was even a spot in front of my house! I flipped an illegal U-turn (okay, maybe I had to go up on the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street to do it, but no cars, humans, property or animals were hurt) and parked right in front of my gate.

  And even better, the rain stopped as I turned the engine off. It was clearly not going to last for more than a minute or two— New Orleans storms often do that, like they’re reloading for a fresh assault. No fool, I made a dash for the front gate, splashing through various deep puddles. My hair was still damp from the earlier soaking, though thanks to Manuela, my sweats were dry. The rain might have taken a coffee break, but the wind hadn’t. Cold and strong, it blasted my still damp hair into what undoubtedly looked like a rat’s nest. With shivering hands, I managed to unlock the gate, and slammed it shut behind me. My teeth were chattering as I hurried along the path around the house to my apartment door. The gay couple who lived in the front apartment on our side of the house were avid gardeners, so the path was made even narrower by the enormous plants, trees, and bushes towering alongside the fence. Of course, in the rain every one of them turned into enormous dripping beasts— so a steady stream of muttered profanities spilled from my mouth as heavy cold drops of water pelted me on my way. I swore, like I did every time it rained, that I was going to buy a machete and commit fern genocide.

  I unlocked my door and switched on the ceiling lights. Skittle glared at me from the couch, where he was curled up on top of my thick blue wool blanket. It was cold inside the apartment— the primary drawback of eighteen-foot ceilings doesn’t become apparent until one is trying to heat the place. I dashed up the stairs and turned on the shower. What I really wanted to do was just curl up under my blankets, but I had work to do. I grabbed fresh sweats out of the laundry basket— making a mental note to put the laundry away— and went back into the now-steamy bathroom.

  I climbed into the hot shower with a sigh of relief. Within seconds the strong hot spray had the chill in full retreat from my body.

  As I stood there, I couldn’t help wondering why on earth Chloe Valence was suing Margery Lautenschlaeger. I’d been wondering that ever since Athalie told me. I was positive Athalie knew more than she was telling me, but she kept insisting Margery hadn’t told her anything about the case, or why she wanted to talk to
me. Athalie did have the grace to apologize for ruining my weekend plans, which of course only made me more suspicious— Athalie rarely apologized for inconveniencing her family. All she would tell me was that she would give my cell phone number to Margery, who was going to call me sometime today or tomorrow. I still didn’t understand why it had been necessary for me to change my plans for the weekend and come back to town. It certainly seemed like it could have waited until Monday— and I also didn’t understand why Athalie couldn’t have simply asked me on the phone if it was okay to give Margery my number.

  Why did it matter where I was, if Margery was just going to call me?

  It was all really strange.

  Margery could certainly afford the best lawyers in the country, so what was the big deal?

  I was dying to know what it was all about. The more I thought about it, the weirder it all seemed. What on earth could Margery have done that would warrant a lawsuit from Chloe?

  Twenty minutes later I was seated at my computer, warm and dry with my coffee maker brewing a fresh pot while I checked my email. There was an email from Rachel with an attachment; I downloaded it— it was the promotional package for the show— and the message: Paige— got hold of Abe Golden. He’s supposed to fly back to New York on Monday— given Fidelis’ death, that might change— but he said he was willing to meet with you tomorrow. He’s staying at the Ritz Carlton on Canal Street.

  She went on to give me his cell phone number and email address.

  I made a note of both, deciding to deal with him later. I quickly disposed of important emails— there weren’t many— and checked through the rest— there wasn’t anything that couldn’t wait until I was back in the office on Monday morning. I got up and poured myself a cup of coffee. It had started pouring rain again while I was in the shower, and it was almost dark as night outside my kitchen windows. I was walking back to the computer when it pinged to let me know I had a new email. I sat down, glancing out at the gray downpour— the path alongside the house to the front gate was already under an inch or so of water— and turned my attention to the computer. I inhaled sharply.

  There was an email with the subject line I know who you are. The return email address was all numbers.

  I clicked it open.

  I know who you are, I know where you’re from, I know everything there is to know about you.

  I exhaled, trying to stay calm and not panic.

  This wasn’t the first time I’d gotten an email like this, and it apparently wasn’t going to be the last. I’d gotten the first one the weekend Marigny Mercereau was murdered. I’d deleted that one, dismissing it as nonsense or the modern-day version of a prank phone call. I knew the numbers meant the emails were being sent from a cell phone’s mail program, and it was the same set of numbers every time. When I got the second one I’d started to delete it like I had the first— but stopped myself. Instead, I created a mail folder I named ‘weird emails’, and started saving them instead of deleting them. They were always a variation of the same thing— I know who you really are, I know where you’re from— so on and so forth.

  When I was a crime reporter, I saw far too many cases of women being harassed and stalked to just dismiss these emails outright. Too many women had lived to regret their initial dismissal of the behavior as not serious enough to involve the police. Almost every time I’d heard the story from a victim, I’d told myself if it ever happened to me I wasn’t waiting to be threatened or physically assaulted. I was going straight to the police.

  I reminded myself of that as I stared at the strange words on my computer screen.

  This was the fourth time I’d gotten one of these. After the third, I’d decided that if I got another I was going to have to do something about it. As I sat there staring at it, tapping my fingers on my desk, I swore at myself for being stupid. You don’t know this isn’t some crazy, you don’t know that it’s not just some dumb kid playing a prank, I scolded myself. You’re probably made a lot of enemies you aren’t even aware of when you worked for the paper. You’re lucky this hasn’t already become something serious. Do you really want to take the chance? If it is just some dumb kid— well, they need to learn this kind of shit isn’t funny. A visit from the cops might just be what the little punks need.

  I got my cell phone out of my purse, and hesitated.

  Call the police, or call Chanse?

  Two of my closest friends were police detectives, and my best friend was an honest to God private detective. I wouldn’t have to tell any of them the truth about my past— all I had to do was show them the emails and ask them to trace the number.

  I bit my lower lip.

  What are the odds it’s all just a coincidence and ISN’T your past catching up with you after all these years?

  And if it is, why now? It’s been almost sixteen years!

  It wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that it was just a coincidence.

  Was I willing to take that chance?

  But if you have Venus check into it, you’d have to tell her not to tell Blaine, who’s Ryan’s younger brother, after all, and then she’d want to know why you don’t want him to know. And if you tell her it’s because you don’t want him telling Ryan… then she’s going to want to know more before she does anything.

  Seriously, sometimes the small town aspects of New Orleans were quite frustrating.

  I glanced back at the computer screen. Would Chanse trace the numbers without asking me why? Would he want to know more? Chanse was incredibly curious. I’d have to come up with a major cover story for him.

  He’d be so hurt if he found out I’d been lying to him all these years.

  No, best not to ask any of them for help. I’ll figure out what to do about it later.

  I pulled up my contacts app and touched Venus’s cell phone number. I need to call Venus anyway, I thought, and see what she knows about Fidelis’ death.

  She picked up on the second ring. “Casanova.”

  “Hey Venus, it’s Paige.”

  She exhaled. “Aren’t you on the north shore with Ryan? What are you calling me for?”

  “Long story, but I didn’t make it over there,” I replied, moving the email to the folder marked WEIRD EMAILS. “Got called back into the city because of the Fidelis Vandiver murder.” It wasn’t true, but it was a good enough cover story. She certainly wouldn’t question it… and then I remembered Blaine. “Actually, I got called back into the city for something else— it’s a long story— but I am covering Fidelis’s death. What’s going on?”

  She moaned softly. “I might have known. I had a bad feeling when I saw your name on the caller ID.” Venus likes to pretend I’m a major pain in her ass, but I’ve helped her out on her cases a lot more than she likes to admit. And she knows she can trust me. I’ve never betrayed her confidence and gone public with anything she’s told me without her okay. “Yeah, Blaine and I caught the case. And yes, it’s most definitely foul play. You home?”

  “Yeah.” I glanced out the window. “I’m not going anywhere in this mess.”

  “Tell you what— I’m starving. I haven’t had a chance to eat all day. Me and Blaine’ll pick something up and stop by, that cool with you? Are you hungry? We can pick something up for you, too.”

  “Yeah, actually, I’m starved.” I replied, startled. Usually Venus was more cagey than this. Suspicious, I asked, “What’s going on?”

  “Can’t a woman want something to eat without you getting all up in her business?” Venus snapped. “See you in a few.”

  She hung up.

  I sat there staring at the phone for a few moments. Something was up— Venus never gave in that easily. She always made me work a lot harder than this for information.

  I’d known Venus for years— she was in charge of the investigation that actually made my reputation as a journalist and bounced me up from doing grunt work as the lowest of the low at the paper to actually reporting on crime in the city. I’d been running down a lead for a senior r
eporter at City Hall (when I said grunt work, I wasn’t kidding), which led me to the Central City neighborhood. I was still pretty new to New Orleans then, and I didn’t know a bad neighborhood from a good one. Thirsty, I’d parked on a side street and walked into a Mom and Pop grocery. I went to the cooler in the back to get a plastic bottle of Diet Coke, but it was a hot day and my hands were sweating. The damp bottle slid out of my hands, hit the floor, and rolled under a nearby shelf. I swore and got down on my hands and knees to pick it up. I had no sooner knelt down when the door opened and I looked up to see two teenagers enter the store in the big round mirror mounted in the corner. It happened so fast I didn’t have time to react. One of the teens pulled a gun and shot the man at the register three times in the chest. I froze, almost afraid to breathe, afraid to do anything that might let them know they weren’t alone in the store. It seemed like I was crouched there forever holding my breath, but I eventually found out— thanks to the security camera recording— that the whole thing took less than three minutes. The guy at the register was killed instantly.

  I’m not proud to admit that I was barely coherent when the first police officers showed up, along with the crime lab and the EMTs and everyone else associated with a crime scene. But when Venus arrived, she was able to calm me down and get my story. I was much less impressed with her partner, a good old boy in his late fifties with a pack of Marlboro Reds in his shirt pocket, a tomato sauce stain on his tie, and a beer gut that looked like it needed a wheelbarrow. He was a pompous, condescending sexist asshole, and I had nothing but sympathy for the cool, competent, professional black woman stuck with him as a partner. She got a uniform to drive my car home, while I followed in a patrol car driven by another uniform.