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

by G. T. Herren

  “Don’t be stupid, Mother.” Amanda Beth finally said. “She might have been suing you— and the network— but it was all about him.” Her face twisted. “Mother had enough of Chloe’s behavior and said something she shouldn’t have. It was true, of course, but Chloe and her husband threatened legal action.” She rolled her eyes.

  I turned away from Amanda Beth and smiled at Serena. “You said Fidelis and Chloe hated each other?” I asked.

  Serena nodded. “Serious bad blood there, but don’t know what it was about.”

  “Did you know what it was about, Mrs. Lautenschlaeger?”

  “Margery,” she said, emptying her own martini glass and setting it back down. “Call me Margery, Paige. And no, I didn’t know what their problem was with each other.” She sighed. “Why I ever let you talk me into going on that horrible show, Amanda Beth, I’ll never know. If this stupid lawsuit wasn’t bad enough, murder?” She rubbed her eyes. “I shall never leave this house again.”

  “Drama queen.” Amanda Beth shook her head. She gave me a not-pleasant smile. “Paige, pay no attention to my mother.”

  “It was your idea for your mother to be a Grande Dame?”

  Amanda Beth nodded. “They originally asked me, but I thought Mother would be better suited to it.” She shrugged, her shoulders lifting slightly. “These shows all have a formula, you know, and when Abe Golden told me who had already agreed to do the show, I knew that Mother was a better fit— they didn’t have an older woman to be the voice of reason, to be a mothering influence on the rest of the cast, to, you know, pour oil on the troubled waters and smooth out differences and disagreements between the women.”

  I nodded. I knew exactly what she meant. This role was filled by Alison Flax on the Marin County show, a wealthy widow who mentored the younger women, and was always available for advice, mediation, and support. Alison Flax was the gold standard the ‘voice of reason’ women on the other franchises aspired to be. She had parlayed her enormous popularity into a nationally syndicated call-in radio advice show, and had published several bestselling books.

  “Obviously, I was wrong,” Amanda Beth finished grimly. “Rather than calming things down, Mother jumped into the conflicts with both feet.”

  “That’s a little unfair,” Serena said. “Amanda Beth, you weren’t always around. You don’t know how awful those two bitches were to your mother.” Serena turned to me. “Almost from the very start, they both were gunning for Margery— and the rest of us, for that matter.” She patted her lacquered hair, which sprang back into place once she stopped. “And each other.”

  “I couldn’t believe how rude they both were to me, in my own house,” Margery continued. “They didn’t show any of it last night, Paige— it was all left on the cutting room floor, I guess. I wanted to throw them both out of my party, to be honest, but I was contractually obligated to have them there.” She made a face. “But that’s neither here nor there, I suppose. Chloe and her husband’s attorneys sent me— and the network— a cease and desist letter.”

  “Why?”

  “She called Remy Valence out as a gay man,” Amanda Beth replied with a laugh, her eyes gleaming maliciously. “And she did it on camera!”

  “It was hilarious!” Serena laughed along with her. “You should have seen the look on Chloe’s face— it was priceless. When the episode airs— if it airs, I suppose— you can bet I’ll be watching that scene over and over again.” Her smile widened. “It was brilliant.”

  “It wasn’t my proudest moment,” Margery admitted. “But I’m not sorry I did it. She needed to be put in her place. And then for her to act all wounded.” Her face twisted. “Besides, it’s not like everyone in New Orleans doesn’t already know about Remy and his little apartment in the Quarter.”

  I hadn’t known, but it didn’t surprise me.

  “If you have things you don’t want the world to know, you don’t go on a reality TV show,” Margery went on. “I knew that’s how it all worked, you know— if I had any deep dark secrets I wouldn’t have done the show. But Chloe—”

  Amanda Beth cut her mother off. “Chloe thought she could have her cake and eat it, too. You know she put herself through college as a stripper in Biloxi, don’t you?”

  “I’ve heard that,” I said, very carefully, “but I was never sure if it was true.”

  “Oh, it’s true.” This from Serena. “That’s where she first met Billy Barron— and where she first started sleeping with him.” She shook her head, and her earrings caught the light and flashed fire. “That’s why she and Fidelis hated each other, you know. They were both sleeping with him, all these years— even when he was married.” She waved her hand. “His wife had no idea what was going on— as it was, she took him to the cleaners in the divorce— but if she’d known about the other women?”

  My head was spinning. Finally, after a brief moment of silence, I said, “And now they’re both dead. Tell me, though, Margery, I’m curious. Why was it so important you talk to me about all of this? Surely you have enough lawyers on hand to handle the cease and desist letter from the Valences. I really don’t understand what I have to do with any of this.”

  “Now that she’s dead it doesn’t matter.” Margery stood up. “I’m terribly tired, if you’ll excuse me?” She walked over to me, and leaned down. “I’m so sorry to have dragged you into this, Paige, and I do appreciate your willingness to help me. I won’t forget it.”

  She swept out of the room.

  “She wanted you to expose Remy and Chloe both in Crescent City,” Amanda Beth said with a sigh. “But she’s right, it doesn’t really matter any more.”

  “Let me ask you something.” I leaned forward in my chair. “You seem pretty certain that Chloe was a stripper—”

  Serena interrupted me. “She wasn’t just a stripper, she was a whore.” She nodded at Amanda Beth. “Give it to her.”

  Amanda Beth opened her purse and pulled out a manila envelope, which she passed to me. “Go ahead, open it up. I paid good money for this stuff.”

  I opened the envelope, and slid out a stack of photographs. The one on top was Chloe— a much younger Chloe, to be sure, but it was easily recognizable as Chloe. She was stark naked, sitting on a bed with her legs spread wide.

  “Talk about morally corrupt,” Serena sneered. “The tramp.”

  Chapter Seven

  I woke up when Skittle started smacking me in the face with his paws.

  As soon as my eyes opened, he immediately went into love-kitty mode, purring and head-butting me. Blearily, I looked over at my alarm clock. Seven thirty-one. “You couldn’t let me sleep in this morning?” I said in an aggrieved tone, pushing the blankets aside and standing up. He leaped off the bed and started twining himself, still purring, around my legs. I sighed, staggered over to the plastic box where I kept his food, filled his bowl, and refilled his water as well before going into the bathroom and washing my face. I scrubbed my teeth, scowled at myself in the mirror, and headed downstairs.

  I’d set the coffee-maker to brew before I’d gone to bed, so the kitchen smelled like fresh brewed coffee. I sighed and gratefully poured myself a cup. I tossed a bagel into the toaster and washed down two Ibuprofen tablets with coffee. My head ached slightly, but it wasn’t that bad. I gingerly reached to the back of my head and felt the lump, wincing with pain as my fingertips made contact. Note to self— don’t touch lump again. As I waited for the bagel to pop up, I looked over at my desk. All the windows around it were covered in condensation, which meant it was probably muggy as hell outside. But there was a lot of light and it wasn’t raining any more. When the bagel popped up, I smeared peanut butter on it— fat free peanut-butter, stupid diet— and took two big swigs of the coffee before sitting down at my desk.

  The manila envelope Amanda Beth Lautenschlaeger had handed me last night was propped up against my computer screen. I took a bite out of the bagel and resisted the overwhelming urge to burn the damned pictures.

  Just having them
in my apartment made me feel slimed.

  I hadn’t reviewed the pictures in Margery’s drawing room— I’d made some excuses and my escape shortly after they’d been plopped into my lap. I’d saved that pleasure for when I got home.

  They were easily the most revolting pictures I’d ever seen in my life.

  I’m not a shrinking violet, nor have I been particularly sheltered. I was a crime reporter for the Times-Piacyune for years. I’ve interviewed rape victims. I’ve seen dead bodies or the aftermaths of shootings and car accidents. I’ve seen pornographic films and magazines. I’ve seen naked bodies before. I’ve certainly had more than my fair share of sexual partners in my lifetime.

  But these pictures— maybe it was because I knew and disliked the model, I don’t know. But as I flipped through them, each one more degrading than the last, I found myself starting to feel sorry for Chloe. She was so young in the pictures— she couldn’t have been much older than twenty, if that— and the forced, pained smile and the sadness in her eyes almost made me want to cry. No woman— girl— should ever have to degrade herself this way, and her youth made it even sadder.

  I couldn’t imagine being so desperate for money that I would pose that way.

  It broke my heart.

  And now, knowing she had done this, my entire perspective on her had changed.

  No wonder Chloe had been so prim and proper at the paper. No wonder she was so desperate to have people think she was a lady. No wonder she’d been willing to marry a closeted gay man for social position and financial security.

  It was the final piece of the puzzle that solved the mystery of who she was, and why she was the kind of woman she’d been.

  I’d felt like the worst kind of hypocrite when I’d gone to bed, and this morning in the harsh morning light filtering through the condensation on my windows, I was truly sorry Chloe was dead. I wanted to apologize to her for all the terrible thoughts I’d had about her, all the times I’d been mean to her. Sure, Chloe had been awful to me and to other women, and the way I’d treated her had been a reaction to that. But now? Now I could understand her better.

  We had a lot more in common that I’d ever thought possible.

  Like me, Chloe had reinvented herself and tried to put a past she was ashamed of behind her. I’d heard she was originally from Monroe. If she’d had to work as a stripper and prostitute to put herself through college— well, the odds were she didn’t come from a particularly good background. And these pictures…

  Amanda Beth and Serena had explained to me that once Margery got the cease and desist letter from the Valences’ lawyer, they’d taken matters into their own hands. The great irony was Serena, looking for a private eye to dig up dirt on Remy and Chloe, had turned to her cousin-in-law Barbara for help. Barbara, of course, had referred her to none other than my best friend, Chanse MacLeod. Chanse had been the one who dug up these pictures of Chloe— and the equally sordid ones at the bottom of the stack, the ones of Remy in flagrante delicto with another man. I didn’t blame Chanse for not telling me— his clients paid for confidentiality, naturally, and a private eye who blabs to people won’t be in business for long. I didn’t want to know how he got the pictures that certainly would have ended any threats of legal action from the Valences once and for all.

  I had to give him credit— he sat there next to me in the theater Friday night, watching Remy and Chloe pretending to be a happily married couple and didn’t even flinch or blink or say something snarky.

  I seriously doubt I would have been able to keep a straight face through that performance had I known about these pictures then.

  I picked up the envelope and swiveled in my chair, opening the top drawer of my little file cabinet. I placed it in the very back, and closed the drawer.

  Again, I couldn’t help but wonder why someone with so much to hide would go on a reality television show.

  I finished the bagel and opened my web browser. I typed in the web address for the cable channel that aired the Grande Dames shows. I clicked on the ‘Grande Dames’ button, and the page promoting the New Orleans franchise opened. I examined the promotional photo of the women, sitting on the veranda of a Greek Revival-style home in formal dresses, all smiling at the camera. I leaned back in my chair.

  Two of them were now dead. I stroked my chin. Fidelis and Chloe hadn’t liked each other, dragging the other women into their feud. I clicked on the bio button for Chloe again, reading the bio some publicist for the network had obviously written for her. I scrolled down, glancing through the bios for the other women. I stared at the words and the glamorous headshots of the women next to their bios.

  I’d always assumed the shows were staged— that most of the feuding and arguments between the women were actually engineered by the producers of the show. After all, no one watched to see the women get along and be friends. We watched for the drama, after all. Each woman would write a blog for the website after each episode aired, and viewers could post comments— either in support or haranguing her. There were numerous other websites devoted to the shows and other reality shows, as well. Some websites even had writers do recaps, mocking the characters and the drama. Some of them were absolutely hilarious— more fun to read than the shows themselves were to watch. And of course, every celebrity ‘news’ magazine had pretty much abandoned film and television stars to focus on this new breed of celebrity— narcissists who liked to air their dirty laundry on national television. It was now an entire industry, all based on manufactured drama that was really more along the lines of junior high school mean girls behavior. The other franchises of the show’s story lines pretty much followed the classic tropes refined on the old soap operas— misunderstandings, back-stabbing, talking behind each other’s backs.

  But the New Orleans bitches weren’t playing around— they’d raised the ante in ways I would have never dreamed of— and I was sure even Abe Golden had expected it to go so far.

  Threatening each other with lawyers and hiring private detectives to dig up dirt on the other cast members was raising the bar far higher than any of the other shows had ever dared to go.

  Looking through the photographs had been an eye-opening experience about my own behavior.

  I’d always watched these shows with a smug air of superiority regarding the women. It wasn’t even a conscious thing with me. They might have the money to wear designer clothes and have beautiful homes and jewelry and take fabulous vacations in exclusive places— places I certainly could never afford to go— but I felt like I was better than they were. I didn’t indulge in the kind of petty junior-high-girls-in-the-cafeteria behavior they did, which made me a better person. I could moralize about their behavior, discussing it with Chanse or posting comments on their blogs or the Huffington Post’s recap, all the while believing myself above the fray.

  Yet I had never told Ryan the truth about my past— and even after having decided to come clean with him, I kept putting it off. I’d been relieved when Athalie called me— hadn’t even tried to put up any resistance to her insistence that I come back to New Orleans.

  How was I any better than Chloe? She’d tried to bury her past and reinvent herself. I’d done the same thing. I’d run away to start over, even changing my name. And for the last fifteen or sixteen years, rather than dealing with any of it, I kept pushing it to the back of my mind. I’ll deal with that some other time was the mantra I kept repeating. And now almost sixteen years had passed.

  I opened another tab and went to my email inbox. I clicked on the ‘stalker’ folder, and the list of weird emails popped up on the screen, all from the same series of numbers.

  I did a web search for the area code of the first three numbers of the return addresses.

  Hattiesburg, Mississippi.

  Less than three hours away.

  I plugged the entire address into an online reverse directory, but nothing came up. The phone number was either unlisted or blocked from the public.

  I got my cell phone and scrolled
through the contacts until I found the one I was looking for. I pressed the call button.

  “Hey, Paige. What’s up?”

  “Abby, are you busy?”

  Abby Grosjean was Chanse’s business partner, and she was absolutely amazing. In her mid-twenties, she’d put herself through the University of New Orleans with a dual major in Pre-Law and Theater by working as a dancer at the Catbox Club on Bourbon Street. She’d been accepted into Loyola’s law school, but couldn’t swing the tuition. Chanse had originally hired her on a part-time basis to do some research for him, and she’d proved to be a natural at investigation. Her theater training, coupled with the years dancing on Bourbon Street, gave her a leg-up on disguises and surveillance work. After she’d proven herself to be invaluable, he’d helped her get licensed as a private eye and brought her on board as a partner.

  “Nah, got nothing going on at the moment. What d’ya need?”

  “It’s not much of anything, really, but I’ll pay you for your time, of course.” I took a deep breath. Chanse probably wouldn’t charge me for this, but I wasn’t ready to answer any of the questions he’d ask me if I went to him. “I’ve been getting some weird emails from a cell phone. I was able to get a bead on the area code, of course— Hattiesburg— but I can’t trace the number.”

  “Probably a disposable cell,” Abby replied. “Is that all you want, a trace on the number?”

  “Well, if it’s disposable, it can’t be traced, right?”

  “Depends.” She laughed. “It’s not easy, but it can be done. They usually come with a small amount of minutes, and if they never reload the minutes, no, it can’t be traced. But to buy more time, you have to have a form of payment— you can’t use cash. It has to be a debit or a credit card. Most people don’t think about that— but then, most people aren’t criminals, either.”

  “Terrific.” I looked at the list of emails. “I’ve been getting these off and on for a few weeks now.”