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

by G. T. Herren

  “Pay as you go phones are ridiculously overpriced. I think they charge like thirty-five cents per minute, minimum. And data— emails, the Internet— is even more expensive. Sounds like whoever’s sending you the emails had to have re-upped at least once.”

  I blew out a sigh of relief. This was better than I’d hoped. “Just send me an invoice as soon as you’re finished, of course.”

  She laughed again. “Shit, Paige, I can’t charge you for that. That’ll take no more than ten minutes, tops— Jeph could do this with his eyes closed while playing Halo.” Her live-in boyfriend, Jephtha, had a natural gift for computers. That was actually how Chanse and I had met her— I’d done a story on Jephtha when he got out of jail. He’d grown up in the lower 9th ward with an absentee father and a mother who didn’t really give a shit what he did. Once he was in high school, his aptitude for computers showed itself, and unfortunately he got caught doing some hacking and on-line credit card fraud. He got his GED while in prison, but once he got out couldn’t get any work other than washing dishes or something just as menial. I’d done a story on him, using him to illustrate how promising kids’ futures were being thrown away in Orleans Parish, and Chanse hired him to do some computer work for him. It worked out so well Chanse put him on a regular retainer. I’d even had Jephtha do some research for me from time to time. Between Abby’s working with Chanse and Jephtha’s freelance work, they were doing quite well for themselves. Jephtha’s dream, though, was to design computer games. He’d already done a couple that I thought were amazing. “What’s the number?”

  I gave it to her, adding, “Well, how about if I buy you lunch at Hoshun? Does that work for you?”

  “It’s overpayment, but I’ll never turn down some General Tso’s chicken.” I heard her rustling around doing something. “I’ve got to do some final interviews with some people to wrap up another case, and that’ll probably take the rest of the morning… I should be done with them around one, and then I can get started on this.” She hummed for a few moments. “Like I said, it shouldn’t take long. But to be safe, give me a couple of hours. Want to meet at three, or can you wait that long to eat?”

  “Perfect.”

  “Cool— hey, did you see the news about those Grande Dames?” Abby whistled. She didn’t watch the shows— or at least, like so many, didn’t admit to it— and often mocked both Chanse and me for being addicted, saying, “Why don’t you just read a book instead? You know, something that won’t kill brain cells?”

  “The murders? I was actually the one who found Chloe Valence.”

  She perked up immediately. “Are you investigating? You need some help?”

  “Well, I’m doing a piece for the magazine,” I said cautiously. “The murders, obviously, changed the direction of the piece some.”

  “I would imagine so.” She laughed. “Look, I’ll help if you want me to. Once I close this open case file this morning, I’ve got nothing else going on right now— Jeph is in the midst of programming a new game, and I’m bored out of my skull. On the house.”

  “Better not let Chanse hear you offering to work for free,” I replied, thinking about it. I hated the thought of not paying her, but she was offering— it’s not like I was asking her to work for me as a favor. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

  “Are you going to make me beg?”

  I laughed. “All right— do this for me. See if you can find a connection between the victims— I mean besides the show, obviously. There’s a story— not confirmed— that they were both having an affair with the same man.”

  “Billy Barron?” She snorted. “Yeah, right.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “They weren’t his type.” She replied. “He’s a regular at the Catbox.” She still danced there from time to time, to ‘keep her hand in,’ as she put it. I think she actually liked dancing but just didn’t want to admit it. Plus, the other girls who worked there were good sources of information. Every straight man in New Orleans, it seemed, wound up there at one time or another. “Billy likes them exotic— Asians, Latinas, light-skinned black girls— and he likes them young. You can take that to the bank, Paige. If he was involved with Fidelis Vandiver and Chloe Valence, I’d be really surprised if it was sexual. Well, I can’t say that for 100%, of course— anything’s possible, I suppose— but I’d be very surprised.”

  The young can be so cruel. I decided not to remind her that Chloe was actually a few years younger than me. “All right— see what you can find out. And I’ll see you at Hoshun at three.”

  I disconnected the call and put down my phone on my desk. I frowned at Skittle, who was calmly grooming himself on top of my file cabinet. “If they weren’t having an affair with him, what was going on there?” He chirped at me and climbed into my lap, curling up into a ball and going to sleep almost instantly.

  What had Rebecca Barron said? Fidelis thought Steve was going to marry her, and he married me instead. She’s helping my stepsons try to take the company away from me.

  I cursed at myself. It was possible, of course, that Fidelis had no qualms about sleeping with a father and son— but most people outside of a daytime soap would. Serena, Margery and Amanda Beth had all three agreed there was some animosity between the two dead women— and Billy Barron was the only link that had turned up so far. It was, come to think of it, rather weird that three of the women on the show were connected through Billy Barron. None of the other shows had these kinds of connections between the women— had Abe Golden known all this when he cast them? I found it hard to believe a network wouldn’t have done a thorough vetting of potential cast members. So, surely he had to know.

  I rubbed my eyes and stood up. If Billy had already lawyered up, there was no point in my trying to talk to him. Loren McKeithen would have told him not to say a word to anyone about the case— and Loren would have a stroke if Billy talked to a reporter. I needed to go down and give them a statement about finding Chloe’s body. It was just past nine in the morning. I’d shower and drive down there, and maybe Venus or Blaine would be willing to share some information over beignets and coffee— there was a little café right next to the district station in the Quarter.

  Venus was more than happy to join me for coffee and beignets after I signed my statement. I’d included Blaine in the invitation, but he blanched at the suggestion. “White flour deep fried in grease and covered in powdered sugar? Have you lost your mind?”

  “It wouldn’t hurt you to eat something unhealthy once in a while,” Venus said as we walked past his desk. “Might make you a little less bitchy.”

  “It’ll take a hell of a lot more than grease, flour and powdered sugar to pull that off,” I said as we went down the front steps to the precinct. I could smell the grease from the fryer at the Café Beignet right next door to the police building— the station and the little café actually shared a patio. Once we’d placed our orders, we sat down at a white wrought iron table on the brick patio. It was a beautiful morning, in the low seventies. An occasional wisp of white cloud was the only blemish on the porcelain blue sky. Café Beignet wasn’t crowded— the majority of tourists were at Café du Monde on Decatur Street, which was better known. I sighed. “So, how’s the investigation going?”

  Venus sighed. Today she was wearing a dove gray silk blouse over navy blue slacks. A small gold cross on a thin gold chain hung at her throat. “You can imagine. All the higher-ups want this closed and the sooner the better. Abe Golden and the network are screaming, the Mayor’s got his panties in a wad, and when the Mayor’s not happy— well, it all trickles down, you know?” She made a face. “Like we can do anything about it? How were we supposed to keep Billy Barron from braining those two women with a baseball bat?”

  “So, Chloe was killed the same way?”

  Venus nodded. “When you look at the pictures of their injuries, they’re almost identical. Definitely the same killer, I’d say— if not, then the killers were the exact same height and used the exact same weapon,
or at least similar ones.” She scratched her head. “Listen to me. Obviously it was two different weapons— the killer left the murder weapon behind at Fidelis Vandiver’s. But definitely two baseball bats.” She put her hands together like she was gripping a baseball bat, and swung them, making a noise eerily similar to a bat connecting with a baseball. “Killer swung for the bleachers, too.”

  I made a face. “Nice analogy.”

  They called our number, and Venus winked at me as she got up. “I’ll get it— sorry if I made you a little squeamish.” While she walked in to get our tray, I pulled out my phone and checked my email. I smiled to myself— Rachel had emailed me with a time for my meeting with Abe Golden. I glanced at my watch— he was staying at a suite at the Ritz-Carlton on Canal Street. It wouldn’t take more than five minutes or so to walk there— and I had an hour. I could relax and see what else Venus was willing to share.

  She placed an orange plastic tray on the table. I picked up my cup of coffee, added Sweet-n-Low, and took a bite from one of my beignets. It was heavenly, worth every calorie— tomorrow all I’d be able to eat would be salad but I didn’t care. That was tomorrow, and for now I was going to enjoy every bite.

  Venus took a bite and wiped powdered sugar off her chin. “Loren McKeithen, as you can imagine, is beside himself about losing Billy’s alibi witness this way— but as you might guess, he’s already spinning theories that Billy giving Chloe’s name as his alibi proves his innocence. Why would he then turn around and kill his alibi witness?” She took another bite and chewed thoughtfully. “Billy Barron’s not that bright, to be honest— he certainly didn’t impress me with his intelligence. He also claims his championship bats are all missing. Of course, he never reported them stolen and never reported a break-in to his house, so who knows?” She shrugged slightly and took another swig of her coffee.

  “Yeah, but would he really kill his own alibi witness?” I dusted powdered sugar off my fingers before picking up another beignet. “Although I suppose it would be a really clever defense— ‘ladies and gentlemen of the jury, why would the defendant kill the only person who could clear him of the original murder?’ Yeah, I can see that.”

  “You need to stop watching Law and Order reruns,” Venus laughed, putting her coffee down.

  “It’s possible,” I said in a defensive tone. “It would be a very clever way of diverting suspicion, don’t you think?”

  “Most murderers aren’t that smart, as you well know.”

  “The ones who get caught,” I pointed out. “How many unsolved murders are there on the books?”

  “Touché.” Venus picked up her last beignet and examined it. She sighed. “I don’t need to eat this, but I can’t stop myself. These things are more addictive than crack.” She gobbled it down in three bites, washing it down with another swig of coffee.

  “I don’t suppose Billy would be willing to talk to me.” I picked up my third beignet, and put it back down. I wasn’t going to eat it, I decided. My appetite had been satisfied, and it was just excess.

  Venus stood up. “Call Loren and ask him.” She raised her eyebrows. “You never know— he might want to use you to get some public sympathy for him.” She looked at me and whistled. “Not going to eat that last beignet? Damn, Paige, I’m impressed.”

  I waited until she was back inside the precinct before scarfing it.

  Chapter Eight

  I disliked Abe Golden almost instantly.

  He was staying on the concierge floor of the Ritz-Carlton, of course, so I had to wait while they called up to announce me and make sure I wasn’t some crazed stalker-fan. While I waited, I got my phone out and looked up some more information on him— I’d started searching the web the moment I left Café Beignet and walked over. All I’d found was the typical puff-piece garbage publicists spoon-fed to “entertainment journalists”— a term I had always found annoying— and an interview he’d done with the New York Times Sunday Magazine. Again, there was nothing in-depth there. The text was really just filler to accompany photos of a cavernous apartment in downtown Manhattan. I was frankly disappointed with the way the apartment was decorated. It looked neither stylish nor comfortable. I suppose I expected more from the man who’d dreamed up and produced the most successful reality shows in television history. The furniture was garish and modern and looked out of place in the older-style apartment. Art deco would have been a much better choice, given the views from his windows and given the dark-painted wooden floors.

  Carpeting would look better with his furniture.

  I was rather surprised, though, to learn he was actually five years older than me— he seemed so much younger on television. He’d gone to work for the cable network when he graduated from NYU’s film school, working his way up from glorified gopher to assistant producer to finally launching his own reality series. The Grande Dames of Marin County had originally been conceptualized as a documentary-type show, following the lives of upper middle class women and how they balanced family with business. But it was the relationships between the women that caught viewer interest. Soon the ‘reality’ aspects faded away, and the show became more soap opera than documentary. The show, and the other franchises, had put the cable network on the map and established it as a player in the world of cable television. The fortunes of the women, particularly the ones who managed to control their image on the shows and gain a devoted fan base, also rose. Some spun off their original shows into their own solo reality shows; others saw their personal fortunes grow as they basically used their appearances on their shows as subtle marketing campaigns.

  Cynically, I wondered how much of a stake Abe Golden had in the women’s businesses. There had to be some kind of payoff involved. Over the years, women he’d fired from their shows had gone public, claiming he played favorites, deliberately editing the shows to make some women sympathetic and popular and ones he didn’t like hated by the viewers. The network’s public relations people, of course dismissed the accusations as sour grapes.

  Finally, the concierge used his key to let me into the elevators to the concierge floor. I smiled my thanks and got into the elevator— he’d already pressed the button for me.

  Apparently, the rich and famous can’t be bothered pressing their own buttons.

  The Ritz-Carlton was in the old Maison Blanche building. Maison Blanche was an old department store, like a local Macy’s or Dillard’s. This building was over one hundred years old, but like so many other department stores, Maison Blanche fell on hard times in the latter half of the Twentieth Century and eventually closed. The entire building was completely done over and re-opened as a Ritz-Carlton a few years before Katrina. Maison Blanche and its famous Christmas mascot, Mr. Bingle, were sorely missed— people still talked about Mr. Bingle every year when Christmas season rolled around. Maison Blanche was a part of the lost New Orleans, like K&B Drugstores and the Coliseum Theater. The elevator came to a stop and when the doors opened, I stepped out into the plush hallway. I’d only been in the hotel once before, interviewing a fading screen legend when she was in town. I’d been excited to meet her— I was a huge fan of hers.

  Let’s just say meeting her was a disappointment and leave it at that.

  I walked down the hallway and knocked on the appropriate suite door.

  “Ms. Tourneur?” A very good-looking man smiled at me. He was tall, maybe six feet, and his teeth were even and almost blindingly white. He was wearing a peach-colored sleeved dress shirt that fit tightly across his muscular chest and his big shoulders. Veins corded his well-muscled arms, and it probably wouldn’t have really hurt had he bought his tight gray jeans a size larger. He had large, wide set grayish-green eyes, a thick brow ridge over them, and a strong nose. His lips were a little too thin, but there were deep dimples in both cheeks and in his square chin. His brown hair was gelled to a shellacked stiffness, but at least he hadn’t combed it all to the middle in one of those ridiculous faux hawks that make my palms itch to slap their owners a good one. “Abe’s e
xpecting you. Do come in.”

  He stood aside and I walked into a hotel suite that was bigger than my apartment— which isn’t exactly small. There was an enormous living room with big windows displaying a gorgeous view of the Quarter and Marigny as well as the river off to the right. There was a small kitchen, and a full wet bar nestled in one corner. A massive plasma TV screen was mounted on one wall, and the furniture stank of expensive. I could hear a loud voice behind one of the doors leading off the main room. I assumed it was Abe Golden, and he seemed very agitated.

  “I’m Brandon,” the good-looking man who’d let me in said, the smile never wavering. “I’m Abe’s assistant— he’s on a call right now, but will be joining you shortly. Is there anything I can get for you? Something to drink? We have a full wet bar.” He gestured with his hand towards the wet bar. I glanced over, and was impressed to see that every bottle was top-notch liquor— the really good stuff.

  Cynically I wondered if Black Mountain Liquors stocked it.

  I sighed— it was only eleven. “Some soda water, I suppose, with a slice of lemon? It’s too early in the day to start drinking.” I hadn’t meant to sound so wistful, but the longing in my voice must have been apparent, because his smile broadened.

  “But it’s a Sunday,” he said, walking over and filling a tall glass with ice. “Not even some wine, perhaps?” His smile widened, and he winked at me. “I thought people in New Orleans drank all the time?”

  “Get thee behind me, Satan,” I replied, waving my index finger at him.

  He laughed again and filled my glass with soda water, garnishing it with a slice of lemon. He poured himself a glass of soda as well, and sat down next to me on the overstuffed leather sofa. We clinked glasses and took a sip.

  “How long have you been with Abe?” I asked, getting out my digital recorder.

  “You’re not going to tape me?” He recoiled back from me in horror. “I can never go on the record. It would violate my employment contract.”