by G. T. Herren
I heard the kid’s voice in my head again. It was one of those cars rich white ladies drive.
I couldn’t help but wonder what Megan Dreher drove.
Skittle meowed at me, and I scratched his head. “Yeah, I should probably just hang out here all day and get some rest, but it won’t hurt to walk over there and see if Megan’s home, now will it?” He blinked at me as I popped a couple of aspirin for the slight headache. I stood up, and grabbed my keys. The slight buzz was subsiding, so I tossed my recorder into my purse and walked out the front door.
Dark clouds were on the horizon, which didn’t bode well for the weather later. I checked both ways before walking out of the gate, and made sure I walked as far away from the street as I could. I still couldn’t believe someone had tried to run me over. How could they have known where I was? Had the driver just been parked on the street, waiting for me to come out? If I hadn’t been meeting Abby, they could have been sitting there for the rest of the day.
It didn’t make sense. Maybe it had just been some kind of crazy accident.
I was very careful, though, to check both ways before I dashed across Prytania Street.
The temperature was dropping again, and the wind felt chilly and damp— which definitely meant more rain was on its way. I sighed as I reached the end of the block and Coliseum Street. The park was filled with people playing with their dogs. The fountain was going, and the live oaks were rustling in the wind. I looked across the park to Chanse’s house. The big shutters on his living room window were closed. Megan’s address was on Race Street, which bordered the park on its uptown side. I walked along the sidewalk in that direction. I headed towards Race Street. I could see where Camp Place opened out onto Race.
It was amazing how much Coliseum Square had changed over the years— the entire neighborhood, for that matter. When Chanse and I first moved to New Orleans after college, we would have never considered living in this neighborhood. I could remember driving through here when the houses all looked derelict and blighted. Now they had all been renovated and the park area looked genteel.
I passed the house where Blaine and his partner lived. Blaine’s car was in the driveway— he must have taken the rest of the day off. I crossed the street and walked through the park. I was almost to Race Street when I heard sirens approaching. I frowned just as a patrol car came screaming around the corner onto Race from Camp Street, and another shot past on Coliseum. They both turned onto Camp Place.
I crossed Race Street, and headed down the sidewalk as quickly as I could, without running, to the corner at Camp Place. Both patrol cars had pulled up in front of a coral Greek Revival house. Officers with weapons drawn were heading up the walk to the front door, while two others were going around to the back. I crossed Camp Place and walked along the neutral ground until I could see the house number.
It was the Dreher house.
And there was a black Mercedes in the driveway.
It was black. I don’t know cars, but it was one of those that rich white ladies drive.
“Paige?”
I turned to see Blaine frowning at me. He was wearing a pair of jeans and an LSU sweatshirt. He had his shoulder holster strapped on, the butt of his revolver clearly showing. He had both hands on his hips as he glanced over to the patrol cars before looking back at me, his thick eyebrows knit together.
“What are you doing?” he went on.
“I was actually coming over here when the police cars showed up,” I replied. “That’s the Dreher house, isn’t it?”
He licked his lower lip. “Yeah.”
“Is it Megan Dreher?”
He didn’t answer for a moment. Finally, he said, “Sam Dreher called 9-1-1.” He nodded. “It’s Megan. He found her in the back yard.” He shook his head. “At this rate, we’re going to have to give the rest of the goddamned Grande Dames 24/7 police protection.” He peered at me. “You’re awful pale. Are you okay? And what happened to your elbows?”
I reached out and grabbed the black wrought iron fence to keep myself from falling. I pointed to the car. “Blaine— that car— someone tried to run me down a couple of hours ago.” I swallowed. “This kid pushed me out of the way— tackled me, really,” I held up my bandaged elbows to show him, “and all he said about the car was it was a black one— the kind rich ladies drive.”
“That doesn’t make sense, Paige. Why would Megan Dreher try to run you down? Do you even know her?” Blaine looked at the car and looked back at me. “I don’t know, Paige— yeah, it could have been a black Mercedes, but it could have been a Lexus or a Porsche or…” He let his voice trail off.
I shook my head. He was right— it didn’t make any sense.
The crime lab van came around the corner at Polymnia onto Coliseum. Before he walked over to where it parked, Blaine said over his shoulder, “Just look both ways when you’re crossing the street, okay?”
I watched as he talked with the crime scene techs, and walked into the house with them. I thought about waiting around but there was no telling how long they’d be in there. Venus was bound to show up at some point, but— no, better to just head back home.
I crossed the street and started walking home, lost in thought.
Maybe I was going about this whole thing the wrong way. Maybe it has nothing to do with the show, and everything to do with their own private lives. Fidelis Vandiver had an ugly divorce and custody battle with her ex-husband— but that was years ago. Think, Paige, think. When you were a crime reporter, what was the standard rule of thumb when someone was killed? It’s almost always someone close to the victim, a spouse or a relative or a lover. Billy Barron admitted he was having an affair with Fidelis. He claimed he was with Chloe when Fidelis was killed. They’re both dead— and now Megan Dreher probably is, too. Was she having an affair with Billy Barron?
My phone vibrated in my pocket. “Tourneur.”
“Paige Tourneur?” It was a man’s deep voice, one I didn’t recognize. “You don’t know me, but my name is Billy Barron. I was wondering if it would be possible to have a moment of your time?”
I stopped at the corner. “Should you even be talking to a reporter?”
He laughed smoothly. “My attorney has assured me that I have nothing to hide, and that you’re a reporter I can trust. You know him, I believe— Loren McKeithen?”
“Yes, I’ve known him for years.” I couldn’t believe Loren had okayed him to talk to me— but on the other hand, that really wasn’t MY problem, was it? If he was talking to the press without his lawyer’s approval, who was I to stop him?
“I really want to talk to you. I’m even in your neighborhood.”
“How— how do you know where I live?” I didn’t like the sound of that one bit.
“Loren told me you live in the lower Garden District. I’m at Mojo Café. Won’t you join me for a cup of coffee? It won’t take more than ten minutes, I swear.”
I turned and started walking back down towards the park, still talking. Mojo Café was at the corner of Race and Magazine— maybe about two blocks from the Dreher house.
“What exactly is this about, Mr. Barron?” I could feel my heart started to pound faster. So he was in the vicinity of the Dreher house, and there was a dead body there. But why would he want to meet me in a coffee shop if he had bad intentions? It was a public place— surely I’d be safe there.
“Someone is setting me up, Paige. And I think I know who it is. I’m willing to give you the entire story before I give it to the police.”
“But—” I worked for a monthly magazine; if he wanted to get his story out there before he gave it to the police, he needed to speak to someone at the paper.
Something was definitely not right here.
But it was a public place— and nothing had made much sense this entire weekend. I was annoyed with Margery— maybe it was about time she learned I didn’t jump when she snapped her fingers.
And he had me curious.
“Were you really sleeping w
ith both Fidelis and Chloe?” I asked as I crossed Coliseum Street and entered the park. Venus’ dark SUV was now parked in front of the Dreher house.
“It’s complicated. I’ll explain it all to you when I see you.”
“All right. Ten minutes, that’s all I can give you.” I hung up and dropped my phone back into my pocket.
I crossed the park to Race Street and stared at the Dreher house. I could see flashes going off inside as the crime scene techs photographed everything. The front door was open, but there was a uniform out there guarding the front of the house
I started walking down Race Street.
Chapter Ten
Mojo’s was deserted except for the hipster chick behind the counter with the face tattoos and facial piercings, and a man sitting at the table furthest away from the door. As soon as I walked inside, he rose with a smile and waved at me.
I smiled, waved back, before I walked to the counter to order an iced mocha from the surly girl, who acted like she was doing me a favor. I was digging for my wallet when someone came up right behind me, invading my personal space.
“I’ll get that,” a male voice said softly.
“Please back away from me,” I said in a controlled voice, as every nerve ending in my body went on high alert. Nausea churned my stomach and I could feel the panic attack coming on. My vision was beginning to go dark around the edges the way it always does right before I turn into a babbling fool. The smell of his cologne— Davidoff’s Cool Water— was the same cologne… don’t go there, Paige, don’t, you can resist.
Deep, calming breaths.
Yes.
I felt him step back away from me. I took another deep breath before I spun around and snarled, “I don’t care how good-looking and irresistible to women you think you are, never come up behind a woman you don’t know like that!” I took great pleasure in the look of fear that passed over Billy Barron’s face. “You’re lucky I’m not carrying mace.”
The man held up both of his big hands. “I’m sorry.” His voice sounded sincere, and the contrite look on his face convinced me he meant it, wasn’t just saying it.
“I’ll let you pay for my coffee, though,” I replied, feeling more in control of the situation. I took it from the surly counter girl, and took a sip. She’d put too much milk in it, of course, but I didn’t need that much caffeine this late in the day. I walked past him to the condiment table, for a packet of Sweet’n’Low. I stirred with a straw, and sat down at the table where I’d seen him sitting when I arrived.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, sitting down across from me.
“It’s okay,” I said, even though it really wasn’t. “For future reference, remember not to do that with women you don’t know.” I gave him a wan smile. “You probably think I’m being a bitch, but try to remember this: you don’t know what women have been sexually assaulted, you can’t tell if someone’s been abused just by looking at them… it’ll save you a lot of trouble in the future if you think about that and respect people’s personal space in the future.”
His thick black eyebrows knit together. “Were you—”
I narrowed my eyes.
“Sorry. Jesus.” He ran his hand through his thick bluish-black hair. “I’m really making a great impression on you, aren’t I?”
“Why don’t we start over?” I suggested, allowing a faint smile to play at my lips. “Hello, I’m Paige.”
“Billy Barron.” He turned on the full wattage of his smile, and I had to admit I could see where he got the impression he was irresistible to women. He was gorgeous. He was swarthy, with a natural olive tint to his darkly tanned skin. His hair was thick, wavy and bluish-black. He had it pulled back into a ponytail, which ordinarily would have annoyed me to no end, but it actually worked for him. His ears stuck out just a little bit, but not so much that they looked like pitcher handles. His eyes were almond-shaped, dark brown with golden flecks in them, and the whites had no red streaks. His eyelashes were long and curly, the kind women would sell their souls to have naturally. His nose was crooked in the center, like it had been broken once. The crooked lump marred his looks just enough so he looked masculine rather than pretty. His lips were thick and sensual. His teeth were straight and bleached, but one of his front teeth was chipped. He was wearing a black Saints T-shirt that stretched over his strong chest, and the short sleeves looked tight enough to cut off the circulation to his well-muscled arms. There was a gold stud earring in his left ear, and a big LSU ring on his right hand. A gold Rolex adorned his left wrist.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I said with a brittle smile. I took another drink of my coffee. The sweetener had helped, but it was still a little too milky. “I have to say, I’m kind of surprised Loren’s letting you talk to me without being present.” I reached into my purse and retrieved my digital recorder, which I set down on the table between us. “I want to be clear up front, Billy— may I call you Billy?” He nodded. “Nothing you say to me is going to be considered off the record.”
“Fair enough.” He held up his big hands again. “Let me apologize again. I wasn’t thinking. I love and respect women and wouldn’t want to ever make you uncomfortable.”
“Consider it forgotten,” I said, remembering the smell of his cologne and the other, deeply buried memories it almost brought to the surface. I’ll deal with all of that later, I decided, pushing the memories aside yet another time.
“As for talking to you,” he went on, “I’ve been a fan of yours since you were at the Times-Picayune.” He flashed the winning smile at me again, and I had to admit had we not gotten off to such a bad start, it probably would have made my knees a little wobbly. “And I feel like this story might be getting a little out of control.”
“So why are you talking to me?” I asked. “Shouldn’t you be talking to someone at the paper, or one of the TV news people? I work for a monthly publication. I might be able to get something into the next issue, but I can’t promise.” No sense in telling him Rachel was already in the process of changing the entire next issue to do a Grande Dames cover. “Of course, we do have the space to do the kind of in-depth piece the paper can’t do.” I fluttered my eyelashes at him. “And television news rarely does a piece of more than two or three minutes.”
He nodded. “I just feel like I can trust you.” He reached for my hands but stopped just before taking them. He bit his lower lip. “I didn’t kill anyone.”
I resisted the urge to pat his hands. There was something about him— a charismatic vulnerability, maybe— that just made him seem likable, as though I could trust him, and made me want to comfort him. He was a little too good-looking. He’s probably had women eating out of his hand his entire life. “Well, from what I’ve heard, your story—” I paused. “I’m sorry. It just doesn’t make sense to me, and I’m sure it doesn’t make sense to the police.”
“I’m being set up,” he replied, and his lovely lips set into a tense line. “My baseball bats? My witness for one crime is the next victim? Do I really look that stupid?”
I tore my eyes away from the curly black hairs escaping from the neckline of his T-shirt, and the way his nipples were poking through the cotton. I swallowed. “You could just be really clever. But okay, I’ll play along. You’re being set up. Who would do that to you? Who hates you enough to want to see you put away?”
“Well.” He clasped his hands together on the table. “My stepmother’s not exactly a fan.”
“She told me you and your brother are suing her.”
He made a face. “She’s such a fucking drama queen— sorry,” he said quickly, raising his hand as if in surrender.
“Swearing doesn’t bother me,” I replied with a faint smile. “Fuck. See? I can say it without having a conniption. But why would Rebecca want to get rid of you? It seems to me like it’s a lot more likely you’d want to kill her, since she inherited everything.”
“That’s not exactly the truth.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “My father was a bit
of a jackass, to be honest, and I hope he’s roasting in hell as we speak.” He laughed. “Rebecca didn’t inherit everything, she inherited control of everything.”
What? “I don’t understand.”
“When Dad married her, he changed his will.” He took a deep breath. “He split everything between the three of us— me, my brother Bobby, and Rebecca. When my wife left me—” his face flushed and he looked away from me, “— Dad got pissed at me, and with good reason. I married Laura too fast, way too fast, without thinking. I didn’t have her sign a prenup, and so when we split up, she took me to the cleaners. Dad got pissed.”
I chose not to point out that she took him to the cleaners because she caught him with his tight jeans down. “And?”
“So Dad rewrote his will. He didn’t trust me or Bobby, and he’d only been married to Rebecca for a couple of years.” He shrugged. “So he set up an irrevocable trust. Everything went to that, and the three of us get an income from the trust. Unfortunately, he left Rebecca majority control. She controls how much money Bobby and I get, and she controls the company. But Dad didn’t trust her completely, either, so he left an out. If Bobby and I can prove to the trustee— the Hibernia Bank, just so you know— that Rebecca isn’t running the company well, she’s out and the trust can be broken.”
“I thought she automatically inherited half, regardless of the will, under Louisiana law.”
“She signed a prenup.”
“Ah.”
“Bobby and I have her dead to rights, too.” He smiled, but this time it wasn’t pleasant or charming. “She claims otherwise, but profits are down.” He launched into an explanation that frankly I couldn’t follow— something to do with her selling off some property for income to offset lower profits. When he finished explaining, he added, “We’re having a meeting with the bank next week, and once the bank looks over all the accounts, Rebecca will be out.” He looked at me expectantly.
When he finished, I replied, “Well, I can see why she’d want to get rid of you, but wouldn’t it be easier just to kill you than to go to all this trouble?” I shrugged. “Two murders?” Maybe three? “I have to ask, were you sleeping with Fidelis?”
