Murder in the Garden District (Chanse MacLeod Mysteries)

by Herren, Greg

  “Surely she latched them before she evacuated, Paige. She put up razor wire on all the fences to keep out looters. Don’t you think she’d have secured the doors against the hurricane?”

  “A hard kick would open those doors, Chanse—and I don’t know that we’d hear it. They’re opposite the front apartment. My patio door isn’t secure, either. The knob doesn’t latch. I have to use the bolt.”

  I resisted a brief urge to scream at her. Why didn’t she tell us this before? I had a sinking feeling in my stomach.

  “What about Harriet’s patio door?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then stay here and guard the stairs while I make sure the upstairs is secure. If Vinnie gets to me, he’ll be a perfect target for you.”

  Paige’s face paled, but she nodded. She moved to the couch with her gun.

  “I’ll shout before I come back down the stairs,” I said. “If you hear someone else coming, be ready to shoot.”

  “Understood. But don’t forget to call out—I don’t want to cap your ass.”

  The stairway to the second floor hugged the wall and made a ninety-degree left turn about eight feet up, as you got closer to the ceiling. It made another ninety-degree turn when you passed the ceiling. I started up the stairs, gun ready.

  The upstairs hall was empty as I came around the second turn. In the bedroom, Nicky sat on the bed, cleaning himself. He looked at me and made a chirruping sound. The closet door was closed, but I knew it was crammed so full of clothes no one could fit inside. I did a quick sweep of the bathroom. All clear. The patio door was ahead.

  Maybe I was overreacting. Vinnie shouldn’t know about the French doors in the apartment next door. He shouldn’t know the layout of the house. But he was a professional. I had to assume he’d done his homework.

  I slid back the latch. Immediately the door drifted open a few inches. I stepped out onto the patio.

  I’d only been on Paige’s patio once, when she first moved in and showed me the place. It had been a cloudy day. Being out there in the direct sunlight, I understood why Paige never used it. The patio was bare of furniture and plants—and completely unshaded. It needed a roof and screens to make it usable. Heat radiated upward from the slatted wooden deck. I felt it through my shoes. I looked over the side railing cautiously. It was a long way down. The gallery along the second floor of the carriage house was about four feet lower than the patio, about six feet away. Vinnie was a small man. It was way too far for him to jump up and across.

  The other door had to be Harriet’s. I turned the knob and the door opened. It was possible that Harriet had forgotten to lock it, but seemed unlikely. My instincts told me Vinnie was inside, waiting.

  But what was he waiting for? Harriet’s apartment took up an entire side of the house. All Vinnie had needed to do was shoot us from a window in the front room facing the street. Why hadn’t he done it?

  That was when I smelled the smoke.

  I pulled out my cell phone and texted Venus, focusing on keeping my hands steady: house on fire need help NOW.

  I kicked Harriet’s door open and entered the room, both hands on my gun extended before me. The smoke alarm started beeping. Hoping that the alarm was hooked into the fire department, I moved on, into a dimly lit sitting room lined with bookcases. The shutters were closed. I saw smoke coming from the next room, then flames from the burning bed.

  Then it dawned on me. The smoke alarms would go off in every apartment in the building. Vinnie had set the fire to drive us outside.

  Fuck.

  I returned to the patio, holding my shirt over my nose and mouth against the smoke, in time to see a man below scurry around the corner to Paige’s side of the house.

  Paige screamed.

  She must have gone outside when she heard the smoke alarm. I had to stay calm, think clearly. When I reached the side of the house, the overhang of the patio and second floor kept me from getting a shot at Vinnie.

  “Where is he?” I heard Vinnie ask sharply.

  “He went for help,” Paige replied flatly.

  “No, he didn’t. He’s here, inside the house. Come out, MacLeod, or I’ll kill her!” he shouted. “You know I’ll do it!”

  “You’re going to kill me anyway,” Paige said. “Go ahead and get it over with.”

  She sounded resigned, submissive.

  I was sure it was an act. Paige had faced down men with guns when she’d worked the crime beat for the Times-Picayune. She always kept her head in a crisis. She was distracting Vinnie until I could figure out what to do.

  I couldn’t go through the burning apartment and come up behind him that way. I couldn’t go back into Paige’s apartment because that’s where he thought I was. I looked at the carriage house gallery.

  It was six feet away and four feet down, but the gallery extended all the way to the fences on either side. If I could get across, I’d have a clear shot at Vinnie. If I jumped, I’d make too much noise, even if I made it. Vinnie would hear me. He’d have a clear shot at me, but he’d have to turn his back on Paige to take it. He’d shoot her first.

  The gallery was my only option.

  I crept back to Paige’s patio door, willing her to keep him talking outside. If he took her inside, one or both of us was dead. I looked around the bathroom but saw nothing that would help. I noticed the CD tower in the hallway.

  Paige had gotten rid of all her CD’s years ago, when she bought her iPod, but she’d kept the tower because it was hand-carved from solid wood. I remembered her telling me about some monastery in one of the coastal parishes where the monks were woodworkers. It was about seven feet high and two feet wide. I picked it up. It was heavy, but I could manage it. Would it support my weight? For that matter, would the railings?

  I had no choice. If I fell, I’d make so much noise it might distract Vinnie—and maybe Paige could get a shot off.

  I carried it onto the patio, to the corner farthest away from Paige’s side of the building. My arms and shoulders strained as I hoisted the case and lowered it carefully across the space between the buildings. Sweat poured down my face. My body screamed from the effort to hold it steady. Finally, I set it down gently on the opposite railing. I climbed onto the patio railing, put my knees on the horizontal tower, and began to stand up. The railings trembled. I gritted my teeth. My entire body was shaking. I willed it to stop as I rose to my full height. A gust of wind hit me. I struggled to maintain my balance, trying to grasp the tower with my toes through my shoes.

  I wiped the sweat from my hands and took a deep breath to steady myself, then let out the breath and scrambled across as quickly as I could. With every step, the railings shook. The tower trembled a bit, but held.

  I could hear their voices as I stepped gratefully onto the carriage house gallery. They were still outside.

  “COME OUT MACLEOD! YOUʼRE JUST MAKING IT WORSE FOR YOURSELF!”

  I moved cautiously along the gallery, gun ready, until I had a clear view of Vinnie’s back. Paige was looking at him. She didn’t see me.

  I took aim and pulled the trigger three times.

  Paige screamed as Vinnie’s body jerked from the impact of the bullets. Without another sound, he collapsed on the paving stones. I dropped my gun and sat down hard, trying to catch my breath. I closed my eyes and rested my head on my knees.

  Then I heard another shot.

  I jumped up and raised my gun, and then relaxed.

  Paige was standing over Vinnie. She’d blown off half his head. His blood was splattered all over her. She looked up at me.

  “Took you long enough,” she said.

  Her eyes rolled backward and she fainted.

  Paige was already sitting up by the time I reached her.

  “Can you stand?” I asked.

  She looked at me, dazed, then got to her feet. I put my arm around her.

  “Thanks, Chanse,” she said softly.

  I helped her walk alongside the house. We reached the front just as a fire tru
ck pulled up. I set Paige down on the steps and unlocked the gate.

  “It’s the other side of the house, upstairs,” I called out as the firemen trooped past us.

  “The house—Nicky—”

  “Get his carrier from the car,” I said, “and I’ll go and find him.”

  Nicky gave me a head butt when I grabbed him from the coffee table, where he was sitting. On the steps, Paige scooped him into her arms and buried her face in his thick fur. I sat down beside them, exhausted.

  “You two have certainly gotten yourselves into a fine fix,” Blaine drawled.

  “Took you two long enough to get here,” I retorted. “Vinnie’s body is back there. Go earn your pay.”

  Blaine radioed for backup and the Crime Lab, and headed around the house. Venus sat down next to me.

  “You both okay?”

  I nodded.

  She patted me on the arm. “I’ll be right back.”

  Two hours later, the body was gone, the crime scene photos taken. Paige and I had typed up statements on her laptop and signed them. The fire hadn’t taken long to put out—only the mattress was burning. Paige had showered and changed her clothes.

  The sun was setting. Dark clouds massed in the south.

  “You two need to get out of town,” Blaine said, handing us a couple of keys from his key ring. “Take my Bronco. It’s fully gassed and parked at the house. Just be careful with it, okay?”

  Blaine and Venus drove me over to Blaine’s place on the other side of Coliseum Square from my apartment, and we took our leave of each other.

  “Be careful, you two,” I said.

  “The storm keeps moving west,” Venus said as she climbed back into their car. “We’re going to get hit, but it may not be as bad as they thought.”

  “Hallelujah,” I said, and waved at them as they drove off.

  It took us about an hour, but somehow we fit everything from both cars into the Bronco. We even managed to keep the backseat clear. The last thing to go in was Nicky’s carrier. He howled his displeasure as soon as it was secured.

  Paige fastened her seat belt as I turned the key in the ignition. Lights on, we headed for St. Charles Avenue and out of the city.

  Epilogue

  As Paige and I spent an aggravating and tense twelve hours on I-10 West to Houston, the hurricane continued turning. At eight p.m. on Sunday, in my sister’s living room, Paige and I watched Ginevra come ashore eighty miles west of New Orleans. The storm surge into the Lake Borgne-Rigolets-Lake Pontchartrain system was lower than originally predicted, but still dangerous.

  And the levees held.

  We returned home four days later, after power was restored to our neighborhood. New Orleans was slightly damaged—trees down or denuded of branches, some roofs gone, windows broken—but our beautiful city had survived.

  Unfortunately, Vernita did not.

  She was processed very quickly that Saturday, and released on her own recognizance. (As Venus told us later, “The system didn’t want to be responsible for on older lady being jailed during a hurricane.”) Apparently, Cordelia was able to pull strings even with a Category 3 bearing down on the city.

  But not even Cordelia could prevent the series of strokes Vernita suffered once they reached the Sheehans’ home in Baton Rouge. She died early Sunday morning.

  I don’t know whether Alais was ever told that Jerrell was her half-brother, nor do I care.

  I cashed the Sheehans’ check. I figured out how much they owed me at my regular rate, and returned the rest to Loren McKeithen’s office.

  There’s talk around town that Janna Sheehan might run for the Senate. I’m not sure how I feel about that, but if the choice is between Janna and that man from Metairie, she’s got my vote.

  Despite my desire to have nothing more to do with the Sheehan family, one nice thing came out of the case. About a week after Ginevra, Rory Delesdernier called me and asked for a date. I decided to take a chance, and said yes. We’ll see how that goes.

  I never had the chance to get my hands on Special Agent Palladino, but I’m sure our paths will cross again someday.

  I not only gave Abby a raise, I made her a partner. She really is a natural at this kind of work—and better to have her working by my side than competing against me.

  Author’s Note

  I actually came up with the plot structure for this book in 1981.

  It seems weird to say that, given that the book wasn’t originally published until 2009, almost thirty years later, but it is true.

  In 1981, heavily influenced by books like Peyton Place, I decided it was time to actually stop talking about being a writer and become one. I’d always wanted to be a writer, and when I was twenty I sat down and started writing a novel. I titled it Against the Storm, (the storm standing for inner emotional turmoil) and started writing it. The town was based on Emporia, Kansas—my family had moved nearby when I was fourteen, and moved away again earlier the year I turned twenty—and it was structured very similar to Peyton Place. The focal point of the novel was a group of kids that were seniors in high school and friends; eventually the story grew outward and also involved their siblings and families. Also like Peyton Place, the linchpin of the book was a murder and a trial—what I was planning on doing with the book was having all the initial characters and their stories converge at the murder, making them all suspects. The murder victim was named Warren Craddock, and he was the scion of the wealthiest family in town. Widowed and in his early forties with a teenaged daughter, he marries one of the kids shortly after she graduates from high school—and she of course is the prime suspect in the murder.

  It took me four years, writing long-hand on loose leaf paper (front and back side) to finish writing it, but I did eventually finish it. It was an enormous mess, frankly; I’ve not had the nerve to look at it in about twenty years. I wrote a little under three thousand pages—which isn’t as impressive as it sounds; my cursive writing is large and loopy. I knew it was unfocused and needed to be tightened—I would lose interest in characters and just drop them, names changed all the time when I’d think of a name I liked better, and I would create new characters when the mood struck.

  Over the last twenty five years or so, I’ve borrowed rather extensively from that first novel of mine; stories and characters from it have eventually become the novels Sorceress, Sleeping Angel, and the forthcoming Sara, for example. But I never used the Craddock family and the core story of Warren’s murder; I always intended to use that as the plot for a murder mystery.

  Quite accidentally, in the early months of 2005 I inadvertently became involved in politics. I have always been a history buff, and as such always had some interest in politics. When I started writing my blog “Queer and Loathing in America” in 2004, I would sometimes talk about politics and the state of the nation. To make a long story short, I was invited to speak, as an openly gay author, to a Gay-Straight Alliance group at a suburban high school outside of Richmond, Virginia. This came to the attention of the Virginia chapter of hate group Concerned Women for America, who went crazy. There was a firestorm of controversy that ended with my appearance being cancelled; the school never bothered to even contact me to let me know. (I was informed by a reporter who called looking for an interview.) This wasn’t my first experience with hate-based homophobia, and unfortunately, it wasn’t my last, either. But it became a political battle, with all the sinister forces of the so-called ‘religious right’ coming to bear against me and the brave kids at this high school who’d dared to form a Gay-Straight Alliance.

  It was a long, ugly battle that lasted over a year.

  Shortly thereafter, I became acquainted with the co-chair of the National Stonewall Democrats, which in turn led to me speaking at some LGBT Democratic events and eventually, serving a term on Stonewall’s board of directors. It was a lot of fun working on campaigns and helping turn the country blue in 2008; when it happened, it was enormously satisfying to know that I played a (very) small part.

/>   When it came time to write Murder in the Garden District, I decided to bring out the old structure of the Warren Craddock murder and convert it from Kansas to New Orleans. With all of my experience with politics (and trust me, Louisiana politics are even more fascinating than national), I decided to make the Craddocks (now the Sheehans) a political dynasty. And while I was writing this book, Hurricane Gustav threatened New Orleans—and we all had to evacuate again. I decided to write an impending hurricane into the story, since Murder in the Rue Chartres only addressed the aftermath. The book was finished, and was published in late 2009. It was nominated for a Lambda Literary Award for Best Men’s Mystery, and was generally very well-received.

  I hope you enjoyed it.

  --Greg Herren

  New Orleans, March 2012