by Greg Herren
Someone is killing the Grande Dames of New Orleans!
It’s Christmas time, but the last thing in the world Scotty Bradley wants under his tree is a murder case that strikes close to home. The premiere party for a new reality show sets the stage for a murder, and Scotty’s sort-of nephew is the prime suspect. As more and more cast members fall victim to a cold-blooded killer, Scotty and the boys must figure out what is real and what is scripted, and have to exhume some long-buried secrets in order to bring the killer to justice.
A Scotty Bradley mystery.
Reviewers Love the Scotty Bradley Series
Advance Praise for Royal Street Reveillon
“Herren’s wit, ingenuity, and sharp social eye are a constant delight, and every time I read him I fall in love with New Orleans all over again. Scotty may have hung up his go-go boots, but I hope his adventures go on and on.”—Alex Marwood, Edgar and Macavity Award–winning author of The Wicked Girls and The Darkest Secret
“A delicious, witty, deftly plotted mystery. Greg Herren offers up a compulsively readable tale.”—Megan Abbott, Edgar-winning author of Queenpin and Dare Me
“[A] witty, engrossing slice of New Orleans life (and death)…delicious bits of gossip and hints of hushed-up scandal…wry observations about old money in the new New Orleans…a plot full of lively characters and satisfying twists.”—Lia Matera, author of the Willa Jansson and Laura Di Palma series
Baton Rouge Bingo
“I very much enjoyed this book. I love the way Mr. Herren writes, and the humor that he pops into the story from time to time…It is a pure and simple mystery, and I loved it…I recommend this book to anyone liking a good mystery with gay MCs.”—Love Bytes: Same Sex Book Reviews
Lambda Literary Award Finalist Vieux Carré Voodoo
“Herren’s packed plot, as always in this imaginative series…revels in odd twists and comic turns; for example, the third man of the ménage returns, revealed as a James Bond type. It all makes for a roller-coaster caper.”—Richard Labonte, Book Marks
“This novel confirms that out of the many New Orleans mystery writers, Greg Herren is indeed one to watch.”— Reviewing the Evidence
“[T]his was well worth waiting for. Herren has a knack for developing colorful primary and supporting characters the reader actually cares about, and involving them in realistic, though extreme, situations that make his books riveting to the mystery purist. Bravo, and five gumbo-stained stars out of five.”—Echo Magazine
“Herren’s work is drenched in the essence of the Big Easy, the city’s geography even playing a large part in the solution of a riddle at whose end lies the aforementioned Eye of Kali. But unlike the city, it is not languid. Herren hits the ground running and only lets up for two extremely interesting dream sequences, the latter of which is truly chilling. Is this a breezy beach read? Maybe, but it has far more substance than many. You can spend a few sunny, sandy afternoons with this resting on your chest and still feel as if you’ve read a book. But even if you’re not at the beach, Herren’s work makes great backyard or rooftop reading, and this one is a terrific place to start.”—Out In Print
Praise for Greg Herren
Sleeping Angel “will probably be put on the young adult (YA) shelf, but the fact is that it’s a cracking good mystery that general readers will enjoy as well. It just happens to be about teens…A unique viewpoint, a solid mystery and good characterization all conspire to make Sleeping Angel a welcome addition to any shelf, no matter where the bookstores stock it.”—Jerry Wheeler, Out in Print
“This fast-paced mystery is skillfully crafted. Red herrings abound and will keep readers on their toes until the very end. Before the accident, few readers would care about Eric, but his loss of memory gives him a chance to experience dramatic growth, and the end result is a sympathetic character embroiled in a dangerous quest for truth.”—VOYA
“Herren, a loyal New Orleans resident, paints a brilliant portrait of the recovering city, including insights into its tight-knit gay community. This latest installment in a powerful series is sure to delight old fans and attract new ones.”—Publishers Weekly
“Fast-moving and entertaining, evoking the Quarter and its gay scene in a sweet, funny, action-packed way.”—New Orleans Times-Picayune
“Herren does a fine job of moving the story along, deftly juggling the murder investigation and the intricate relationships while maintaining several running subjects.”—Echo Magazine
“An entertaining read.”—OutSmart Magazine
“A pleasant addition to your beach bag.”—Bay Windows
“Greg Herren gives readers a tantalizing glimpse of New Orleans.”—The Midwest Book Review
“Herren’s characters, dialogue and setting make the book seem absolutely real.”—The Houston Voice
“So much fun it should be thrown from Mardi Gras floats!”—New Orleans Times-Picayune
“Greg Herren just keeps getting better.”—Lambda Book Report
Royal Street Reveillon
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Royal Street Reveillon
© 2019 By Greg Herren. All Rights Reserved.
ISBN 13: 978-1-63555-546-2
This Electronic Original Is Published By
Bold Strokes Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 249
Valley Falls, NY 12185
First Edition: September 2019
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Credits
Editor: Stacia Seaman
Production Design: Stacia Seaman
Cover Design By Tammy Seidick
By the Author
The Scotty Bradley Adventures
Bourbon Street Blues
Jackson Square Jazz
Mardi Gras Mambo
Vieux Carré Voodoo
Who Dat Whodunnit
Baton Rouge Bingo
Garden District Gothic
Royal Street Reveillon
The Chanse MacLeod Mysteries
Murder in the Rue Dauphine
Murder in the Rue St. Ann
Murder in the Rue Chartres
Murder in the Rue Ursulines
Murder in the Garden District
Murder in the Irish Channel
Murder in the Arts District
Young Adult
Sleeping Angel
Sara
Lake Thirteen
New Adult
Timothy
The Orion Mask
Dark Tide
Survivor’s Guilt and Other Stories
Going Down for the Count
(Writing as Cage Thunder)
Wicked Frat Boy Ways
(Writing as Todd Gregory)
Edited with J.M. Redmann
Women of the Mean Streets: Lesbian Noir
Men of the Mean Streets: Gay Noir
Night Shadows: Queer Horror
Edited as Todd Gregory
Rough Trade
Sweat
Anything for a Dollar
Blood Sacraments
Acknowledgments
As always, I have a ridiculous number of people to thank for a ridiculous number of things.
First off, I need to thank Jacob Rickoll for sharing with me his experience with actually getting shot. One of the kindest and most generous people I know, he took a bullet trying to stop a robbery in a bar in the wee hours of a New Orleans Saturday morning…and then came to work straight from the emergency room.
I need to thank Paul, for always being patient, understanding, and kind…and understanding the necessity of making me laugh at myself whenever I need to—which sometimes can be a daily lesson.
I have an amazing friend group who teach me about life and love and joy on a daily basis, so I can never thank Pat Brady, Michael Ledet, Jesse Ledet, Michael Carruth, John Angelico, Harriet Campbell Young, Mark Richards, Konstantin Smorodnikov, Jean Redmann, Gillian Rodger, Michele Karlsberg, Rob Byrnes, Becky Cochrane, Timothy J. Lambert, McKenna Jordan, John McDougall, Bev and Butch Marshall, Carsen Taite, Nell Stark, Trinity Tam, Steve Driscoll, Rob Tocci, Stuart Wamsley, Brian Lord, Susan Larson, Martin Strickland, Meghan Davidson, Robin Pierce, Cullen Hunter, Erin Mitchell, Mark Drake, Josh Fegley, Ryan McNeeley, Serena Mackesy, Richard and Laurie Stepanski, Janna Sill, Sally Anderson, Dawn Lobaugh Edwards, Karen Bengtsen, Mike Smid, and so many others I cannot even begin to remember them all.
At work, I need to thank Allison Dejan, Ashton George III, Leon Harrison, Fernando Cruz, Bryson Richard, Nick Payne, James Husband, Joey Olson, Katie Connor, and everyone else who is a part of the Crescent Care team.
Everyone at Bold Strokes, from Radclyffe to Sandy Lowe to Stacia Seaman to Ruth Sternglantz to Cindy Cresap for being so awesome at what they do.
The FL’s—well, JOVANI. That’s all I have to say to you bitches.
And of course, that bitch Michael Thomas Ford, for always being there to commiserate about this insane business we find ourselves in.
This is for all the librarians, who cherish and protect the written word
“There are witches in the Garden District.”
Anne Rice, The Witching Hour
“The Medusas are spawned by the bitches. You want to know the truth behind this gossip? Or would you rather believe a pack of malicious inventions?”
Tennessee Williams, The Milk Train Doesn’t Stop Here Anymore
“Don’t be all, like, uncool.”
Countess Luann De Lesseps, Real Housewives of New York
Prologue
New Orleans, match to my flame, flame of my soul. My sin, my passion, my confession. New Or-lins: the tongue trampolining up to the roof of the mouth then down before bouncing back up again. New. Or. Lins.
She is just New Orleans in the mornings when the mist rises like ghosts from the river. She is the Big Easy to musicians, N’Awlins to tourists trying to go native, home to the locals. She was Nouvelle Orleans to the French, Nueva Orleans to the Spanish, Nuovi Orlini to the Italian immigrants, Nua Orleans to the Irish.
For many years film and television producers called her Hollywood South.
But in my heart, she is always simply New Orleans, my home. A magical place like no other, nestled in curves created by the wanderings of the father of waters. She is surrounded by water, connected to the mainland by bridges and a ferry across the river. A mystical island of sorts where what rules there are differ vastly from those elsewhere and are rarely enforced; where the words last call are never called out, where anything worth doing is also worth doing to excess, where Piety and Desire have been a block apart for hundreds of years.
She resists yet welcomes change, encourages people to be themselves, and never judges; celebrates and embraces eccentricity.
To know her is to love her, despite the daily frustrations of blinking traffic lights and deep potholes that can swallow cars whole, the herds of stray cats and the swarms of Formosan termites in the spring, where school board money disappears without a trace and frequent street flooding and snarled traffic from unexpected parades and second lines are all just a part of the fabric of life. Once you’ve lived in New Orleans, everywhere else seems tame, bland, colorless, the same as everywhere else.
New Orleans decays and crumbles and collapses, yet always rises to meet the latest challenge and will never surrender, will never bow because, as the song says, “we don’t know how.”
New Orleans shouldn’t exist, yet somehow does, her head high and arms wide open to welcome visitors and tourists and explorers, bachelor parties and fraternity trips and conferences.
And newcomers, seduced by her charms and wiles.
After the Flood Caused By the Failure of the Federally Built and Maintained Levee System, written off for dead, she rose from the ashes, for if New Orleans didn’t exist, someone would have to create her.
We need New Orleans, and always have.
The flood of newcomers after the flood waters receded was welcomed but watched with a raised eyebrow. The newcomers brought change in their wake, and New Orleans has always been slow to accommodate change. Working-class neighborhoods were rebuilt, only to become short-term rentals rather than homes. New construction went up everywhere—luxury condos here, a new University Medical Center complex there, grocery stores and restaurants and gas stations. There were concerns that the charm was being lost, but can one really complain about the Costco? The revitalization of the Carrollton corridor? The rebirth of the Central Business District, and the Marigny and Bywater neighborhoods?
But rents and property values rose.
Nothing says gentrification more than bathhouses being turned into luxury condos.
I do miss those bathhouses.
But the city was changing before that fateful flood. K&B had already been replaced by CVS, Maison Blanche bought out by Dillard’s, and Starbucks had opened a couple of stores. But we were all so busy putting our lives and homes back together it seemed like one morning we woke up and the city wasn’t quite the same place we remembered. The new Rampart streetcar line, new hotels on Canal and in the CBD, Sewell Cadillac became a Rouse’s Grocery, Mary’s Tru Value left Bourbon Street for the newly repaved Rampart.
So much has changed it’s hard to remember what changed before the flood, and what changed after.
And…I’m not getting any younger, and my memory isn’t what it used to be.
Although I’ve yet to find a gray pubic hair. The Goddess has thus far spared me that horror.
I am that rarest of rarities in the newest and latest iteration of our beloved city: an actual native. There was a time, not all that long ago, when someone who’d lived here for twenty years would be sniffed at, airily dismissed, waved away, as a parvenu. In those antediluvian times you could live here most of your life, but someone would surely say at your funeral, if you weren’t born here, “I’ll miss him, he was a great guy…for a parvenu.”
My name is Milton Bradley, but everyone calls me Scotty. I suppose most people would say I lead a strange existence, which would be true if I were anything other than a born-and-bred New Orleanian. I lead a charmed life—money on both sides of the family, grew up in the French Quarter, and have been involved in a long-term relationship with not one but two incredibly great guys who are also incredibly hot and sexy. (For the record—and you know you were wondering—the sex is amazing.)
Although there are times when I question the charmed thing. I have a bad habit of stumbling over dead bodies and running afoul of criminal conspiracies, with a tendency to get kidnapped by bad guys now and then.
It’s a long story, but I have a tendency to be in the wrong place at the wrong time a lot more regularly than most.
I don’t think I was ever destined to have a normal life, to be honest. My mother’s a Diderot, which means she was from Rex royalty and expected to be a nice Uptown lady who married into another old society family and lunched and did charity work. My father is a Bradley—not quite as blue-blooded as the Diderots, which Papa Diderot never lets Papa Bradley forget—which meant he was supposed to go to Vanderbilt and come home to either law or medical school at Loyola. Instead they fell in love as teenagers and turned their backs on everything thei
r respective families have always stood for—and went to the University of New Orleans, becoming what I guess is now called sneeringly social justice warriors or hippies or pinko commie bastards. I never gave it much thought; they were always just Mom and Dad to me. They are very liberal—very much anti nuclear weapons and nuclear energy, very much in favor of equality for everyone—and are unrepentant stoners. They’ve been arrested numerous times at protests, and some of my earliest memories are of my parents chained to fences at nuclear power plants and marching in protests carrying signs.
I think my first words were “I want to speak to a lawyer.”
Another way they rebelled against their parents was naming me Milton Bradley.
My grandmothers’ maiden names were Milton and Scott; that’s how Mom and Dad claim they came up with the name. The family legend is that both sets of grandparents insisted Mom and Dad give me a normal, family name—they named my older brother Storm and my sister Rain (she started going by Rhonda in junior high)—and that’s what they came up with; a family name but also a middle finger to their parents.
