by Greg Herren
“The boys wanted to…” She hesitated. “Well, they wanted to sell all the Barron’s restaurants and open a local five-star restaurant, trying to compete with the Brennans. Steve wouldn’t have any part of it, and he knew once he was gone that’s exactly what they would do. So that’s why he left everything to me. Oh, he always intended to change the will back—he changed it, really, just to show them he could and to let them know whose money and company it was, but then he had his heart attack and was gone.” She gave a slight little shrug. “It’s not my fault he died before he could do it.”
That’s cold, I thought but said nothing.
“You think I’m a bitch, don’t you?” Rebecca gave me a sardonic glance, a corner of her mouth twitching. She gave a little shrug. “I won’t bore you with the stories of how the two of them—and their mothers—did everything they could to make my life miserable.” She barked out a laugh. “Bleach your hair and get some implants and everyone thinks you’re an idiot. For the record, I have an MBA from Duke University.” She leaned back in her chair. “I’ve been running the company since Steve died, and profits are up.”
“But—” I was impressed. “Why did you agree to do a reality show?”
Rebecca cleared her throat. “I joined the show because I wanted to—my stepsons are contesting the will and fighting me for control of the company.” She blew out a breath. “Now I realize it was a mistake—but my thinking was if I went on this show and could show everyone in America what a good businesswoman I actually am…” Her mouth twisted. “After seeing the way they edited the first episode, I’d swear Eric Brewer was on my stepsons’ payroll.”
I had to agree with her. The woman sitting across the room from me today was nothing like the woman I’d seen on the screen Friday night. The show had clearly been edited to make her look and sound like someone who could barely read, rather than the cool, competent professional head of a major restaurant company.
“And that Fidelis Vandiver.” Her face twisted into a sneer. “That fucking bitch needs to be slapped.”
“There’s some history there?”
“Fidelis was involved with Steve briefly—before he met me. She apparently thought she was going to be the next Mrs. Barron. Steve thought she was an idiot—he never would have married her. But she resents me, has said some pretty terrible things about me around town…and she’s working with my stepsons, I know it.” Her eyes narrowed. “She’s probably sleeping with Billy.” She rolled her eyes. “Women always seem to fall for him. I don’t get it. He’s so transparent.”
“But I really don’t understand. Why did you agree to do a show with her if…”
“I didn’t know she was a member of the cast.” Rebecca angrily played with her ponytail. “I didn’t know until Margery’s cocktail party who the other women were, other than Margery, of course. I’ve known Margery for years—obviously, we use Black Mountain Liquor for the local restaurants. I was horrified when I saw Fidelis there.” Her jaw set. “And to hear the things she said about me! Things that are going to air on national television!”
I couldn’t really remember anything specific that Fidelis might have said that deserved such ire.
Then again, I wasn’t in the middle of an ugly legal battle for control of a multi-million-dollar food empire.
“The point being,” Rebecca went on when I didn’t say anything, “when I heard about Chloe—well, I couldn’t go to the police with what I know.”
I glanced over at Frank again, raising my eyebrows. “And what do you know, Mrs. Barron?”
“Rebecca—please, call me Rebecca.” She spread her hands out expressively. “Part of the issue my late husband had with my stepson Billy is—well, for want of a better phrase, he can’t keep it in his pants.” She leaned forward. “You see, Billy was having an affair with Chloe Valence.”
“Wait—what?”
She nodded, the side pony bouncing vigorously. “Oh, yes, it’s been going on for quite some time. They were very discreet—I don’t think any of it got on camera, of course, Billy is many things but he’s not an utter fool—and now?” She sat back with a smile. “I mean, can it be a coincidence that both she and Eric are murdered on the same night?”
I didn’t quite follow, and was about to say so when Frank said, “Rebecca doesn’t want to take this to the police, Scotty.”
“They wouldn’t take me seriously. I may look like a dumb blonde, but I’m not one.” She shook her head. “Everyone knows Billy is trying to break the will, and the police, well, they’ll think I’m just trying to make Billy look bad so I can win the suit.” She laughed. “But the police need to know about Billy and Chloe. And I know he argued with Eric Friday night at the premiere.” She licked her lower lip. “I saw them. I stepped out to have a cigarette and there they were, yelling at each other on the sidewalk. Billy had grabbed the front of Eric’s shirt, like he was about to hit him.”
“You can tell the police that, though,” I said.
“I was the only witness. How credible am I?”
She had a point. “What do you think they were arguing about?”
“I don’t know.” Her eyes narrowed. “Eric—Eric wasn’t exactly a nice guy, as you well know. Look at what he tried to do to your nephew! Maybe he did have something on tape with Billy and Chloe. I don’t know.” She batted her eyes at me and looked over at Frank. “Can I trust you to look into this?”
“We’ll definitely follow any lead,” Frank replied.
She stood up and slid her arms through the sleeves of her mink coat. “Lovely.” She held out her hands to Frank, kissed him on the cheek. She did the same with me, pressing a business card into my hand. “That’s my private cell number. Call me any time if you have any questions.”
“Thanks for coming by.”
We both followed her down the hallway to the back door. When she reached it, she turned back to us with an enormous smile. “Oh, yes, one thing I forgot to mention. Weren’t they both killed with a blunt instrument?”
“Yes.”
“You both know that Billy was a baseball star at LSU, don’t you?” Her eyes sparkled with malice. “He even played in the minor leagues for a few years. He’s kept all his bats from back then, of course. Someone might want to check his bat collection.”
Chapter Thirteen
King of Cups, Reversed
A powerful man who might be double-dealing
“She’s playing us,” I said once Frank returned from walking her to the gate.
“Totally.” Frank shivered as he sat down at the computer. “Man, it’s cold. But yeah, Lady Barron is trying to get us to do her dirty work. But on the other hand…if there’s something to the stuff about Billy Barron, we’ve got to look into it.”
“Well, he was a baseball star,” I replied, trying to remember. “He went to Ben Franklin? Maybe it was Newman, I don’t remember exactly. It was around the same time I was at Jesuit. I mean, he was a pretty big deal…everyone in town knew about Billy, like we knew about the Mannings and Leonard Fournette. It didn’t hurt, either, that his dad used to take out full-page ads in the paper congratulating him on his successes…”
“That must have been mortifying for him,” Frank replied as he started typing on the computer keyboard.
“You’d think.” I shook my head. “But Steve Barron used to do that all the time—take out ads, I mean. Usually to let everyone know his side of his latest feud or something.” I scratched my head. “Billy was also a big-time player at LSU, played on a couple of national championship teams—Steve bought at least three full-page ads both times, I think, and of course he had his restaurants all done up in LSU colors, hosted viewing parties for the College World Series…I think he donated a lot of money to the LSU baseball team, too.”
Frank frowned at the computer screen. He leaned back in the desk chair and put his hands behind his head. “Didn’t he have a big fight with his neighborhood association?”
“Wow! I’d forgotten all about the Christmas dec
orations thing.” I laughed. Steve Barron built one of those hideous McMansions on the north shore of Lake Pontchartrain. It was a gated community, just outside of Mandeville, and his mansion was on lakefront property, with a mini-marina for his boats.
When Steve was alive, his mansion’s Christmas decorations were legendary. People came from all over the state just to see them. The lights could be seen by passengers on airplanes both landing or taking off from Armstrong International. His neighborhood association insisted they be either removed or toned down, and the annual battle over the Barron Christmas decorations was breathlessly reported on by local news outlets.
“He feuded with the Garden District Association, too, when he put in that Barron’s on St. Charles Avenue, between Felicity and Jackson. They thought the original plan for the place was too tacky for the Garden District. They wound up in court, they settled. He agreed to tone down the outside décor of the place.” I tried to remember. “It wasn’t a Barron’s, though, I think he was trying to launch another brand? It was only open a couple of years.”
“Sounds like he was quite a character,” Frank commented.
“Yeah, he was. But he wasn’t so interested in getting his name in the papers after Katrina. And then, of course, he died last year.” I walked up behind him. “Hey—is that Billy Barron?” An image search was up on his screen.
“Yeah. Why?”
“He was at the party Friday night. I saw him there. He was with a woman—I didn’t see her face, but I saw him. He talked to Ryan, and then the woman pulled him away.” I frowned. “Now why would he go to the premiere party for a show with his stepmother?” I crossed my arms. “Rebecca certainly didn’t get him on the guest list. Maybe Chloe? Since Remy didn’t go?”
“But you said he was with another woman.”
“Yeah.” I looked at the computer screen. Billy Barron was a good-looking man, I’d thought so when I saw him at the party.
“Interesting.” Frank pulled up an address directory and typed in William Barron. “He lives in English Turn. Shall we head over there and see if he’s home, maybe have a chat, see if he knows anything?” He glanced at his watch. “We should have time before Taylor gets back.”
“Let’s go.”
English Turn was a gated community on the West Bank, which meant taking the Crescent City Connection to cross the river. It was across the river from Chalmette, below the battlefield where Andrew Jackson commanded a ragtag group of Americans that turned back the British army, winning the Battle of New Orleans after the War of 1812 had ended. But that wasn’t how English Turn got its name. The story we learn as children in Louisiana History was that the original French explorers had made camp at the site that is now the French Quarter. Bienville, the city founder, was traveling back down the river to the gulf when he and his men encountered an English frigate sailing up the river. Bienville somehow convinced the English that the river and the territory had already been claimed for France and convinced them to turn back. Some say that he also warned the English that there were incredibly hostile native tribes farther up the river. Whatever the reason, the English turned around and sailed back to the Gulf. That bend in the river where they turned around has been called English Turn ever since. This gated community for recently wealthy people who didn’t necessarily want to deal with living in historic homes or neighborhoods (with all the rules that come with them, and the sky-high Orleans Parish taxes) had sprung up around the time New Orleans got a reputation for being “dangerous”—as a cover for white flight from the newly segregated public schools in the city.
It’s true that crime in the city began to rise in the 1980s, but white flight had already started.
Based on what I’d seen on the show Friday night, Fidelis also lived in English Turn—yet another grande dame of New Orleans who didn’t live in New Orleans.
“New Orleans adjacent,” as the locals sneered.
“The Barron civil war would be an interesting storyline for the show,” I commented as Frank took the Charles de Gaulle exit once we crossed the bridge. “Props to Rebecca for going on the show. If she could manipulate the narrative…”
“But can she actually control the narrative?” Frank asked. “Only Eric had the final say on what storylines they used and how the women appeared on the show, right?”
One of the things I’d always found interesting about the Grande Dames shows was how manipulative they were. Scenes could be edited to eliminate context; something sounding completely innocuous in a casual conversation might sound horrifically damning when removed from its original context. Eric’s eyes were fixed firmly on the bottom line: it was interesting how women who became enormously popular and developed huge social media followings—and therefore might want more money or more control over their image—wound up getting the so-called bitch edit. As their popularity and social media following plummeted, the sufficiently humbled Dame would either leave the show or bow down to Eric Brewer.
Everyone had to kiss his ring, which could lead to resentment…and possibly murder.
I pulled up a search engine on my phone and googled grande dames of new orleans reviews.
A lot of articles about Eric’s murder popped up—some mentioned Chloe’s as well, but apparently Eric was much bigger news outside New Orleans—but there was also a review on Nola.com, the Times-Picayune’s website.
The headline was amazing: “The Grande Dames Are Here, and It’s Everything We Feared.”
Ouch.
It was from this morning but had been filed before the murders.
The latest iteration of the enormously popular Grande Dames shows, a New Orleans franchise, premiered on Friday night to a packed house at the Joy Theater on Canal Street.*
I scrolled down to the footnote, which read, as I suspected, This review of the show was filed before the news broke about the murders of producer Eric Brewer and cast member Chloe Valence. For our coverage of those events, please click here.
I didn’t want to click there. I didn’t want to see what the news said about Taylor. I didn’t want to even think about Taylor’s name being on sites like TMZ or E! I was kind of surprised that tabloids hadn’t descended on our apartment the way they had when we were involved in the Metoyer investigation—an experience I’d rather not ever live through again, thank you very much.
Especially with the Colin thing going on.
The Colin thing.
I glanced over at Frank. His jaw was set, his teeth clenched, and that muscle in his lower cheek was twitching the way it always did when he was angry.
Probably not the best time to talk about the Colin situation.
I scrolled back up on the screen.
One can’t help but wonder what these shows could have been. Producer Eric Brewer often talks about how he initially intended the first show—the Marin County edition, the so-called “OG” of the Grande Dames—to be a documentary about modern day women trying to have it all. Most of the women in the original cast of the show were all successful women running their own small businesses or companies, trying to maintain the work-home-family-career juggle, trying to have it all, and how difficult that was. But as the shows aired, the personalities of the women became more central to the show, their personal foibles and interactions with the other women, and the breakout star was Kristi Domanico, a woman with a volcanic personality, her own high-end real estate business, a failing marriage and an inflated sense of her own importance in the lives of everyone she knew, including children, employees and the other women on the show. It was a formula that drew ratings, and that became the formula for the first spin-off franchise, the enormously popular Manhattan show, and with Marin County about to enter its twelfth season of filming, Kristi is the sole remaining member of the original cast.
The news that after one failed attempt to launch a New Orleans franchise, the network had managed to succeed the second time around was not greeted with much joy in the city. Television shows and movies have a bad history with New Orleans, emphasiz
ing the stereotypes of “boobs, beads, and booze”—the Dennis Quaid film “The Big Easy” in particular held in derision in the city to this day—and when one of the Grande Dame of New Orleans says, within the first five minutes of the premiere episode, that the city is about “beads, booze and boobs”—you could almost hear the collective groan of New Orleanians all over the world.
The other great irony of the show is that several of the women are not actually residents of New Orleans. Two that are—Chloe Valence and Margery Lautenschlaeger—are the closest thing to reaching into the social stratosphere of New Orleans that the show has; the Valences are one of the oldest families in the Garden District, and of course, Lautenschlaeger is one of the wealthiest women in the city (one has to wonder what she is doing on this show? This reporter certainly did). But Chloe Valence is not to the city bred; she is originally from Mississippi and wasn’t a debutante, despite the impressive Rex and Comus credentials the Valence name carries with it.
