by Greg Herren
Taylor’s apartment, the top floor of our building, turns into a sauna if the lower three floors have their heat on. He’s even had to turn the air-conditioning on when it’s in the forties outside because his apartment is over ninety degrees.
That’s life in New Orleans for you.
The former Jane Meakin Barron had remarried after divorcing Billy—I couldn’t help but wonder if this was the divorce that upset his father so badly he’d cut Billy out of the will—and was now living in a huge house in Broadmoor, just off Napoleon Avenue, on Derbigny Street on the lake side of Claiborne Avenue. Paige took Claiborne just as it started raining. We were passing the Superdome when I started hearing this weird clicking sound and realized it was ice hitting the windshield.
Some of the rain’s turning to ice.
Sleet? Hail? Madness.
I gasped when Paige pulled over in front of Jane Barron Bullard’s house.
It was a three-story Caribbean plantation style house, with a wide, sweeping staircase leading up from the circular driveway to the second-floor gallery. It was painted dark green, with bright yellow shutters on the windows.
But I couldn’t’ stop gawking at the Christmas decorations.
Jane Barron Bullard’s house was decorated like there would never be another Christmas in New Orleans. Her former father-in-law’s decorations on his North Shore home purportedly could have been seen from space; her decorations would give his a run for his money. A colossal plastic statue of Santa Claus underneath a palm tree waved at passing cars. A sleigh and eight reindeer stretched across the roof. All the bushes and palm trees had white lights strung through the branches and up their sides, as did the round two-story-high columns on the gallery. Three gigantic red plastic bells took turns flashing on the front door. The windows were decorated with lights and fake candles. The lights of an enormous Christmas tree, just inside the window to the right of the front door, blinked in the gray late afternoon.
A black woman in her late fifties, wearing a hideous Christmas sweater and a pair of jeans, answered the door.
“Is Mrs. Bullard home?” Paige asked sweetly.
She looked at both of us suspiciously. There was a streak of flour on her cheek. “Who’s asking?”
“I’m Paige Tourneur from Crescent City magazine and this is my assistant, Scott.”
Assistant?
But it worked. “I don’t think Mrs. Bullard is expecting company today,” she said with a frown, standing aside to let us inside the overheated house. The hallway led to a back door. Holly and mistletoe were hanging from the ceiling, big red flashing bells were hung over the doorways, and tinsel was wrapped around the railing of the staircase. “Please wait in here,” she gestured to a doorway, “while I go check on Mrs. Bullard. Crescent City magazine, you said?”
“Yes.” Paige walked through the doorway. I hesitated a second before following her. This was the living room, which contained the Christmas tree visible through the windows. It was even larger than I’d imagined, and there was yet another tree on the other side of the room. The entire room smelled of pine and cinnamon. Candles were burning on the mantel and on the coffee table. Stockings hung from the fireplace, candy canes everywhere one could be hung.
It was much too warm, so I slipped off my coat just as Jane Bullard joined us. “Jesus CHRIST, it’s hot in here,” she said. She called out, “Toy, will you turn down the heat, please?” She gave us both a huge smile. “I may have to open some windows. My apologies, it was ice cold in here this morning, so I turned up the heat and wasn’t paying attention to how hot it was getting! My bill is going to be insane.” She rolled her eyes. “But you don’t care about that. I’m Jane Bullard.”
I know it’s rude to stare, but I couldn’t help myself. Jane Bullard and Rebecca Barron could have easily passed for sisters to anyone who didn’t know them. Jane’d had some work done, obviously; her eyelids had that strange hollow look indicating they’d been lifted more than once, and her forehead was remarkably free of wrinkles. Her figure was slender, an almost impossibly small waist accentuated by a black cable-knit turtleneck sweater and the almost impossibly large breasts straining at the wool. She also wore slim-fit jeans that hugged her curves. She was maybe five three, five four at the most; her equally impossibly blond hair pulled back into a tight ponytail made her seem more youthful.
Paige introduced us both, and Jane offered us drinks, which we declined. We sat down on the dark sofa, and she sat down across the coffee table from us, the Christmas tree behind her almost looking like it was growing out of her head.
“Your decorations are amazing,” I said.
She laughed, pearl-white teeth flashing beneath her red lips. “I overdo it,” she admitted, glancing around the room. “I can’t help it, I love Christmas. I can’t get enough of it.”
“It reminds me of Steve Barron, on a much smaller scale,” Paige replied.
Jane laughed again, sounding genuinely delighted. “Well, I kind of always felt responsible for that,” she said as she crossed her legs. “He was my father-in-law and was very competitive, to say the least. When I was married to his son, I did up our first house like this for our first Christmas together.” She waved around. “Steve stopped by, and the next thing I knew his place was lit up like a Roman candle. I always felt like I owed his neighbors an apology, and then it turned into an annual thing.” She rolled her eyes. “What can I do for you? I don’t remember being asked for an interview with Crescent City.” She frowned. “I mean, I’d love to talk to you about the charity and the work we’re doing, but I’m terribly unprepared. But we can certainly get started today!”
“Well, this actually had to do with something that happened to you when you were married to your first husband,” Paige said carefully. “You were attacked by—”
“That crazy bitch Amanda Lautenschlaeger.” Jane’s lips compressed into a tight line. “I saw her the other day at Whole Foods, and I couldn’t believe my eyes. How she is not in a straitjacket and locked up is…well, money talks.” She shook her head angrily. “You know we all went to school together, right? To Newman? Yes, I was in the same class as Amanda and Billy.” Her face was a taut mask. “Amanda was obsessed with Billy, for as long as I can remember. They started going steady when we were sophomores, I think? Oh, she was so awful and crazy and possessive, even then. If Billy so much as looked at another girl—” She closed her eyes and shivered, delicately. “And I don’t care what anyone says, she murdered that girl senior year. No one will ever convince me that was an accident.”
“It wasn’t?” I asked, leaning forward.
“Billy had just broken up with Amanda and asked Deborah Holt to Homecoming.” She leaned back in her chair and folded her arms. “I didn’t see it happen, but less than three days later Deborah is dead, killed in an accident”—she made air quotes as she said accident—“and my friend Megan saw it happen. She was there wtih Deborah. She said Amanda sped up the car, didn’t hit the brakes or anything, didn’t try to stop.”
“Megan? That would be Megan Dreher, wouldn’t it?” Paige was making notes as she spoke.
“Why, yes, it would be. She was Megan Tortorice then, of course. And we never, you know, saw Amanda again.” Her face twisted. “She had a nervous breakdown.” More air quotes. “And was whisked away to a boarding school. No one will ever convince me Margery Lautenschlaeger didn’t buy off the cops and the DA. Amanda murdered Deborah in cold blood. Megan and I both have always believed that.” She barked out an unamused laugh. “And of course, she came after me with a baseball bat when I was married to Billy.”
“How did that happen?” I was genuinely curious. I’d always known justice was sort of for sale in New Orleans—I suspect my parents have gotten away with things people who didn’t have the Diderot or Bradley bloodline would have; the pot, for example—but I’d never had any real evidence of it.
We like to believe justice is blind and fair for everyone.
But it really isn’t.
And it’s not just a New Orleans thing, either.
“Billy and I started dating when we were both at LSU. He was on a baseball scholarship, of course, and I…well, I didn’t want to go to school outside the state. We ran into each other at a fraternity party, I think he was a Beta Kappa? Long story short, we got involved and we got married after we graduated while Billy tried to make it as a pro.” Her smile was sardonic. “He didn’t, you know. And there’s nothing worse than a failed jock who suddenly has to find something to do with his life. But Billy…” Her voice trailed off, and she looked off into the distance, a faint smile playing on her lips. “He’s so charismatic, and charming. But he also can’t keep it in his pants. I don’t remember how long we’d been married before Amanda came back into our lives. But she did. I think we’d been married five years when he started up the affair with her again?” She sighed. “Yes, that was right, I was pregnant with Kyan, my second son.” She pointed over at a framed photograph of a handsome young man in an LSU graduation cap and gown. “But she got it into her head that Billy wanted to marry her and that I was in the way and if I were gone…” She shrugged. “Somehow she got into the house when I was the only one home, me and my oldest. She came after me with one of Billy’s bats from college. He kept them all, you know, including the one where he hit the home run that won the College World Series. He has a trophy room.”
“How did you—how did you get away from her?”
“Stupid bitch didn’t know I had a gun in the kitchen.” She laughed. “I was in the kitchen, making dinner, slicing vegetables when she comes in with the baseball bat and takes a swing at me, telling me how I don’t deserve Billy and she’s going to get him back and all that nonsense.” She ran a hand through her hair. “And me four months pregnant. I got to the drawer where I kept the gun and pulled it on her. I ran out the door and over to the neighbors’ house and I called the cops. I wanted to press charges but Billy didn’t want me to, said the scandal would be bad for the restaurants. But what he really meant was it would piss off his father. I think our marriage lasted like another five years before I was finished with him, once and for all.”
“And what happened to Amanda?”
“Margery sent her off to another hospital.” Again with the air quotes. She laughed. “I’m not ashamed to admit I made the old bitch pay me off, too. Fuck the restaurants, you know? I was pregnant. She belonged behind bars.”
“Did you also know Fidelis Vandiver?”
“Of course. We were all in school together.” Her eyes widened. “Oh my God, she was murdered the other night, wasn’t she?” She stood up. “It was Amanda, I’m telling you. Oh my God, Amanda is killing people again, isn’t she?”
“We don’t know—”
“It said in the paper blunt force trauma to the head.” Jane went on like Paige hadn’t said a word. “Dollars to donuts it was a baseball bat. You should tell the police to check Billy’s bats.” She got up and started pacing. “Oh my God, someone told me the other day—maybe a week or two ago? That Fidelis was seeing Billy. Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.” She walked over to the Christmas tree, fidgeting with an ornament. “And Chloe Valence, too. Wasn’t she killed recently? I’m so glad I refused to do that show.”
“You were asked to be a Grande Dame?” I asked, startled.
She nodded. “Margery herself called me, to try to recruit me. Like I would do anything that horrible old witch wanted me to. She’s just as crazy as her daughter.” She rose. “I’m sorry, but I have a meeting I must get to.”
She walked us to the door, and as we said our goodbyes, she snapped her fingers. “You know, if you’re looking into Amanda, you need to talk to Ilana Holt.”
“Ilana Holt?” I asked.
“Deborah’s younger sister. She worshiped Deborah.”
The door shut.
Chapter Twenty-two
The Star, Reversed
Chance of mental illness
Paige dropped me off in front of my building. “Call me if you find anything else out, and I’ll keep you in the loop,” she said as I unbuckled my seat belt.
“Thanks.” I looked out the car window and shuddered inwardly. It was pouring rain again, and several massive streams of water poured down off the front of my building. The gutter was filling with swirling cold gray water.
“And if Taylor needs anything…” She bit her lower lip. “Keep me posted on how he’s doing. He’s a good kid.”
Touched, I felt tears coming up in my eyes. Get a grip, Scotty, I reminded myself as I opened the car door. I stepped over the gutter and only got slightly soaked before I was safely under the cover of the balconies above. I fished my keys out of my jacket pocket as I walked to the gate, slipped the keys in the lock, and glanced down the street to the bar on the corner.
The Balcony Bar had gone through numerous changes of ownership and rebranding in the years since I’d moved out of Mom and Dad’s to Decatur Street. Actor and magician Harry Anderson had owned it for several years. Two security cameras were mounted in the bottom of the balcony at the corner—one facing up Esplanade, the other facing up Decatur, facing me.
I hesitated.
You have no reason to doubt Colin’s story, I reminded myself. It’s disloyal to question it. And besides, they probably tape over previous days’ recordings.
I unlocked the gate. I could feel the cold metal of the handle through my gloves. My teeth chattered as I made my way down the dark passageway to the courtyard.
We need our own security camera, and we need to light this damned passageway.
We also needed to make up our minds about how to renovate the building, and stop putting it off.
Once we’re finished with this case. Once we know Taylor is okay. Once we catch this killer.
I shivered again as I reached the courtyard. The drainpipe that collects the water from the roof of the passageway was gushing water out into the courtyard. About an inch of water covered the flagstones. The fountain was almost full.
I dashed through the rain to the back steps. My teeth were chattering as I took the steps two at a time. It was definitely cold enough for the rain to turn to snow at some point.
Note to self: enclose the stairs when we renovate.
The apartment was quiet as I walked down the hallway. “Hello?” I called as I stripped off my wet hat and coat.
Frank was sitting at the computer desk, frowning at the screen. “Hey, honey,” he said as I kissed his cheek and wrapped my arms around him in a hug. “Rhoda and Lindy took off for their hotel. They said they’d let us know if they heard back from any of their sources.” He leaned back into my hug. “They said they were monitoring the house and not to worry.”
“Did they bug us?”
“I thought it was better to not ask questions.” He brought my left hand to his mouth and kissed it. “They did scan the place, and we’re clear as far as that’s concerned…I just wish we’d hear from Colin, you know?”
“I’m trying not to think about it.” I kissed the top of his head, thinking again how lucky I was to have him in my life.
“At some point we’re going to have to decide what we’re going to do about him.” Frank’s voice was small. “I love him, but…what if someone had been home Friday night?”
“I’m just glad—” I paused. I wasn’t sure how to say it. “I mean, I’m really glad it wasn’t Russians or someone after Colin that took Taylor. But on the other hand, it’s almost worse that it was his dad. I mean, for him? Does that make sense? Sorry, my brain is fried.” I walked over to the windows. How did Bestuzhev get in?
I’d turn this place into Fort Knox if I had to.
But there was still that niggling doubt in the back of my mind.
He was lying to you.
Frank stood up and joined me at the window. The shutters were open, and I could see the Mint through the haze of the rain. “He seems to be doing okay, all things considered. He’s still a little shaken up, but okay for the most part. The Xanax knock
ed him out. I went up to check on him a little while ago and he was sound asleep, poor thing.” He sighed. “I’m torn. I know we should turn his father and his buddies over to the police, but at the same time, she’s my sister.”
“I can’t imagine.” I couldn’t. My sister was awesome, and so was my brother. I couldn’t imagine having to deal with what Frank and Taylor had to almost their entire lives. It did make me love them both even more for turning out so well in spite of everything awful. They could have easily gone to the dark side or been driven to suicide.
It was a chilling thought, but it still happened every day. Queer kids killed themselves at much higher rates than straight kids.
No wonder Frank never wanted to talk about his family or his life before we met. He was still sort of in the closet when we met all those years ago at Southern Decadence. I’d always thought it was because he was afraid of losing his job…but his family had probably fucked him up a bit about his sexuality.
“Anyway, everything we’ve been told about Amanda Lautenschlaeger is true.” Frank yawned and stretched. “She did leave Newman during their senior year, and she was definitely driving the car that killed Deborah Holt.” He sighed. “It’s amazing how little there is about Amanda online. Not even a Facebook page. Seriously, who doesn’t have a Facebook page these days?”
“You don’t have one,” I pointed out.
“I do have a fan page for Frank Savage.” Frank Savage was his ring name. A smile played at his lips. He had over thirty thousand followers on his wrestler fan page. I always smiled when I read the adoring messages he got from female fans.
Some were pretty explicit about what they wanted to do to his body and what they wanted him to do to them…
Can’t say as I blame them.
He looks smoking hot in his ring gear.
“Like I was saying, it’s remarkable how little information there is about her online—unless, of course, you have access to private eye databases.” He winked at me. “She transferred to a private school in upstate New York called St. Dymphna’s—but did you know that the school is for ‘troubled girls’?”
