Who Dat Whodunnit

by Greg Herren

  But when he smiles, his blue-gray eyes light up, dimples deepen in his cheeks, and the scar isn’t even noticeable.

  Fortunately, he smiles a lot.

  “As usual, she didn’t say much.” I shrugged. “Her typical cryptic shit.” I signed out of the computer and got out of my chair. “But I suppose if she told us anything more—”

  “She’d have to kill us.” Frank finished the running joke between us with a laugh. No matter how many times we said it, it never seemed to get old. He winked at me. “You look hot,” he went on, giving me a wolf whistle.

  “You think?” I looked down at what I was wearing—a pair of worn low-rise jeans and a black T-shirt that fit a little more snugly in the waist than I would have preferred. For that matter, I’d had some trouble closing the jeans.

  I was going to have to start being a little more careful with my diet.

  “I thought this was supposed to be a dressy thing—why are you wearing jeans?”

  “Do you think Mom and Dad are going to be dressed up?” I rolled my eyes. “Besides, our branch of the family is always expected to be a freak show.”

  “Why are we going, anyway?” he asked as I followed him back into the bathroom. I leaned against the door frame as he started shaving. “Mom hates these command performances, doesn’t she?”

  “She’s not the only one,” I replied.

  Dinner parties at the home of my paternal grandparents were always tedious affairs, where the only saving grace was the good liquor. Get-togethers at my maternal grandparents’ graceful Garden District mansion were always a good time—you never knew what was going to happen, and that was part of the fun. But the Bradleys were the antithesis of the Diderots—boring, stuffy, and extremely concerned about appearances. Papa Bradley disliked my mother intensely—and the feeling was more than mutual. He blamed her for turning my dad into a “French Quarter bohemian”; she thought he was an uptight racist classist bourgeois bastard. On more than one occasion he’d said something offensive and Mom had blown up.

  At the Diderot house, a lively family argument would ensue. Papa Bradley just curled his lip disdainfully and drank more Scotch, his disapproval of his second son’s family written all over his face.

  Frankly, I much prefer the Diderots. I try to avoid the Bradley side as much as possible. It’s not fun to be part of the black sheep branch of the family tree.

  Even my brother Storm’s law degree and marriage to a Garden District blueblood didn’t make up for the “sins” of our parents. My sister Rain, who’d married a doctor and was very active in all the correct Uptown charities, hadn’t set foot inside the State Street house in years.

  And I suspect Papa Bradley didn’t like to admit to many people he had a gay grandson with two long-term partners and his own private eye business.

  I can only imagine what he’d think if he knew I was also a bit psychic.

  “But it’s an obligation.” I took a deep breath. “I don’t want to go any more than you do.”

  Frank frowned at me in the mirror. He rinsed off his razor before going back to work on his neck. “I don’t mind your Bradley relatives as much as you do.”

  “That’s because they aren’t your relatives,” I retorted. As soon as I said it, I was sorry.

  I’d never met any of Frank’s relatives. I knew he had parents up in one of the Chicago suburbs, and a sister with a family in Birmingham. Other than that, he didn’t talk about them. I quickly added before the vein in his forehead started throbbing, “Besides, much as I loathe my cousin Jared, he does play for the Saints”—mostly on the bench, I thought—“and they are going to the Super Bowl, so if Papa Bradley wants the whole family there to toast this momentous occasion, we have to go. It’s just one evening.” I sighed. “I guess this kind of thing means a lot to him.”

  “Do you think MiMi will get drunk?” Frank winked at me as he rinsed his face.

  I glanced at my watch and raised an eyebrow. “It’s six thirty—she’s already been drunk for hours.”

  No one in the family really blamed MiMi for getting drunk. “It can’t be easy being married to that horrible old bastard, If drinking keeps her from putting a bullet in his head, who are we to judge?” was what Mom always said whenever one of us suggested getting her help or possibly staging an intervention. She had a point. Hell, if I’d spent fifty years married to the old bastard, I’d probably have my first drink at lunch, too. Mom also liked to point out that she rarely made a spectacle of herself in public—although there was that one time at Galatoire’s we weren’t allowed to talk about. No one on our side of the family had been there to witness it. According to my sister Rain, whose friend Catsy Thorndike had witnessed it, MiMi apparently took off her blouse, climbed up on her table, and did a pole dance to the cheers of the other diners.

  I’m quite sure it wasn’t quite that bad. Catsy Thorndike is prone to exaggeration—and had most likely been pretty hammered herself.

  “Colin’s lucky he’s wherever he is,” I said sourly. “I know I’d rather be shot at than spend the evening on State Street.”

  “It’s not that bad.” Frank rolled his eyes at me as he went into the bedroom. A nice pair of navy blue slacks, a yellow button-down shirt, a pair of socks that matched the shirt, and a leather belt were laid out across our neatly made bed.

  “You’re wearing that?” I moaned. “Come on, Frank, wear jeans.”

  He dropped the towel and grinned. “Papa Bradley’s wish is my command.” He gave me a mock bow and winked as he pulled the pants on. “He doesn’t have to know I’m going commando underneath, does he?” He zipped them closed.

  I leered at him. “Unless I pants you over the after dinner cocktails, which isn’t a half-bad idea.” I let out a long-suffering sigh. “That should shake things up a bit, don’t you think?”

  “All Papa Bradley would do is get that sour look on his face and drink more Scotch,” Frank pointed out. “And MiMi wouldn’t notice.”

  “It would gross out Jared—which might make it worth it.” I sat down on the corner of the bed.

  “He’s not that bad, is he?” Frank asked.

  “You didn’t grow up with him.” Since I avoided that side of the family, Frank had never really gotten the full Bradley experience. Whenever Frank was around, that side of the family was always on its best behavior—because they didn’t consider him part of the family.

  The dinner was in honor of my first (and only) cousin on that side of the family, Jared. Jared was about five years younger than me, and as the only child of the oldest son, he was the Bradley Crown Prince. He was horribly spoiled and could do no wrong. Jared had been a football star in high school, gotten a scholarship to Southern Mississippi, and somehow managed to finagle his way into a spot on the Saints roster. He didn’t get to play much, but the sight of the name BRADLEY across the back of a Saints jersey on the sideline was all Papa Bradley needed.

  Jared was also a homophobe. I came out to my family when I was sixteen, and when no adults were around he always called me “fag.”

  Well, that and “pillow-biter”—and other words equally charming.

  I really hate my cousin.

  About ten minutes later, we were heading uptown in the silver Jaguar. The Jaguar is really Colin’s car, but he leaves it in New Orleans for us to use since neither one of us have one. It’s a sweet ride, actually—it’s custom, with leather seats and all kinds of gadgetry I have no idea how to use. Angela had gotten it for him, which is the primary reason I don’t like driving it. I’m always afraid I’m going to accidentally hit a switch and launch a rocket or something. On the other hand, Frank loves to drive it. So far he hasn’t blown up anything, so I’m okay with leaving the driving to him.

  But there’s always a first time.

  I shivered as we headed up St. Charles. “Turn the heat up,” I instructed, trying to tuck as much of my head as possible into the collar of my black leather jacket. Most People Not From Here don’t realize it actually does get cold in
New Orleans in the wintertime. It’s a horrible damp cold that cuts right to the bone and seems to settle into your joints.

  And since our homes are built to be as cool as possible in the mind-numbing heat of summer, they’re really hard to heat.

  Frank obliged, then glanced at the clock on the dashboard. “We’re going to be late,” he commented.

  “Good,” I replied, looking out the window at the mansions passing by. “There’s nothing worse than being the first ones there.” I shuddered. “Ugh.”

  “You know, Papa Bradley isn’t that bad, and MiMi is pretty harmless.” Frank slowed the car as the light at Napoleon turned yellow, then red. “I really don’t know why you don’t like them.”

  I had to give Papa Bradley credit—Frank was welcome in his home. As a law-and-order conservative, he respected Frank as a retired FBI Special Agent. He was always cordial to him—although he never admitted we were more than business partners.

  Still, for him that was something.

  “Well, I do love them,” I replied. “I just don’t like them very much.”

  “You used to feel that way about Papa Diderot, too,” he reminded me, shifting back into first gear when the light changed to green again.

  I gave him a sour look. “Yeah, yeah.”

  Much as I hated to admit it, he was right. I closed my eyes and tried to remember a time when Papa Bradley acted like a decent human being. I had some vague memories of him tossing me in the air when I was a little boy, and the smell of his cigars and bourbon. When did he turn into an asshole? When did I stop liking him?

  I honestly couldn’t remember. There wasn’t a clear line of demarcation, like there was with Katrina, dividing time into before and after. I just remembered the clear look of disapproval when I told him I wasn’t going to be playing football at Jesuit High School, the way his eyebrows knit together as he puffed on his cigar when I told him I’d be going to Vanderbilt instead of LSU—the list of times I’d proven to be a disappointment to him was endless. I remembered him railing about the goddamned liberal Communists ruining this country, the lazy bastards on welfare, and the baby-murdering liberals, how we should just nuke Iran—on and on and on.

  “It’s kind of hard to love someone when you disagree with him about just about everything,” I finally said. “I mean, he makes Ann Coulter look progressive.”

  Frank laughed. “I’ll have to give you that one.”

  How many homophobic things has the old bastard said in front of me? I thought, trying to remember and giving up. He thought gays were perverts who didn’t deserve any protection under the law—and my being one didn’t change his mind one bit.

  “It’s a wonder Mom hasn’t killed him,” I said out loud, and smothered a grin as I remembered the last time he said something homophobic in front of me. It was Christmas Eve, and we were gathered around the gigantic tree in the massive front parlor of the State Street house. I couldn’t have been more than twenty-two or twenty-three, still in disgrace on both sides of the family for dropping out of Vanderbilt. I couldn’t remember what exactly was said to set him off on his homophobic tirade—most likely it was my cousin Jared, it usually was—but it was one of his nastiest to date. Mom—who had absolutely no problem with telling her own father off and getting into a screaming match with him—always tried to bite her tongue at the Bradley house.

  But she didn’t this time.

  She very calmly filled her wineglass to the top, walked over to him with a huge smile on her face, and threw the wine in his face.

  He gaped at her in shock—everyone in the room did.

  “You miserable old son of a bitch,” she said in her pleasantest tone. “I’ve had to listen to your fascist bullshit for years, but I will be damned if you are going to insult and demean my son in my presence on Christmas Eve. What would your Lord and Savior think?”

  She left him blinking, his mouth open, and walked over to the Christmas tree. Before anyone could stop her, she gave it a good shove. It fell over, ornaments that had been in the family for decades shattering and splintering as everyone just gasped in shock.

  She turned back to him with a smile, gave him the middle finger with both hands, and swept out of the room, with Dad and me right behind her.

  She laughed all the way back to the Quarter.

  In fact, she still enjoyed a hearty laugh every time that night came up.

  I stifled a moan as Frank parked in front of the house. “Gird your loins,” he said with a smirk. “We’re here.” He patted my left leg.

  I love him, but he can be really annoying sometimes.

  Papa Bradley’s house is a massive two-story structure made of gray stone. The porch was only large enough to hold several people standing at the front door. There was a huge bay window to the right of the front door, where an enormous Christmas tree decorated entirely in black and gold sparkled. That wasn’t the family tree, of course—this was for passersby to gawk at. A huge Saints flag fluttered from the roof of the porch in the cold wind. The paved circular driveway was clogged full of cars. In the island of lawn between the driveway and the sidewalk, a black iron fountain bubbled and splashed.

  I took a deep breath and got out of the car, shivering as another blast of cold wind seemed to go right through my clothes and skin to my bones. I started walking to the front door as another car pulled into the driveway.

  “Hey, boys.” Storm waved as he got out of his black Mercedes. He walked around to the other side and opened the passenger door for his wife, Marguerite. We waited for them on the walk. Marguerite kissed us both on the cheek. She was pretty, tall and slender with long chestnut hair. I often felt sorry for her—I was born into this family, I couldn’t imagine what it was like to marry into the insanity—but she always seemed to handle it fairly well. I linked arms with her and we walked up the steps to the verandah while Frank and Storm talked about the Saints’ win over the Vikings.

  As I pushed the doorbell, Marguerite whispered, “Three hours, max, before we can escape.”

  I suppressed a laugh as Louisa opened the front door. She’d been my grandparents’ housekeeper for as long as I could remember, and I’d often wondered how much they paid her to overlook Papa Bradley’s all-too-frequent racist remarks. She smiled at us. “Everyone’s in the parlor,” she said, taking our jackets.

  I exchanged a look with Marguerite, who just rolled her eyes. The parlor meant before-dinner drinks. And that meant MiMi was probably already hoisting her third sheet to the wind. I sighed and walked up the hallway to the parlor.

  There was a fire going in the fireplace underneath the massive oil painting of Jeremiah Bradley, who’d made the family fortune shipping sugar and coffee after the Civil War. (Papa Diderot always likes to point out that Jeremiah Bradley was a carpetbagger.) MiMi was sitting in a red velvet wingback chair, sipping an enormous martini with two olives nestled in the bottom of the glass. Papa Bradley was pouring himself what was most likely his third or fourth Scotch. My aunt Leslie was sitting in the matching wingback chair on the other side of the hearth, a glass of red wine in her hand, watching MiMi through half-closed eyes.

  Leslie was married to my uncle Skipper, and in her mid-twenties, maybe. She was very pretty; in that well-kept way younger woman married to men living off trust funds always seem to have. She had shoulder-length fine white-blond hair, a cat-shaped face ending in a sharp chin underneath thick red lips Mom swore were injected with collagen, and glittering green eyes. Her nose was slightly too perfect to be natural, and her perfectly round breasts sat high on her chest. She was wearing a black off-the-shoulder dress that reached her knees but had a deep slit up each side. Her black stiletto pumps completed what my sister Rain would say was “a few pennies short of expensive” look.

  Personally, I liked Aunt Leslie. When you got her alone, she had an earthy sense of humor and a raucous laugh—but in company she was glacial and reserved, rarely speaking unless directly addressed. Everyone assumed she married Uncle Skipper for his money—why e
lse would such a carefully packaged young woman marry a drunk old enough to be her father?—but I think she was fond of him in her own way.

  Besides, what was wrong with marrying for money?

  She nodded at me as I kissed MiMi on the cheek. MiMi patted my cheek, and I tried not to recoil from the combined odor of Chanel No. 5 and stale gin. Her eyes were glassy, and it was going to take a major production to get her out of the chair.

  I kissed Aunt Leslie’s cheek and whispered, “Where’s Uncle Skipper?”

  The corners of her mouth twitched. “Throwing up in the bathroom, probably.” She muttered out of the side of her mouth, her right eye closing in a wink only I could see.

  Papa Bradley, a fresh glass of Scotch in hand, curtly nodded at me. “Milton,” he said as he shook Storm’s hand, ignoring Frank and Marguerite.

  I closed my eyes and counted to ten before meeting Frank’s eyes. That was another reason Papa Bradley irritated me—he insisted on calling me Milton. Marguerite maneuvered her way to the bar and mixed herself and Storm martinis—taking a big gulp from hers before passing Storm his.

  It was going to be one of those nights.

  The doorbell rang again as Uncle Skipper staggered into the parlor. Like MiMi, he was well on his way to total incoherence. He gave me a big, crushing bear hug. “Scotty! How’s my favorite nephew?”

  “Good,” I replied, wincing from his whiskey-soaked breath.

  “What am I, chopped liver?” Storm sipped his martini with a good-natured smile.

  Before Uncle Skipper could answer, Mom and Dad appeared in the doorway. Mom’s gaze swept over everyone, and I could tell she was bracing herself. She was wearing a red cashmere sweater over black slacks, and black boots with heels. A single teardrop diamond hung around her neck on a gold chain—and even Dad was wearing a jacket and tie.