by Greg Herren
Table of Contents
Synopsis
Reviewers Love Greg Herren’s Mysteries
By The Author
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Epilogue
About the Author
Books Available From Bold Strokes Books
Synopsis
When neither the cops nor their insurance company believes a wealthy gay couple’s valuable art collection was stolen, they hire Chanse MacLeod to track down the thieves and the missing art. Chanse isn’t entirely sure he believes the couple, either—especially when it turns out some of the art may have been forgeries. The trail of the art leads him to a new gallery on Julia Street in the Arts District opened by a couple new to town that seem to have no past. When one of them turns up dead and the other vanishes, it’s now up to Chanse to find not only the missing art, but a ruthless murderer who will kill anyone who gets in the way.
Reviewers Love Greg Herren’s Mysteries
“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.” —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
“[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.”—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
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Murder in the Arts District
© 2014 By Greg Herren. All Rights Reserved.
ISBN 13: 978-1-62639-263-2
This Electronic Book is published by
Bold Strokes Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 249
Valley Falls, New York 12185
First Edition: October 2014
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 Sheri ([email protected])
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
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
Sleeping Angel
Sara
Timothy
Lake Thirteen
Dark Tide
Women of the Mean Streets: Lesbian Noir
Men of the Mean Streets: Gay Noir
Night Shadows: Queer Horror
(edited with J. M. Redmann)
Love, Bourbon Street: Reflections on New Orleans
(edited with Paul J. Willis)
Acknowledgments
Chanse MacLeod and I have been together for a very long time. I first dreamed him up back in 1990, when I was living in Houston. I was trapped in traffic one night on my way home from work on I-45 South, and while I sat there waiting for traffic to start moving again, I started thinking about the private eye novel I wanted to write—and his name just came to me: Chanse MacLeod. I started scribbling notes in a notebook, and when I got home I started writing. I worked on Chanse in bits and pieces, here and there, until 1997, when I opened a Word document and started writing the manuscript that eventually became Murder in the Rue Dauphine. That was my first novel to get published (in January 2002), and now, the last Chanse book is going into print.
The road Chanse and I have traveled together for the last twenty-four years or so has been bumpy sometimes, rocky at others, and smooth for long stretches. Saying good-bye to him wasn’t an easy decision to make, and it may not be permanent—but after seven novels with him, and a total of thirteen novels about private eyes overall, I want to do some different things. Maybe Chanse will come back someday; who knows? But for now, we’re going our separate ways, at least for a while.
If I listed everyone who has had a hand in the Chanse books and my career since that hot August day I was stuck in traffic, this book would be about as thick as a James Michener novel. I’ve been incredibly blessed in my life to have any number of wonderful people pass through it, and each and every one of them has made my life richer for being a part of it.
There are some people who simply have to be named, because to not acknowledge their importance would be criminal.
Everyone at Bold Strokes Books, from Radclyffe to Sandy Lowe to Cindy Cresap to Stacia Seaman to Ruth Sternglantz, has been absolutely amazing to me ever since they gave me a publishing home. Being a part of the company and getting to know the rest of the Bold Strokes family has been one of the most pleasant experiences of my life. Thank you all for that, with a special nod to Lady Hermione, Nell, Trin, Lynda, Niner, Lisa, Rachel, Annie and Linda, Ashley, Rebekah, Kim, Xenia, and anyone I may have overlooked—y’all are a lot of fun to spend time with, whether it’s watching Rosemary’s Baby at Garnet Hill Lodge, exploring a cemetery or a nearly abandoned town or the Joshua Tree park, or just hanging around eating candy and talking smack—thank you for the amazing memories and being just great people.
The people I always think of as my blog friends (’Nathan, Jeffrey, FARB, Timothy, Becky, Lisa, David, Tim, Rhonda, Lindsay, Jim, and whomever else I am forgetting) have brought me lots of joy and laughter over the years. (I haven’t forgotten the dog-gnawed roll, Jim—just you wait.)
Some of the great bookstores who have been supportive of me and my books over the years are no longer around, but I shall never forget Outwrite in Atlanta, Giovanni’s Room in Philadelphia, A Different Light in both West Hollywood and San Francisco. Murder by the Book and everyone there in Houston are amazing. Thank you all.
My New Orleans friends are like family to me, and I thank God for all of you every day: Jean Redmann, Gillian Roger, Konstantine Smorodnikov, Pat Brady, Michael Ledet, Bev and Butch Marshall, Jesse and Laura Ledet, Billy Martin, Josh Fegley, the evil Mark Drake, Allison Vertovec, Brandon Benson, Augustin Correro, Tiffany Medlock, Nick Parr, Drew Davenport, Jeremy Bickford, Mark Smith, everyone at the NO / AIDS Task Force, Jacob Rickoll, Joey Olsen, Stan and Janet Duval Daley, Harriet Campbell Young, Michael Carruth, John Angelico, Karissa Kary, Chris Wiltz, and Susan Larson. My other longtime friends from all over the country are also like family: Stephen Driscoll, Stuart Wamsley, Carol Rosenfeld, Michael Thomas Ford, Michele Karlsberg, Mike Smid, Karen Bengtsen, Kara Keegan Warnke, Dawn LoBaugh, Darren Brewer, Heidi Haltiner, Ryan McNeeley, Vince Liaguno, Lisa Morton, Ricky Grove, and so many others I can’t even begin to name them all.
Martin Strickland, Robin Pearce and Meghan Davidson—not a day goes by when I don’t miss you. When are you coming home for good?
And then there’s the Vicious Circle. How would I get through a day without your help rappelling down mountains, installing air conditioners, drinking vodka that tastes like bad cake batter, or running for mayor of Puerto Vallarta? Woo-hoo! I hope I never have to find out—or get hit in the face with a flying wineholder made from plastic.
And of course, Paul J. Willis, who believed in me when no one else did including myself—you’ve made my life so much better and helped make all my dreams come true. Thank you.
This is for Diana Pinckley, gone too soon but never to be forgotten.
“My luck had run out, you know luck does that sometimes, it peters out on you no matter how hard you try.”
Tennessee Williams, Kingdom of Earth
Chapter One
The electronic gate began rolling to the left with a loud clamor.
I closed the driver’s side window of my “billet silver” Jeep Cherokee, shivering. I turned the heater back up to high. I was cold even though I was wearing my black trench coat and a black knit Saints cap. It was in the low thirties. The sky was gray and covered with clouds, the air the kind of chilly damp that goes right to your joints. Last night there had been a freeze warning for all of southeastern Louisiana, so I’d had to turn all my faucets on to a trickle all night to keep the exposed pipes under my house from freezing. The grass on either side of the paved driveway had turned brown, and in the rearview mirror I could see the grass on the levee on the other side of the road behind me had as well.
This cold snap had every New Orleans weathercaster worked up into the kind of energetic, wide-eyed frenzy they usually reserved for hurricane season. The possibility of snow either tonight or sometime tomorrow had them practically drooling. The one currently breathlessly going on and on about how we all needed to make sure to bring all plants and pets inside before sunset was getting on my nerves, so I turned the radio off. It had snowed maybe three times in all my years of living in New Orleans. Those rare, occasional snowstorms always brought the city to its knees. Businesses closed, people holed up in their homes afraid to drive anywhere, and nothing got done.
I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel as the gate lumbered open slowly. My lower back was starting to ache, which wasn’t a good sign. I pressed the button on the steering wheel that controlled the heater in the driver’s seat. Heat always seemed to help with the pain, but taking a pain pill wasn’t an option. Not if I wanted my brain to be functional when meeting a pair of prospective new clients, anyway.
Finally, the gate was open wide enough for me to drive through, and I pushed the gas pedal down.
With the big metal gate open, I could see the house. In spite of myself, I gasped. I’d seen Belle Riviere depicted many times on postcards, but the reality took my breath away.
Belle Riviere was one of the more famous old plantation homes in Louisiana. Painted a pale shade of coral, six enormous round columns rose two stories high from their bases to support the roof on every side of the house. There was a gallery running around the house on both the first and second floors. The incredible view of the front was framed by the Spanish moss–festooned branches from the enormous matching rows of ancient live oaks on either side of the paved driveway. The branches made a natural arch overhead. Legend held that the original builder had the trees dug up from the nearby Atchafalaya swamp basin and transported to create an impressive pathway to his front door so his guests would always approach the house shaded from the sun—and frosted glasses of mint juleps would be waiting for them on the gallery.
Southern hospitality at its finest, if you could overlook the fact that slaves did all the work.
Pictures of the mansion were in every book about Louisiana history and every coffee table book about the state’s famous old homes. Numerous films and televisions programs had been filmed on the grounds. It had served as the backdrop for a romantic story line for one of daytime drama’s most famous divas. But it was probably best known as the setting for a dark noir film from the mid-1960s starring two fading female superstars from Hollywood’s Golden Age who’d despised each other. Several books and documentaries detailed every bit of gossip from the filming and their infamous feud. The film had become a camp classic, de rigeur viewing for every gay man. Any number of gay men dressed up as the characters from the film at Halloween and on Fat Tuesday, and the characters were also very popular with drag queens.
As I drove down the long drive through the live oaks, I could see the perfectly manicured landscaping through the gnarled trunks. Enormous fountains spewed water from bronze sculptures. Above me, the Spanish moss swayed and moved in the wind from the river. The driveway ended in an enormous paved oval, with clearly marked parking spaces. I could see that the drive continued around the right side of the big house. There were several buildings scattered about at varying distances from Belle Riviere, and there was also a huge gazebo in the shade of another enormous live oak on the left side of the house. Several cars were parked at the left side of the big oval: a silver Mercedes, a gray Jaguar sports coupe, and a black Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud. I whistled at the sight of the expensive cars, then laughed at myself.
Anyone who could afford to own Belle Riviere wouldn’t drive a Kia.
I parked in the open spot next to the Mercedes. I got out of the car just as the icy wind picked up again. I winced. My back had tightened much worse than I’d thought. When I stood up, dull pain throbbed. It felt like a bowling ball was sitting on the base of my spine. I tried to crack my back, twisting from one side to the other, bending forward at the waist and then leaning backward. It didn’t work, and as tempting as it was to take one of the pain pills I kept in the armrest, the Vicodin always made my brain a little fuzzy.
Not that I really need to be alert, I thought, wincing as I slowly climbed the steps to the first level gallery. This is just a courtesy call. I doubt they need a private eye.
Most people who consulted with me didn’t. I’d listen to what they had to say, and if by some weird chance they actually did need one, I’d pass it along to my business partner, Abby Grosjean.
To be honest, I wasn’t really sure what I was doing here. My old buddy Blaine Tujague’s longtime partner Todd Laborde had asked me to come out here as a personal favor. All I’d been told was Todd’s old friend Bill Marren, who owned Belle Riviere, needed to hire a private eye. I wasn’t looking for new work, and driving all the way out to Redemptio
n Parish to do a favor was pushing the boundaries of friendship. I had briefly considered sending Abby in my place. Besides, Todd and I weren’t exactly friends. I’d never felt comfortable around him and always got the sense he didn’t like me. But I hadn’t yet taken my new Jeep SUV for a drive out of the city and I had nothing else to do except sit around the house and mope, so here I was.
And having Todd owe me wasn’t exactly a negative.
I shivered as another blast of cold wind whipped around the corners of the gallery. It was definitely much colder out here than it was back in New Orleans, and the cold in New Orleans was bad enough. We might not get the winter extremes the way they do up north, but winter in southeastern Louisiana is bitter, a cold damp that gets into your bones and joints and makes them ache. The houses are built for heat to escape in the summer, so all the heat rises to the high ceilings. The old houses aren’t insulated, the pipes are exposed underneath, and the cold wet wind always manages to find every crack and crevice in the walls.
Fortunately, our winters never last longer than a couple of months. Some winters are just a couple of weeks.
The front door started opening as I climbed the steps and made my way across the wide gallery. A black woman stood there, wearing the traditional maid’s uniform with the white apron and white cap. Watching me intently with no expression on her face, she looked young—mid to late twenties at most. Her hands were in the pockets of her apron.
