Murder in the Arts District

by Greg Herren

  Chapter Ten

  Just after crossing the street at the corner of Jackson and Magazine, I started regretting my decision to walk to where I’d left my car.

  It wasn’t as cold as it had been earlier. It’s not unusual during a New Orleans winter for there to be as much as a thirty-degree temperature swing, which can be an enormous pain in the ass. I’d walked outside originally wearing my trench coat, my wool Saints cap, gloves, and a muffler. As soon as I reached the bottom of my front stairs, I’d turned around, gone back inside, and ditched everything but the cap. I even traded in my trench coat for my black leather jacket. The result of this unexpected rise in temperature, combined with the moisture in the air, was a fine mist. It looked like an enormous white cloud had sunk down from the sky, making it almost impossible to see more than five feet in either direction around me. The tops of buildings and trees were invisible, lost in the fog, a downy white that made everything above my head look like it had been wrapped in cotton. The only thing missing was the sound of foghorns moaning on the river less than a mile away. The cars driving past me on Magazine Street had to use their headlights, cautiously crawling along at about fifteen miles per hour. The stoplights were wreathed in the mist, glowing with their shifting colors. Despite the slight chill in the air, the exertion of walking resulted in a cold sweat on the back of my neck and under my jacket. I could feel drops of sweat on the back of my neck, beads forming on my shorn scalp beneath the Saints cap of gold wool pulled down low on my forehead. My underarms and feet were damp and uncomfortable. I was also at the point of no return. That intersection was the midway point of the walk. There wasn’t enough of the distance left to make it worth flagging a cab, and it was the same distance to the car as it was to walk back home.

  It was times like this when I regretted quitting smoking cigarettes. I usually didn’t miss it. Quitting had been a long, on-again off-again process lasting several years. As bothersome as I now found other people’s secondhand smoke, I also was well aware that all it would take was one puff and that monkey would be climbing right back on me. I resisted the urge to stop into the deli just past the flag store at the corner.

  The walk was helping clear out the remaining cobwebs in my mind. I could tell the Oxycontin I’d taken at four in the morning was beginning to wear off. The smoothed-down edges in my mind were getting sharper again. Unfortunately the dull ache in my lower back was starting to make itself felt again. Every time I put a foot down on the sidewalk, pain arrowed out in every direction from the epicenter. My sinuses were also starting to kick in because of the heavy, moisture-saturated air.

  I wiped at my nose and kept walking. I promised myself a cup of coffee at the Starbucks on the corner at Washington and Magazine as a treat.

  The carrot always works better than the stick with me.

  The clearance of the cobwebs had allowed common sense to creep back in. My initial gut reaction to Bill Marren’s murder had been that I needed to get the car and head out to Redemption Parish. Since Sheriff Parlange clearly already had it in for Tom, hanging a murder on him would be the perfect cherry on top of the sundae for the homophobic bastard.

  But Abby had talked me out of it.

  “There’s no sense in you charging out here.” In my head, I could see her rolling her expressive eyes as she said it. “Tom doesn’t need you to get on your white horse and ride to the rescue, you know. He’s a lawyer and he works for a law firm—a law firm committed to bringing down Sheriff Parlange, remember? So you’re not going to accomplish anything, right? It’s not like he’s going to have trouble getting a lawyer. If you come rushing out here to give him an alibi, it’s going to look funny, you know what I mean? And if Parlange and his office are as homophobic as Tom says they are, it’s not like they’re going to believe you. And you might just make things worse. It’s going to be bad enough for these homophobes that his alibi is spending the night with another guy. This guy is the law around here, and there’s no one outside of Tom’s firm to challenge him. He could arrest you for perjury, Chanse, or anything he wants to, throw your ass in the parish jail, and then what are you going to do? Seriously. The best thing for you to do is wait—let them come to you to confirm Tom’s alibi. If they don’t bother to check it out, then we also have a better idea of what we’re dealing with out there and can maybe get the state or the feds involved on civil rights violations.” She sighed and continued, “So you just stay put and let me find out what I can—I can always do some flirting with Barney Fife again, repulsive as he is.”

  “You’re right,” I’d had to admit. I always forget she studied law.

  “And besides, the drive might be bad for your back. Remember the last time you drove out there? And if you have to take one of your pills to deal with it—well, do you want to deal with a corrupt sheriff’s office when you’re drugged out of your mind, Chanse?”

  I really hated it when she was right, which she almost always was. She wasn’t above pointing out how often she was right whenever we disagreed on something.

  There’s nothing more frustrating to me than sitting around and waiting for news. It’s not something I’d ever been good at without a distraction of some sort. Working out at the gym used to be my favorite way to take my mind off waiting. Thanks to the fucking car accident, that was no longer an option. So that was why I decided to walk to where I’d left the car last night. I certainly could use the exercise, for one thing, and for another the walk would clear my head.

  And maybe letting my mind wander while I walked would help me get some insight on the case.

  Damn, I missed going to the gym.

  And much as I hate coincidences, I couldn’t rule out the possibility that the murders were not connected to the robbery—or even to each other, for that matter. Granted, it wasn’t very likely. What were the odds?

  Bill Marren had been a very wealthy man, and had been mostly a self-made man. He’d inherited some money from his father, according to the dossier Abby had prepared for me, but nothing close to what his current net worth had been. She hadn’t been thorough—I had only asked for an overview of his background to get a sense of who I was dealing with. But without going into every investment or into great detail on some of the ones she did list, it was highly unlikely he could have amassed such a fortune without making enemies. There had to be corners he’d cut, backs he’d stabbed, people he’d climbed over in the pursuit of accumulating so much wealth. And even if he hadn’t, even if he’d been completely ethical and fair in his dealings, there were bound to be people who believed he’d treated them unfairly.

  It was entirely possible that the theft of the paintings and his murder were part of some master revenge plot by some unknown enemy. I stopped at the corner at Second Street, pulled out my phone, and sent Jephtha an email, asking him to put together a thorough report on Bill’s business dealings. I dropped the phone back into my pocket and pulled off my cap, wiping my forehead with it. Only a few more blocks to walk, and my head was getting too hot. I put it in same pocket with my phone and started walking again.

  Taking Collier Lovejoy’s murder out of the picture did help. The only link I could think of between the two murders was Myrna. But even assuming Myrna killed her husband, why would she kill Bill Marren? Who had a reason to kill both men? Collier was only peripherally linked to the robbery, through his missing wife. Unless…

  Unless Collier Lovejoy wasn’t the killer’s target.

  Maybe the killer had gone to the gallery intending to kill Myrna, and finding Collier there…

  The paintings—the robbery had to have something to do with it. It was the only thing that made sense.

  So, who owned the paintings to begin with? Who’d been trying to sell them? How had Myrna come into possession of them?

  I also couldn’t just dismiss that the gallery and Belle Riviere had used the same security service—one I’d never heard of, just to make matters even more interesting. I’d texted Jephtha as I walked out my front door to get that ball
rolling and he’d responded with an aye aye sir text almost immediately. I pulled my phone out of my jacket pocket and typed a note to myself to ask Tom how Bill had come to choose Vigilant Eye.

  And where was Myrna? I typed in another note to call Meredith Cole again, see if she knew who Myrna’s closest friends were.

  My phone began braying Lady Gaga and Beyoncé again as I crossed First Street. I didn’t recognize the number. “MacLeod,” I said as I crossed Third Street.

  “Chanse MacLeod? This is Serena Castlemaine, returning your call.” The Texas accent was broad and thick, so much so it almost seemed like it had to be put on for effect. “How nice to hear from you! I’ve heard so much about you.” She laughed, a loud raucous sound that almost hurt my ears. “Don’t worry, all of it was good. To what do I owe the long-overdue pleasure of hearing from you?”

  In spite of myself, I smiled.

  I’d never met Serena Castlemaine in person, but New Orleans being what it was, I did know quite a bit about her.

  I’d been invited to a party in her honor when she’d first moved to New Orleans about two years ago. My primary client, Crown Oil, was owned almost wholly by the Castlemaine family, and the majority shareholder was my friend Barbara Castlemaine. Barbara had married Serena’s cousin, who’d died in a plane crash and left his entire estate to her. Barbara was also my landlady, and one of my first clients. She’d hired me to handle a blackmail problem shortly after I moved into the house on Camp Street. She’d been so pleased with my success that she reduced my rent to practically nothing and hired me as Crown Oil’s security consultant. The arrangement had proven very lucrative to me. Barbara was hosting the party at the Palmer House, her enormous historic landmark home in the Garden District, and the object of the party was to introduce Serena to everyone in the city who mattered to Barbara.

  Unfortunately, I’d been in Dallas on Crown Oil business and so had missed the party. My best friend Paige had gone, and they’d become friends. Paige actually liked her quite a bit. Serena had originally bought a condo on one of the upper floors of 1 River Place, the expensive and tony high-rise on the riverfront near the convention center and the casino. But she’d since sold that place and bought a place in the Garden District only a couple of blocks from the Palmer House. The house she’d bought also had a bit of unpleasant history—a notorious and unsolved child murder some twenty or thirty years earlier. Paige told me that Serena loved the place and actually relished its notoriety. Paige had gone to Serena’s housewarming, and said, “You’d never guess one of New Orleans’ most notorious crimes had occurred on the grounds.”

  “That’s good to know,” I replied now, trying to match her lively tone. “Listen, ma’am—”

  “Call me Serena,” she interrupted me. “You’re a friend of Paige’s and you work for the goddamned family business, so you’re practically family already. I can’t believe we’ve not met yet. We have to rectify that! Maybe lunch or drinks or something? Dinner?”

  She was like a whirlwind. “That would be nice,” I said, keeping my voice measured. “But I’m afraid this is a business call, Serena.”

  Her tone changed immediately. “What can I do you for, Chanse?”

  “I was hoping you might have some free time this morning, or maybe early this afternoon?” Might as well take advantage of her being eager to meet me, I figured. “I’m working on a case—”

  “Is it the Collier Lovejoy murder? Please tell me it’s the Collier Lovejoy murder.” She blared out that raucous laugh again. “I had drinks with Paige and her fiancé last night, so I know all about it.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial tone. “Anything I can do to help, you just let me know.”

  “Really?”

  “Crime fascinates me,” she said, keeping her voice low, like she didn’t want to be overheard. “I love reading crime novels, you know. If I hadn’t been born with a silver spoon shoved down my throat I probably would have been a cop or a private eye. I hope you don’t mind Paige telling me about your case?”

  I tried not to smile. “No, of course not, I was just a little surprised, is all.” I shouldn’t have been surprised Paige knew without me telling her anything about it, of course. New Orleans was a much smaller town than people thought, and gossip was the fuel that drove conversations at every social gathering. And not only was Paige engaged to Blaine’s brother, she and Venus were also pretty close friends, going back to Paige’s days as the crime reporter for the Times-Picayune.

  New Orleans was a very small town.

  “I understand you knew Myrna and Collier?” I went on. “Did you know them before they moved here?”

  “Oh, yes, I’m afraid I’ve bought a lot of art from Myrna over the years. I’ve known the two of them since—was I a virgin back then?” She laughed again. “No, I met them between my first and second marriages, or was it between the second and third? If it was between the first and second, I was practically a virgin.” She laughed again. “I met them in New York…I was a regular customer of the Lovejoy Gallery in Chelsea.” She took a deep breath. “You could even say it’s my fault they moved to New Orleans in the first place. After I moved here from Dallas, I of course told them how marvelous the city is…When were you thinking of coming by?”

  “What’s convenient for you? I can be there any time.”

  “Any time?” Again with the loud laugh. “Darling, don’t you know a man should never put himself at the mercy of a woman?”

  I bit back a laugh of my own. “You’re doing me the favor.”

  “That’s true, I am, aren’t I? Let me check my schedule.” She hummed for a moment, and then added, “Well, my massage therapist is coming by at four, and I have dinner plans later, of course. I am not ashamed to admit that I practically am free all day. I’d thought about doing some shopping—I’m not even remotely close to finishing decorating this place, you know, and I need to get a dress for a party I’m going to this weekend, but I can do that any time, really. Do you know where my house is?” She lowered her voice again. “I’ve managed to buy the old Metoyer place, where the baby beauty queen was murdered twenty or so years ago. You don’t need to worry, there aren’t any ghosts here! At least none that I’ve seen, at any rate. Then again, the ghosts are probably terrified of me. What’s convenient for you?”

  “I can probably be there in about half an hour, give or take, or would that be too soon?” I glanced at my watch. I was only a block from Washington, and the Metoyer house was on Coliseum between Third and Fourth Streets. At most, I was only a couple of blocks from her place. “Does that work for you? I just happen to be in the neighborhood.”

  “Well, isn’t that convenient! Sure, that’ll give me time to slap on some war paint, so I won’t scare you to death. See you then.” She disconnected the call.

  I put my phone away with some degree of satisfaction. Paige had told me more than once that Serena loved nothing more than a good gossip session, and apparently she was right.

  The light at Washington turned green, so I crossed to the other corner. I could see my car parked up the block with the ubiquitous orange parking ticket under the driver’s side wiper blade. The only city employees who did their jobs with any degree of efficiency were the meter maids. I’d paid my weight in gold in parking tickets since moving to New Orleans. I shook my head and went into the Starbucks there on the corner.

  It was crowded, which was no surprise. New Orleans had a very strong coffee culture long before the rest of the country caught up—probably because it had been the primary port of entry for the coffee beans from South America for decades. There had been the usual doom-and-gloom stories when Starbucks first came to New Orleans—it would signal the end of an era, the local chains and mom-and-pop coffee shops would close, letting the coffee chain into Orleans Parish would be the beginning of the end of the city’s charm and culture, ad nauseam, ad infinitum. (Rather similar to the protests about the opening of the Tchoupitoulas Walmart, and of course none of the dire warnings and predictions ha
d come true.) To be honest, I wasn’t even sure where the Starbucks in the city were. I knew there was this one here at the corner of Magazine and Washington, one in Canal Place, and another one on Canal Street near the corner at St. Charles. I wasn’t a big fan of coffee shops in the first place. I can make pretty damned good coffee myself at home, and paying about a third of the cost of a big coffee can for just one cup seemed ludicrous to me. And since the Kaldi’s on Decatur Street had closed, I rarely visited coffee shops. Much as I hated to admit it, on the few occasions I’d gone into a Starbucks, I’d found myself liking the coffee. Their dark roasts always tasted like the beans had been burned—I’d heard others complain about that, but I rather liked it every once in a while. And I also liked that the condiment table had vanilla powder so I didn’t have to pay extra for a shot of vanilla syrup.

  There was a short line of the usual Garden District types at the counter. Fit housewives wearing tennis skirts despite the cold. Hipsters in skinny jeans with tattoos on their necks and enormous holes in their ears stretched open by enormous earrings and smelling like they hadn’t bathed since Labor Day. A few college students with heavy backpacks hanging from one shoulder were staring at their cellphone screens like they were hypnotized. While I waited my turn I glanced around the large interior. It was the usual, stereotypical crowd of more hipsters, other college students pounding away at the keyboards of their laptops with ear buds firmly in place, and nannies with the children of the wealthy, bored housewives in strollers while they gossiped over lattes.

  If not for hints here and there of a corporate presence in coffee mugs and other merchandise, it could be any New Orleans coffee shop.

  I thought I saw a familiar head in the back, but before I could make sure it was who I thought it was, it was my turn to order. I ordered a large dark roast with room for cream, which got me an oddly relieved look from the young woman behind the register. She smiled at me gratefully, spun around and filled an enormous cup for me. I gave her cash and added another dollar to the tip caddy beside her register and headed over to the condiment table. I smiled to myself as I added half-and-half and sweetener to the hot dark coffee.