by Greg Herren
If I didn’t know already he was a liar, I would have been convinced he was a victim of a conspiracy on the part of the Redemption Parish sheriff. I had to stay calm, wait until the police arrived, not do anything to make him suspect that his cover was blown. I put my hand in my coat pocket and grasped the gun. I didn’t want to have to use it, but if I played this right I wouldn’t have to. I knew Abby always had hers in her purse as well, but I didn’t know how quickly she would be able to get to it. He didn’t seem to be armed, thank God.
I just had to keep playing along until Abby was out of there.
I knew I could pull it off. I knew I could play the part of concerned friend and hired detective until I could get out of there and let Sheriff Parlange’s people do their thing with him.
He’d killed God only knew how many people already, and he wouldn’t let us live if it was to his benefit. I couldn’t let on that I was on to him.
He walked over to his desk and sat down in the leather chair behind it. He smiled even as the siren got louder, drawing closer, cocking his head to one side as he looked from me back to her and then back again, the smile on his face getting broader. He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a gun, which he trained on Abby.
“Chanse, why don’t you move over and stand next to your partner?” His voice was still pleasant and friendly, the warm smile still on his face. “Do what I say or I will shoot her.”
“Tom—”
He fired the gun, startling us both. The bullet went right past Abby and into the wall behind her. “Next time I won’t miss. And both of you, put your hands up in the air. Do as I say, Chanse. It doesn’t matter to me if I shoot her.” The smile never wavered. “Or you, either, for that matter, if it comes down to it.”
I complied, walking over and standing next to her.
“Tom—Mr. Ziebell—I don’t know what this is about—” Abby started, but he cut her off.
“Don’t take me for a fool, because I’m not,” Tom said, his smile getting even bigger and more predatory.
Why did I never notice how flat and dead his eyes are? How could I have been so stupid?
“You might be wearing a wig and a disguise, but you’re Abby Grosjean,” Tom went on, his tone conversational, almost charming. “MacLeod and Grosjean. Do you think I didn’t do a lot of research on you both before Bill hired you?”
“Why did you let Bill hire us?”
“I tried to talk him out of it, of course, but it was hard to, once I’d convinced him the sheriff was trying to make the firm look bad, to win the lawsuit.” He shrugged. “Bill had already had some run-ins with Parlange already, so it wasn’t hard to convince him that the sheriff was up to no good. But he wouldn’t let it go.”
“Did you think he would?” Abby said, dropping her nasal tone and using her real voice. “He was going to be liable for a couple of million dollars.”
“He was going to get the damned things back,” Tom replied, making a face. “We were going to sell them back to him for just a couple of hundred thousand dollars.” He rolled his eyes. “Myrna and Collier were both such small-timers, really. But when you’re desperate…” His voice trailed off. “That’s the problem most criminals make, you know. They don’t plan, they don’t think things through, because they wait until they’re desperate to commit the crime. Big mistake.” He laughed. “The thing to do is carefully plan, and always stay calm—something else the two of them couldn’t do. You stick to the plan, but leave it flexible enough to adapt to changes. Panicking is the worst thing you can do—that’s when you make mistakes. Both Collier and Myrna—such amateurs.” He shook his head. “They panicked. They worried. They were scared.” He rolled his eyes. “They had to go.”
“So the paintings actually exist? They weren’t ruined?”
Tom laughed out loud, genuinely pleased. “You really are a pathetic excuse for a private eye, aren’t you? I don’t know why I was so worried when Bill wanted to hire you.” He paused, and in the silence we all became aware that the siren was actually getting quieter—it was going in the other direction. My heart sank. “Of course the paintings exist. Rachel Anschler brought them out of Amsterdam in 1940 to sell them, to get the money to get her family to America. Bill’s father loaned her money against them…but it was too late. The Germans swooped in, and as hard as she tried, Rachel wasn’t able to do anything to save her family, so she gave the money back and took the paintings and came to New Orleans. She refused to sell them because they were all she had left of her family. She went mad with grief, you know, poor thing. It’s really a shame. Even when she was going broke and eating cat food, she refused to part with the paintings.” He moved the gun from me to Abby and back again. “The paintings are masterpieces. Bill never saw them, but his father had photographs of them. Bill wanted them, was willing to do anything to get them. He tried any number of times to get Rachel to sell them, but she refused. He was even willing to let her keep them while she lived and take possession only when she died. But she refused. No matter what he offered, she always refused. She was clearly crazy by the time she died.”
“So what happened? How did the paintings not wind up in the museum?”
“Myrna’s father.” He laughed. “Oh, yes, this goes back that far, Chanse. Surprised? You’d only begun to scratch the surface. And that was how Myrna knew. Myrna’s father was even more unscrupulous than Bill when it came to art. He knew Bill wanted the paintings, so he was paying the nurse who took care of Rachel to keep him abreast of everything. He found some copies of the paintings—done by one of Anschler’s students—and deliberately ruined them. Myrna’s father, you see, was a long-term planner. He paid the nurse remarkably well to swap out the real paintings for the ruined ones. Since the paintings the museum found when they inventoried Rachel’s home were ruined, they couldn’t really authenticate them…they just assumed they were the paintings in question. And Myrna’s father had them now.”
“So why didn’t he sell them to Bill in the first place?”
“He was killed before he could. The police figured it was a random break-in, robbery, some junkie, and because of course the paintings weren’t supposed to be there, their theft wasn’t reported.” He smiled.
“You killed Myrna’s father.”
“He was one of my clients.” Tom smirked at me. “Yes, Myrna’s father liked his closet, but he liked to be tied up, you know, and he liked to brag about things. He told me about the paintings—he liked to pretend like he was educating me about art, but he was really just bragging about how much smarter he was than the great Bill Marren, about how he’d managed to get the paintings Bill wanted when the great business mind hadn’t been able to. He even introduced me to Bill, who also hired me.” His eyes widened. “Poor Bill. It was incredibly easy to seduce him, you know, and once I had the paintings…well, they were my insurance. I knew when Bill tired of me, decided he wanted a younger protégé again, I would sell the paintings and I’d be set for life.”
“Myrna knew, though, didn’t she?”
His lips compressed. “She didn’t know I killed her father but she knew I had the paintings. And she was desperate for money.” He rolled his eyes. “They both were. They were such idiots. It’s a wonder they didn’t wind up in jail themselves. Myrna actually tried to blackmail me, if you can believe such a thing.”
“So that’s why you let her take the paintings and sell them to Bill.”
“I didn’t want her telling Bill—”
“She knew about your past, didn’t she?” It was all starting to make sense to me now.
“His past?” Abby asked.
“His real name is Rand Barragry.”
Tom’s eyes narrowed. “So, you found out. How?”
“The wrestling.” Abby looked at me with a startled expression on her face. “I called one of Paul’s friends from the wrestling world. He told me your name wasn’t Tom Ziebell.”
He nodded. “The stupid wrestling videos. I knew those would come bite me in the ass someday.
” He smiled. “Maybe you’re not as stupid as I thought. Nice work, Detective.”
“That wasn’t how Myrna found out?”
“Myrna went to see the real Tom’s family. She got his mother to show her a picture of him from high school—that’s when she knew I wasn’t really Tom. She didn’t know who I really was, of course, but she knew enough to force me to go along with her paintings scam.”
Never blackmail a murderer—they’ve already killed and they will again.
“It must have been infuriating to have to go along with them on such a small scale.”
“They were idiots. They deserved to die, both of them, for being so fucking stupid if for nothing else.” He rolled his eyes again. “I told them withholding the provenance wouldn’t do them any good. But they wanted to ‘steal’ the paintings, keep the escrow money, and then sell the paintings back to Bill. He would have gone along with it, too. And then they would fake the provenance—showing that Rachel Anschler had sold the paintings before she died, and then they would split the money with me.”
“But why didn’t they just do that to begin with? Why go through the whole charade with the robbery?”
“Because they wanted to have something on me.” He shook his heads. “Bill was going to leave me everything—I’d already seen the will—and his heart was bad. They wanted leverage, you see, to hold over me for the rest of my life so I would have to keep paying them.” He shook his head. “You’d think they would have learned their lesson. So when Collier cashed out the escrow account, I knew they both had to go.” His eyes glinted. “They’ll never find Myrna.”
“And Bill?”
“He began to suspect, of course. That was my big mistake. I thought I could control Bill. But I heard him talking to his lawyer—he was going to change the will. So he had to go.” He smiled. “I’ve always been able to think on my feet. I invited you to dinner, knowing I could drug your wine and drive out here, kill him, and drive back.”
“How are you going to explain away me and Abby?”
“By the time they find you two, I’ll be long gone.” He smiled. “I’ve already got the paintings secured somewhere. And I have the escrow money.” He shrugged. “Bill’s fortune would have been nice, but don’t worry about me. I’ve always managed to find a way.”
“We have the house surrounded. Come out with your hands up!”
“What the hell?”
And in that moment of distraction I jumped at him. We crashed to the ground together—he was incredibly strong, and fiery pain raced through my body from my lower back.
We struggled for the gun, rolling over and over again, and I could hear Abby screaming.
The gun fired.
Beneath me, Tom’s body went limp.
His eyes went glassy.
And my back was screaming in agony.
Epilogue
The New Orleans Museum of Art had a special reception to unveil the Anschler paintings about a month after Rand Barragry died at Belle Riviere.
Rory and I went together. The cortisone shot was amazing. The procedure was like nothing, and I was pain free for the first time since the accident. My doctor told me that it could last for weeks, or it could last for months. All I knew was it was amazing to be able to make it through the day without having to take a pill, and be able to sleep through the night without having to worry about waking up in agony.
After everything that happened out at Belle Riviere, I called Rory to let him know I was okay—it was going to be in the news and I couldn’t guarantee they’d keep my name out of it—and he brought dinner over that night. We had a long talk—we both realized we had to get over our worries and fears about commitment. So we committed to each other. It wasn’t perfect, but if you wait for perfection you could spend the rest of your life alone. And Rory was, whether I wanted to admit it or not, the best thing to happen to me since Paul died. He wasn’t Paul, but no one was.
We stood in front of the three Anschler paintings, with their glowing, vibrant colors, Rory and I and Paige and Ryan.
“They’re so beautiful,” Paige said.
I squeezed Rory’s hand. “It’s going to take me a while to forget their bloody history,” I said, “the Holocaust and all the murders of the last ten years or so. But I can see why Bill Marren was so driven to own them. They’re extraordinary.”
“How’s the house hunting going?” Ryan asked, with a bit of a wink.
“Well, if I could convince Chanse that we don’t need to live uptown it would be going a lot faster,” Rory replied, giving me an exasperated look. “The uptown market is out of control. A double shotgun in the lower Garden District is going for a ridiculous price.”
“You know,” Barbara Castlemaine said as she joined us and put her arm around my waist, “I’ve been thinking about letting my rental properties go here in the city. It’s really not worth the aggravation.” She winked at me and Rory both. “You two make me an offer on the Camp Street house. It was originally a one-family dwelling, no reason why it can’t be converted back.”
“Are you serious?” Rory gawked at her, and then at me.
“I’m always serious, darling,” she said, brushing her lips against his cheek. “Oh, there’s Margery Lautenschlager—I need to speak to her, if you’ll excuse me?” And just like that, she was gone.
“So, Chanse, what do you think?” Rory said, his voice shaking in excitement. “Do you want to buy the house?”
I looked down into his beautiful blue eyes and smiled at him. “I can’t think of anything I’d rather do.”
About the Author
Greg Herren is a New Orleans–based author and editor. He is a co-founder of the Saints and Sinners Literary Festival, which takes place in New Orleans every May. He is the author of over twenty novels, including the Lambda Literary Award–winning Murder in the Rue Chartres, called by the New Orleans Times-Picayune “the most honest depiction of life in post-Katrina New Orleans published thus far.” He co-edited Love, Bourbon Street: Reflections on New Orleans, which also won the Lambda Literary Award. His young adult novel Sleeping Angel won the Moonbeam Gold Medal for Excellence in Young Adult Mystery / Horror. He has published over fifty short stories in markets as varied as Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine to the critically acclaimed anthology New Orleans Noir to various websites, literary magazines, and anthologies. His erotica anthology FRATSEX is the all-time best-selling title for Insightoutbooks. He has worked as an editor for Bella Books, Harrington Park Press, and now Bold Strokes Books.
A longtime resident of New Orleans, Greg was a fitness columnist and book reviewer for Window Media for over four years, publishing in the LGBT newspapers IMPACT News, Southern Voice, and Houston Voice. He served a term on the Board of Directors for the National Stonewall Democrats and served on the founding committee of the Louisiana Stonewall Democrats. He is currently employed as a public health researcher for the NO/AIDS Task Force and is serving a term on the board of the Mystery Writers of America.
Books Available From Bold Strokes Books
Murder in the Arts District by Greg Herren. An investigation into a new and possibly shady art gallery in New Orleans’ fabled Arts District soon leads Chanse into a dangerous world of forgery, theft…and murder. A Chanse MacLeod mystery. (978-1-62639-206-9)
Rise of the Thing Down Below by Daniel W. Kelly. Nothing kills sex on the beach like a fishman out of water…Third in the Comfort Cove Series. (978-1-62639-207-6)
Calvin’s Head by David Swatling. Jason Dekker and his dog, Calvin, are homeless in Amsterdam when they stumble on the victim of a grisly murder—and become targets for the calculating killer, Gadget. (978-1-62639-193-2)
The Return of Jake Slater by Zavo. Jake Slater mistakenly believes his lover, Ben Masters, is dead. Now a wanted man in Abilene, Jake rides to Mexico to begin a new life and heal his broken heart. (978-1-62639-194-9)
Backstrokes by Dylan Madrid. When pianist Crawford Paul meets lifeguard Armando Leon, he accepts Armando’s offer to help
him overcome his fear of water by way of private lessons. As friendship turns into a summer affair, their lust for one another turns to love. (978-1-62639-069-0)
The Raptures of Time by David Holly. Mack Frost and his friends journey across an alien realm, through homoerotic adventures, suffering humiliation and rapture, making friends and enemies, always seeking a gateway back home to Oregon. (978-1-62639-068-3)
The Thief Taker by William Holden. Unreliable lovers, twisted family secrets, and too many dead bodies wait for Thomas Newton in London—where he soon enough discovers that all the plotting is aimed directly at him. (978-1-62639-054-6)
Waiting for the Violins by Justine Saracen. After surviving Dunkirk, a scarred and embittered British nurse returns to Nazi-occupied Brussels to join the Resistance, and finds that nothing is fair in love and war. ( 978-1-62639-046-1)
Turnbull House by Jess Faraday. London 1891: Reformed criminal Ira Adler has a new, respectable life—but will an old flame and the promise of riches tempt him back to London’s dark side…and his own? (978-1-60282-987-9)
Stronger Than This by David-Matthew Barnes. A gay man and a lesbian form a beautiful friendship out of grief when their soul mates are tragically killed. (978-1-60282-988-6)
Death Came Calling by Donald Webb. When private investigator Katsuro Tanaka is hired to look into the death of a high profile lawyer, he becomes embroiled in a case of murder and mayhem. (978-1-60282-979-4)
Love in the Shadows by Dylan Madrid. While teaming up to bring a killer to justice, a lustful spark is ignited between an American man living in London and an Italian spy named Luca. (978-1-60282-981-7)
In Between by Jane Hoppen. At the age of fourteen, Sophie Schmidt discovers that she was born an intersexual baby and sets off on a journey to find her place in a world that denies her true existence. (978-1-60282-968-8)
