by G. T. Herren
It wasn’t that surprising. What real journalist could ever take a woman seriously who’d name her son after one of The Three Musketeers? It was hard enough for me, and I’d dated him.
But to give credit where it was due, Marigny was a bit of a local celebrity— the frequency of her appearance on the society pages attested to that. Born and raised in New Orleans, she’d gone off to study fashion in Paris after getting an undergraduate degree at Newcomb. She’d worked at Chanel for about ten years before coming back to New Orleans in her early thirties and started her own design business out of her family home on Magazine Street. Her past was rather colorful, with numerous failed marriages (I’d found three wedding announcements in the Times-Picayune archive— I still have friends there) and rumored liaisons with any number of local stars, ranging from a former Saints quarterback to a celebrity chef to a former, very married, governor. No one was really sure exactly how old Marigny herself was— it would be easy enough to find out, but no one ever bothered to go to the trouble. She had several children of various ages. Aramis was now living in Memphis with his wife, and the middle son, Bonaparte, lived in Paris. Her youngest, Jackson, was in his late twenties at most, and working with her at the House of Mercereau. Even though I’d dated Aramis for a few weeks when he was single, I probably knew Jackson the best. Being what is sometimes called a “fruit fly,” I ran into him at fundraisers for gay charities frequently. I liked Jackson— he had a bitchy wit and wasn’t afraid to say anything— which made him lots of fun to stand next to at boring parties. I wasn’t sure which one of Marigny’s ex-husbands was his father; at some point he’d taken her last name.
I hoped Jackson wasn’t the one who found her body, but unless Aramis had come down from Memphis or Bonaparte (whom I’d never met) was here from Paris, odds are he had.
I closed the file on my laptop and sighed.
One of the many reasons I’d left the Times-Picayune was because I was their go-to girl for reporting on crime, and it had started taking a heavy toll on me emotionally. How many times can you report on the shooting of an innocent kid who wasn’t even ten yet? I’d already started burning out before Katrina came rolling ashore and the levees failed, and had pretty much spent the next two years reporting on unimaginable misery while living on Scotch, wine, mood stabilizers, Xanax, and pot. I’d needed pills to sleep, pills to wake up, on and on and on.
I was well on my way to becoming Judy Garland when the opportunity at Crescent City came open, and I never looked back. I’d weaned myself off everything— well, except the pot and liquor, I do live in New Orleans, after all— but there were times when I missed being a beat reporter. Assigning stories, editing, going to meetings, and taking Crescent City from being a lightweight piece of fluff to an actual monthly newsmagazine had all been fun at first, but if I was going to be completely honest, it was starting to bore me just a little bit.
Much as I hated to admit it, I could feel the familiar old adrenaline rush I always used to get when I was assigned a juicy story.
Skittle jumped up into my lap, purring. I scratched his head. “How about that, Skittle? Mama’s a reporter again!”
I just hoped this wouldn’t bring back some bad memories.
Chapter Three
A little less than an hour later, I parked my ancient Toyota Corolla in the shade of a massive live oak on Nashville Avenue, about a block away from Magazine Street on the river side. I locked the car and started walking.
Before I left my apartment, I’d tried calling Venus Casanova, a NOPD detective who also happened to be a friend of mine. When my call went straight to voicemail, I called her partner, Blaine Tujague. I’ve also known Blaine a long time— and he also happened to be my man-friend’s younger brother. I got his voicemail, too— which hopefully meant they’d caught the case. This was really good— having police detectives that were friends assigned to the Mercereau murder would sure as hell make my life a lot easier— but I was preparing myself for the worst, just in case.
I breathed a sigh of relief as I turned the corner at Magazine Street. Venus’s black SUV was parked in front of the House of Mercereau, and I could see the guys packing up the lab van— so the crime scene investigators were finished. I doubted seriously Venus would let me inside the house— friendship has its limits— but I could just lean against her SUV and wait for her to come outside when she was finished.
The House of Mercereau was a turn of the century Victorian style house, painted fuchsia. There was a driveway that led around to a parking lot in the back, and I knew there was a huge yard back there as well. Marigny Mercereau’s grandfather had built the place after he made his fortune importing bananas from Central America, and she’d converted the entire first floor into a showroom and store. Her fashion shows weren’t the traditional kind that you’d see in New York. Instead, she set up folding chairs in the big front room. The models came down the staircase in her designs and walked down makeshift aisles set up between the rows of chairs. She lived on the two upper floors of the house. I’d never been upstairs myself, but the nicest way I’d heard her décor described was “French Quarter whorehouse.”
I leaned against Venus’s SUV and sipped the cup of coffee I’d gotten from the PJ’s in the Winn Dixie strip mall on Tchoupitoulas. It was a cool day in early April, and there was some serious damp in the air. The sky was full of clouds, and if I didn’t miss my guess it was going to rain at some point in the day— hopefully not while I was waiting outside for Venus.
The front door opened and Venus stepped out onto the front gallery, followed by Blaine. She made a face when she saw me. Venus is a tall African-American woman, well over six feet, and always wore heels with her no-nonsense business suits to look even taller— and she could run in those heels pretty damned fast when she had to. Born and raised in New Orleans East, she’d put herself through LSU on a basketball scholarship and still hit the gym pretty regularly. She wore her hair cut close to the scalp, very little make-up or jewelry, but was nevertheless still attractive with strong cheekbones and a sharp chin. Her dark skin was flawless. Blaine was several inches shorter than she was and looked so much like his older brother they could almost pass for twins— the same curly blue-black hair, the same olive skin, the same blue eyes, and the same bluish shadow on his face when unshaven. Blaine was a lot shorter than Ryan, and a lot vainer— he looked like he lived at the gym and his clothes always emphasized his muscles. He lived with his long-time partner in my neighborhood, just a block or so from my apartment.
I smiled and waved at them with my free hand.
“What are you doing here, sister-in-law?” Blaine was a horrible tease, and he loved to call me that because he knew it drove me crazy.
I scowled. “I should just go ahead and marry Ryan so I can ruin all of your family holidays.”
“What are you doing here?” Venus said.
I smiled back at her. “Believe it or not, I’m covering the story for Crescent City. I’m a crime reporter again— at least temporarily. Just like old times.”
This time Blaine scowled. “Great.” He drew the word out into about ten syllables and made a farting sound at me with his lips.
Venus took a deep breath. “You know we can’t comment on an ongoing investigation, and—”
I cut her off. “Hello, have we met before? This is Paige, remember me?” I took a sip from my coffee and smiled. “I’m not going to butt in, I’m not going to be a pain in your ass, okay? Besides, I was at the show last night. Don’t you want to ask me some questions?”
They glanced at each other. Blaine shrugged, and Venus rolled her eyes with a long-suffering sigh. “You see anything out of the ordinary?” Venus asked me, “Like someone threatening her, maybe?”
I bit my lower lip. Before I could admit the party had been boring and I’d gotten drunk, Blaine cut me off. “She didn’t see or hear anything— you got wasted, didn’t you, punkin?” He winked at me. “Don’t bother denying it, we’ve already talked to Jackson.”
Venus grinned at me. “Don’t bust her chops, Blaine.”
“Sorry, Paige, couldn’t resist that one.” He winked at me.
“Good boy,” Venus patted his arm, and turned back to me. “Coroner’s best estimate for now is Marigny was killed around one in the morning, give or take. She was shot in the chest, just once. Looks like she was at the top of the stairs leading down to the first floor. No signs of breaking and entering. No murder weapon anywhere. There are fingerprints everywhere— and I do mean everywhere.” She blew out a raspberry.
“That sucks,” I commiserated. Of course there were fingerprints everywhere— there’d been a party, not to mention the downstairs usually served as the showroom. It would take days, maybe even weeks, to sort out all the fingerprints. It sounded like this wasn’t a robbery gone wrong— so it wasn’t likely any of the prints would even be in the system. No wonder Blaine was being such a bitch. This was going to be high-profile— might even attract the attention of the national media. I didn’t know how big a name Marigny had in the fashion industry— for all I knew, she could be the American equivalent of Coco Chanel.
And the longer it took them to catch the killer, the less likely it would be they would.
Unless they got a lucky break, the magazine would be going to bed on Wednesday without the name of Marigny’s killer in the cover story.
“You’re sure you didn’t see or hear anything out of the ordinary?” There was a note of pleading in Venus’s voice I’d never heard before.
“I wish I could help,” I replied. I shook my head. “But no, it was the most boring party I’ve been to in a long time— and that’s saying something. There really wasn’t anyone there who was even in the least bit interesting to talk to.”
“So you got drunk.” This time Blaine sounded sympathetic.
I nodded. “Yeah.” I took another swallow of my coffee. “If I do remember anything, I’ll give you a call.”
“Do that,” Venus walked around to the driver’s side of the SUV. “And no snooping around the crime scene, understood? Don’t think I won’t arrest you for obstruction.” She pointed an index finger at me as she said it.
“I swear,” I replied as Blaine shut his door.
I glanced back over at the house as they drove off. I wasn’t a crime scene specialist— so it wouldn’t do me any good to look around anyway.
I drank the last of my coffee as I walked back to my car and formulated a plan.
The best way to handle this article, since it’s not likely they’ll make an arrest by Wednesday, is to do it as a retrospective. I need to know the dirt, the stuff you can’t find online.
I smiled as I got into my car.
I knew exactly who to ask.
And the fact it would piss off Blaine was just gravy.
Chapter Four
If the biggest drawback of dating Ryan Tujague was enduring his younger brother’s teasing, well, that was nothing compared to the benefit of being considered family by his mother.
Athalie Bascomb Tujague might not be the crowned queen of New Orleans, but she was certainly a force of nature that had to be reckoned with. She was the last of a long line of New Orleans blue bloods that made their fortune, it was whispered, in the slave trade. Athalie dismissed the very idea with a wave of her elegant fingers whenever someone had the boorish bad taste to bring this up to her. “Nonsense,” she would say with a disdainful glance down her aristocratic nose, her eyes twinkling. “My ancestors weren’t slave traders. They were pirates.”
“Paige darling!” She swept into the parlor of the big house on St. Charles Avenue with her arms spread wide to envelop me in a hug. She was a little taller than I was, and her figure, despite six children and about fourteen grandchildren, was still as trim as when she reigned as Queen of Rex. “What a delightful surprise!” She gestured for me to have a seat. “Do you want coffee? Tea? Is it too early for a cocktail?” She frowned and peered at the clock on the marble mantelpiece. One of the few concessions she made to vanity was a refusal to wear glasses, despite being terribly nearsighted.
My stomach roiled at the mention of alcohol. “I’m still recovering from last night,” I admitted, sitting down and leaning back in the wingback chair. “I went to Marigny Mercereau’s fashion show—”
“That detestable woman!” She interrupted me with an elegant shudder. Despite the early hour, she was wearing a pale blue cashmere sweater over dark blue slacks, and several ropes of pearls with matching earrings. “All of her taste was in her mouth— and even that was questionable.”
I smothered a grin. “I hate it when you beat around the bush, Athalie, and won’t say what you really mean.”
Her brows came together for a brief moment before she laughed. “Discretion is my middle name, after all.” She shook her head, the corners of her mouth twitching. “She’s an awful woman, just awful.”
“Was.” I corrected her. “Marigny was murdered this morning.”
Her right hand went to her throat. “Oh, dear. How dreadful for her boys— no matter what they thought of her, she was their mother.” She closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths. Apparently, that was how royalty took unpleasant news.
“She had trouble with her sons?” I asked after a few moments.
Athalie opened her eyes and focused them on me. “One doesn’t move to Memphis, Tennessee, because one wants to, dear.” She sighed. “Being murdered doesn’t make her any less detestable. That whole ‘don’t speak ill of the dead’ is just the kind of hypocrisy I despise. Someone dies, and everyone gets all sad and pretends the departed was a saint? No, I don’t subscribe to that notion. I wouldn’t wish death on anyone, of course, not even someone as perfectly awful as Marigny Mercereau, but I’m not going to pretend she was a lovely person. She most definitely was not.”
“I was doing a piece on her re-opening her business,” I went on, delighted she wasn’t going to censor herself. I should have known she wouldn’t, but you can never be sure. Hypocrisy or no, most people don’t feel comfortable dishing dirt on the dead. “But now of course I’m covering her murder— but I wanted to know…” I hesitated.
“The gossip?” She gave me a wicked smile. “Now who’s beating around the bush, dear?” She gave a little wave with her hand. “Didn’t you date Aramis for a while before he married?” I nodded. “Marigny wasn’t happy about that.” She clicked her tongue as she shook her head. “I always liked Aramis. He also dated Clarisse, you know.” Clarisse was her younger daughter, born between Ryan and Blaine, an enormously successful photojournalist for National Geographic. She was currently on assignment in Tanzania. “I can’t tell you how terrified I was Clarisse might actually marry him— she was crazy about him.” She gave a delicate shudder. “The thought of possibly sharing grandchildren with that horrible woman used to give me nightmares. Such a shame. Aramis was a lovely young man.”
“Yes.” Had Aramis dated me before or after Clarisse Tujague? I couldn’t remember— the years before Katrina were all foggy in my mind. I had liked Aramis— he was a good looking man, and made me laugh— but the chemistry just wasn’t there for me. He’d gotten married the spring before Katrina to a woman I didn’t know— I wasn’t invited to the wedding but saw the announcement in the paper. I wasn’t sure exactly when he moved to Memphis. “I always thought it was odd all her sons took her last name.” I’d asked Aramis about that, but he just shrugged and wouldn’t say anything more.
Athalie made a face. “I can’t even remember how many times she was married. Four? Five?” She gave a little who knows shrug. “She was pretty wild before she married the first time, too. Anything with pants in the Quarter was fair game to her.” She looked over at me. “Do you know Audrey Vidrine? The two of them were quite a pair back then.”
The name was familiar but I couldn’t place it. “Are they still friends?”
“I don’t know.” She sniffed delicate
ly. “I’ve never really kept tabs on those kinds of women.” She said it with disdain, like she was talking about something she’d accidentally stepped in. “You know Marigny was writing a book, don’t you?”
“A book?” I replied. “No, I had no idea. What kind of book?”
“A memoir.” Athalie’s lip curled. She looked over to the painting of her husband hanging over the mantelpiece. Judge Thomas Tujague had been deceased about ten years, and she always referred to him at the Judge. He’d been serving on the state Supreme Court when he died. There were some nasty rumors about what exactly he’d been doing when he had the massive coronary. The public story was that he’d died in his judge’s chambers. The whispers were that he wasn’t alone. “She actually called me— when was it? Two days ago?” She frowned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Yes, yes, it was Wednesday. I’d just gotten home from that awful book club luncheon.” She gave a little mock shudder. “Terribly stupid women, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. Never again.”
“She called you?” I prompted.
“I hadn’t spoken to her in years,” Athalie’s voice was grim. “She called to tell me she was writing a book— her memoirs, and just wanted to warn me.” She made air quotes as she said the last two words, and her eyes were steely. “What she really wanted was money, of course, and I wasn’t having any of it. I laughed in her face. Well, on the phone, anyway.”
“Money?” I stared at her. “You mean blackmail?”
She sighed and got a look on her face that chilled me. “Marigny’s been over-extended for years, of course.” She pursed her lips contemptuously. “That’s no great secret, you know. Those dreadful designs she came up with? She should have been going for the drag queen market— because no woman with any refinement or elegance would wear those horrors she designed.” She made a face. “Sequins and feathers— just dreadful. She never had any taste, of course, and she tore through whatever money her father left her— which wasn’t much— and then there were all those marriages and young men…” Her voice trailed off as she looked off into the distance. I was about to prompt her when she shook her head slightly and looked back at me. “She thought I’d give her money if she promised to leave the Judge out of her stupid book.” She barked out a hoarse laugh. “You should have heard her voice! Of course she called. She knew if she dared show her face here with her little blackmail demands I would have slapped her silly.”