G.T. Herren - Paige Tourneur 01 - Fashion Victim

by G. T. Herren

  It was getting warm, and I knew I was going to regret the cable-knit sweater I’d thrown on that morning. The sun was out and the sky was cerulean blue— no clouds anywhere. There was a slight breeze coming from the direction of the river. It was one of those exceptional days that I tried to remember while suffering through the mind-numbing heat and humidity of July and August— the spring days that are so damned beautiful you can’t imagine living anywhere else. All the crape myrtles were in bloom— actually, everything was in bloom. The bougainvillea, the mandevillea, magnolia, honeysuckle, and roses— the breeze was alive with rich scents. From my purse, a bell tolled— which meant that some more emails had been delivered. I resisted the urge to grab my phone and scroll through the emails. The advent of smartphones, I reflected, has certainly made me a victim of the “available 24/7” mindset I used to deplore.

  I stopped into CC’s at the corner of St. Philip and Royal, got an iced mocha, and listened to Ryan’s message. It was sweet— I still couldn’t wrap my mind around the idea that I had finally found a decent human being to date for once in my life— which made me smile and miss him that much more. I sipped my mocha as I walked down the block to Dumaine Street. There was a street band playing a few blocks further up the street, and I wished I wasn’t working so I could head over and listen. You haven’t spent much time in the Quarter in a while, I thought as I stood on the corner of Dumaine and Royal. I promised myself that I would make Ryan take me to listen to some live music soon, and turned to walk up Dumaine. As soon as I did, I noticed someone dressed entirely in black coming out the front door of Audrey Vidrine’s house. She fumbled in her purse and shakily lit a cigarette.

  It took me a moment to realize it was Isabelle DePew.

  She was wearing a long black skirt, a black turtleneck sweater, and a pair of what looked like black Capezio ballet flats. Her black hair was pulled back into a prim ponytail that looked like it belonged on a poster for repression. She put on an enormous pair of black sunglasses before blowing out a huge plume of smoke. She adjusted the sunglasses, slung the strap of her purse over her shoulder, and walked down the steps.

  She was a little taller than me— which isn’t saying much, since I’m only five three— and couldn’t possibly have weighed more than ninety pounds. She wasn’t wearing any make-up other than plum lipstick, and her skin was exceedingly pale. She could have been anywhere from twenty-five to thirty-five. She slouched, her thin shoulders slumping down, and her bird-like head rested on top of a rather long, thin neck that wouldn’t age well. She put her head down and hurried towards me.

  I did a mock double take when she reached me. “Isabelle?” I turned as she walked past me.

  She stopped and turned back to look at me. She lifted the glasses. Her eyes were narrow, bloodshot, and green, with short lashes almost impossible to see. “Do I know you?” she asked in a condescending tone.

  Clearly, given her tone, she’d decided my clothes were wanting and that made me less of a person, someone obviously beneath her.

  “Paige Tourneur, editor of Crescent City magazine,” I replied, widening my eyes and making my smile as big and phony as possible. “We met at Marigny’s party last night.”

  I could almost see the wheels turning in her head, and finally the stiff lines of her face relaxed a little. “Of course, I’m so sorry.” She held out her right hand for me to shake.

  It was cold and limp. I took an instant dislike to her, which I knew was completely unfair. She just reminded me of those girls who sit around in coffee shops getting amped on cappuccinos while they scribble incredibly bad poetry in their notebooks. I’d shared a dorm room with one of them my freshman year at LSU— and if it weren’t for marijuana and cheap bottles of red wine with twist-off caps, I’d probably be serving a life sentence for murder.

  Everything is high drama with those girls— everything— and that gets old really fast.

  “You must be so upset.” I managed to shoehorn some sympathy into my voice and hoped my distaste for her wasn’t written on my face.

  Her eyes filled with tears. “Marigny was more than just a boss to me, she was like a second mother. I— I don’t know what I’m going to do without her.”

  Look for another job? I thought, but aloud I said, “You were close?”

  She sniffled and wiped at her eyes. “Yes, terribly close. She was mentoring me.” She nodded. “I have a degree in Fashion Design from the University of Missouri. I came to New Orleans specifically to work for Marigny.”

  Bitch, please. My bullshit detector was going off. “Oh?”

  She nodded again. “Marigny was very admired in the industry, you know. One of my professors taught her. The necklines and sleeves, the amazing silhouettes she would come up with… As soon as I saw some of her designs, I knew I wanted to work for her, learn from her, soak up her knowledge and talent.”

  Like a sponge? I was tempted to say, but bit the words back.

  “And her integrity in staying in New Orleans rather than going to New York!” Her eyes flashed, and two spots of red appeared in her pale sunken cheeks. “You have to admire that, don’t you?”

  There were any number of responses I could make to that, but all of them were sarcastic and/or rude, so instead I just smiled. “Would it be possible to schedule a time to sit down and talk to you about Marigny?”

  “Any time.” She nodded, reaching into her purse and fumbling around, finally coming up with an engraved silver business card holder. She flicked it open and handed me a business card. “I’ll talk to you soon.” She smiled and walked away.

  I watched her go, wondering why her business card case had the initials “MM” engraved on it.

  I shook my head. Really, Paige, you always expect the worst of people. Marigny could have given it to her— and the MM might not even stand for Marigny Mercereau in the first place.

  You can take the crime reporter off the beat… but apparently it’s like riding a bike.

  I took a deep breath and climbed up the cement steps to Audrey’s front door. It was set back a bit, and on the left wall there was an intercom and a buzzer. Underneath the buzzer was a note to deliverymen to leave packages next door at the mask shop if there was no answer.

  I pushed the buzzer and could hear it ringing inside the house. I expected her to speak to me through the intercom, but instead the big front door swung open, startling me.

  “I told you—” She cut off her angry words when she saw me and relaxed her face into a really phony-looking smile. Her eyes were red and swollen, and she wasn’t wearing any make-up. She was wearing a billowy, striped housedress. “Paige, isn’t it?”

  “Hello, Audrey.” I gave her what I hoped was an ingratiating smile. “I’m sorry to come by unannounced like this, and at such a terrible time—”

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Yes, of course. Marigny had mentioned you were doing a profile of her for Crescent City.” She opened the door wider and stood aside so I could enter. “Do come in, won’t you? It’s just terrible what’s happened, just terrible.”

  I stepped past her into a dimly lit hallway running almost the length of the house. As she shut the door behind her and turned the deadbolt, she motioned for me to follow her. “I must apologize for the mess— I wasn’t expecting anyone.” She shook her head. “My mother always said one should always keep the house clean because you never know when people will just stop by.”

  “I’m sorry— I know I should have called first.” I followed her through a doorway on the left side of the hall into an enormous kitchen.

  “It’s all right, dear.” She replied absently, crossing the room to the refrigerator.

  I took in the room while she got down a glass from a cabinet. I don’t like to cook, so the long galley style kitchen in my apartment is more than adequate for my needs. Ryan, on the other hand, fancies himself to be an amateur chef (okay, to be fair, he is a great cook) and so his house on the north shore has a large kitchen with every conceivable gadget.
But this kitchen would make him drool with envy. There was an eighteen-foot ceiling with an enormous wrought iron chandelier, with black crystals. I gaped at it— I’d never seen anything like it before. There was counter space along the wall facing the street and the wall opposite the hallway, with cabinets on the walls above. There was a massive double sink in the center of the counter on the street side, directly underneath dark curtains masking a window. A huge butcher-block island was centered in the middle of the room. There were black wrought iron sconces mounted on the other walls, holding black tapered candles. The walls were painted a dark maroon, which made the whole room seem gloomy rather than cozy and warm.

  “Would you like something to drink?” She asked, and I turned my attention back to her.

  I held up my half-empty cup of iced Mocha. “Nothing for me, thanks.”

  She poured herself a tall glass of V8 and added a healthy dollop of vodka before sticking a stalk of celery into it. I noticed that her hands were shaking slightly. “Let’s go into the living room, shall we?”

  I followed her into a room that opened off the kitchen, which had been decorated in a style that looked like it was straight out of a straight to video movie about Marie LaVeau.

  Like the kitchen, the walls were painted dark, and there were wrought iron sconces holding black candles strategically placed on the walls. The identical twin of the kitchen chandelier hung from the ceiling. Audrey walked over to the windows and pulled the thick dark brocade curtains apart, tying them back on each side with black Mardi Gras beads. I could now see the walls were a different shade than the kitchen— these were more of an eggplant purple.

  Dust motes floated in the bright sunbeams. There was what appeared to be art, done in a primitive African style, hung at various intervals on the walls between the enormous sconces. In the light, I could see that the frames were terribly dusty. Musty old books were piled on every available open surface, and on top of the stacks of books were skulls of every type and size— including human and alligator. Massive ferns, brown at the edges, were placed in enormous pots at various places around the room. There were two dark colored wingback chairs flanking a table with their backs to the windows.

  Underneath the table was a stuffed eight foot long alligator, his scales shellacked underneath a layer of dust.

  Audrey smiled at me as she sat down in one of the wingback chairs and gestured for me to sit down facing her on the matching love seat. As I sat down, I couldn’t help but notice there was a thick, round black candle sitting on top of a stack of books on the table next to her. It looked like a name had been carved into the side.

  It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that was some serious black magic.

  “Are you sure you don’t want something?” she asked, taking a drink from her glass. Her hand was still trembling.

  I took another sip out of my mocha. “No, I’m good, thank you.” I forced myself to stop looking at the candle. “I’m really sorry to bother you at such an emotional time—” I gave her my best I know it seems ghoulish but I have a deadline, sorry expression.

  She took an enormous gulp from her drink and wiped off the V8 mustache it left behind with the back of her hand. “You’re just doing your job.” She blinked at me, the corners of her mouth turning up in what was supposed to pass for a reassuring smile, and I realized it was taking every ounce of energy she possessed to hold herself together. “Besides, it’ll do me good to talk about her. Marigny was my best friend, you know.” Her head bowed for a moment, and she added, “Ever since we were girls together at McGehee. I can hardly believe she’s not going to be around anymore, you know?”

  “It’ll get easier with time,” I said, wondering if it sounded as lame to her as it did to me.

  “I see you’ve noticed my candle,” She gave me a brittle smile. “I don’t believe in that sort of thing, of course. It was more— symbolic than anything else.” She waved a hand. “It made me feel better.”

  Yeah, so then what was the deal with the bizarre decorating choices? “And what precisely was it symbolizing?” I asked, forcing myself to stop trying to decipher the name on the candle.

  “Does it really matter?” She dismissed the whole subject with a sweep of her hands. “So, what brings you to see me?” She narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips. “I know you were doing a piece on Marigny— surely that’s not it? Given—” she swallowed, “—what’s happened to her.”

  “Well—” I took a deep breath while I decided what tack to take with her. “We’ve decided to go to press with a story on her— kind of an in memoriam thing, so I’m talking to her friends, you know, to get some background, some personal stories and so forth— you know, the stuff that’s not in the social columns.”

  “Personal stories,” she repeated, crossing her legs and folding her hands in her lap. A long-haired white cat leaped into her lap, blinking at me with its enormous blue eyes with the kind of icy disdain only a cat can convey. Audrey twisted her lips. “The reason they’re called personal stories is because they’re personal.” She sighed. “But I suppose now that she’s—” her voice broke, and she put her hand over her mouth, closing her eyes while she gathered herself. After a few moments, she opened her eyes again and gave me a weak, trembling smile.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Take your time, don’t worry about me,” I said in a low, comforting tone— feeling like a ghoul. Flashbacks of all the times I’d interviewed spouses or parents or children or friends or neighbors of murder victims flashed through my mind. This is why I didn’t want to do this kind of work anymore, I thought, biting my lower lip.

  But I had to get the story.

  She took another healthy drink. “What are you looking for? Scandal? Who would have wanted to kill her? That sort of thing?”

  I took a deep breath. “That’s not what I’m interested in, Audrey. I don’t know if you’ve read Crescent City or not since I took the magazine over, but that’s not what we do. I want to show what Marigny was like, warts and all, and let the readers decide what kind of a person she was.”

  It wasn’t, after all, a complete lie.

  “Interesting.” The cat started purring in her lap, and I bit my lower lip to keep from smiling— Audrey looked like one of those “take over the world” villains in adventure movies. “It seems like we’ve always been friends— I really can’t remember a time when Marigny wasn’t there, you know?” She pushed the cat off her lap and brushed away cat hair. “We had our ups and downs over the years— what friends don’t? But we always forgave each other in the end, and came back together. She wasn’t perfect, you know— even if she thought she was.” She smiled. “But when someone is your friend… you overlook all kinds of things. You make excuses for them, and because you let them get away with little things without saying anything, then they start with the big things. But the thing with Marigny was it was never personal, you know. She just didn’t think how her behavior would affect other people… she didn’t like hurting people, and was always sorry. She cared about me, loved me in her way. We were like sisters, in a way. No matter what happened with the men in our lives, we always had each other.” She pursed her lips. “We went to McGehee together, you know. She didn’t belong there— her family was nothing, really, and the other girls always made sure she never forgot that.” She barked out a laugh. “And she never did. She told me once if it took her the rest of her life, she would get even with those mean bitches.”

  “And did she?”

  She looked at me, her head cocked to one side, her eyes narrowed. “You could say that. You have to remember— Marigny might have been considered white trash by those rich society bitches, but she was a very beautiful young woman.” She gestured to herself. “I was a beautiful young woman, too. And I felt bad for her. I thought she behaved the way she did— you know, excuses— because of the way she’d been treated growing up. There’s nothing worse, no worse feeling, than wanting to fit in and being mocked, is there?”

 
; But people get over it when they grow up, I thought, remembering my own horrendous high school experiences. Aloud, I replied, “No, no there isn’t. And how did she get even with them?”

  “She was a beautiful young woman. You do the math.” She gave me a brittle smile. “It was all so long ago. And it’s not really who she was anymore. After she got back from Paris— she didn’t care so much about that anymore.” She laughed again. “The girls who treated her like crap when we were in school were her clients— she designed their wedding dresses, their ball gowns…”

  “Did she always want to be a designer, work in fashion?”

  “She could always sew, I’ll give her that. But she used to have to make her own dresses, you know, for Mardi Gras balls and school dances. They made fun of her for that, too— but bless her heart, she always said she preferred to make her own because then she could have exactly what she wanted. She used to make dresses for me, too— she had a flair for it. But no, she never talked about going into fashion when she was a girl. She just wanted to get married, have kids, live in the Garden District in a big house and be queen of a ball. She was, you know— but she wasn’t Queen of Rex, she was Queen of Patroclus.”

  “Patroclus?”

  “It disbanded years ago. I doubt anyone even remembers it anymore.” She raised her eyebrows. “She was proud as she could be to be Queen of a ball, though. Her family might not have had much money… but her mother made sure she went to the right schools.”

  “How many times was she married?” I asked. “I keep getting conflicting answers on that.”

  “She was married five times that I know about.” She laughed. “She may have been married when she was in Paris, I don’t really know. She never liked to talk much about Paris— which I thought was odd.” She shrugged. “Five times here in New Orleans for sure. To be fair, she went through the first three in no time at all.” She wiped at her eyes. “But considering she didn’t get started until she was in her late twenties, though— she certainly made up for lost time. After we were out of high school and going to Newcomb, she was only interested in men that were already taken.”