G.T. Herren - Paige Tourneur 02 - Dead Housewives of New Orleans

by G. T. Herren

  Still shaking a bit when I got to my apartment, I sat down and wrote an op-ed I titled “What Price Life?” Venus called me later that night to let me know the two teens had been caught. They’d stolen only forty-seven dollars, it turned out, which made my piece even more tragic. When I was finished I emailed it to the city editor and the senior reporter so they would know why I didn’t do the assignment they’d given me.

  Apparently, it impressed them, because it ran in the paper the next day. Later, it was even nominated for a Pulitzer Prize. I didn’t win— but while that would have been nice, more important was the fact that the piece got everyone talking and made City Hall— and the NOPD— stand up and take notice. There was a lot of talk about the city’s growing crime problem, and what needed to be done— and for once, things actually DID change for the better.

  It also did wonders for me, completely changing how I was viewed at the paper. I was no longer a newbie fresh out of college who needed to prove herself by writing obituaries and puff write-ups of the endless festivals going on in the city every weekend. I was now seen, if not as a serious journalist, as someone who, with the proper training and grooming, could become a serious journalist. I was no longer given grunt work, but actually assigned to real stories.

  And unlike Chloe Valence— well, she was Chloe Legendre then— I got moved up on my writing ability, not my back.

  No sooner had I thought of Chloe when my phone rang. “Tourneur.”

  “Paige? Margery Lautenschlaeger. Thank you for agreeing to talk to me.” She sounded agitated and nervous. “I’m not disturbing you, am I? Is this a bad time for you?”

  “No, it’s fine, I’ve been waiting for your call. Athalie didn’t really tell me much,” I said carefully. Skittle jumped onto my desk and blinked at me. “Just that you’re being sued by Chloe Valence? I don’t know that—”

  She interrupted me. “I can’t discuss this on the phone! I know I’ve ruined your plans for the weekend, but I hope you can forgive me. It’s very important, you have no idea how important. Could you possibly come to my home later this evening? Say around 8? I know the weather is bad. If you like I can send a car for you.”

  “I can drive myself,” I replied, trying to keep my tone even and not show my annoyance. “But thanks for the offer.”

  “You know where I live? It’s a big stone home on St. Charles Avenue.” She went on to give me the house number.

  It took all of my self-control to not laugh out loud. Everyone in New Orleans knew the Schwartzberg castle. “Yes, thank you, I will see you at eight o’clock.”

  I put my phone down and shook my head. I still had no idea what she wanted from me, but at least I could get some information for my article— namely, what on earth had possessed her to go on a reality television show?

  The obvious answer was fame, I supposed. But she was already pretty famous in New Orleans. Everyone in New Orleans knew who Margery Lautenschlaeger was. Maybe she’d done it for kicks; who knew?

  I’d find out when I asked her.

  I pulled up the show’s website again and stared at her bio. She’d been the only heir to the Schwartzberg liquor empire, had gone to school at Vassar and the Sorbonne. She’d married another liquor heir— and he’d run both of their companies, amassing a staggering pile of money before he died ten years ago. Margery was one of the richest women in Louisiana, if not the richest. She gave money away in buckets to charities— over the years she’d given money to the symphony, museums, the opera, and various other non-profits ranging from the NO/AIDS Task Force to battered women’s shelters to halfway houses. Her oldest son Marvin now ran the distributorship, while her other son Ben ran the liquor company. There was a third son, who worked as an investment banker in New York. All three sons were married— Marvin lived in a gated community in English Turn on the west bank, Ben on the north shore— and had given her numerous grandchildren.

  Maybe she was just bored, I reasoned.

  My phone rang again, and Ryan’s handsome face appeared on the screen. “Hey, honey,” I answered, my heart sinking when I remembered we’d made tentative dinner plans I’d now have to cancel so I could go pay court to Margery.

  He sounded contrite. “How mad are you going to be if we don’t come into the city?”

  I grinned. “A burning fury hotter than a thousand white hot stars.”

  He laughed. “They just closed the Causeway because of wind and visibility,” he replied when he got himself under control again, “and if the causeway’s bad I can’t imagine the other bridges are any better.” The Causeway was the fastest way, but there were longer routes— highway 59 through the swamp to connect to I-10, or the twin span from Slidell over the lake— that also included bridges. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to risk it, and then I’d have to just drive the boys back over here tomorrow anyway. They’re disappointed— both are pouting like three-year-olds. I had to promise the little heathens I’d order pizza for dinner to get them to even talk to me.”

  I missed them all so much that I felt tears come up in my eyes. “I miss them, too.”

  “I’ll be back in town tomorrow night,” Ryan replied. “Shall I just plan on coming by your place so you can make it up to me?”

  “That would be delightful,” I purred back.

  “Can’t wait.” I could almost see the lascivious grin on his handsome face. “And I’ll have to figure how to get Mom to make this up to us both. I sure hope what it was she wanted was worth it.”

  “I still don’t know,” I confessed. “She wanted me to do a favor for a friend, and I won’t even know what that is until tonight.” I filled him on what had transpired since I got his mother’s phone call.

  He whistled. “The old tyrant!” He laughed to take the sting out of his words. “We really should stand up to her and say no sometime, don’t you think? She takes terrible advantage of us. I mean, what could she do to us?”

  “I for one don’t intend to ever find out,” I replied. “And if you’re smart, you won’t, either.”

  “I don’t have to worry about it— I’m the only one who gave her grandchildren.”

  My buzzer sounded, sending Skittle off my desk and up the stairs in a blur of white and orange. “That’s Venus and your brother.” I walked over to the intercom and buzzed them in. “They’re feeding me.”

  He was silent for a moment. “Wait a minute— you’re sticking your nose into their investigation and they’re bringing you food?”

  “I know— I’m suspicious, too.” I glanced out the kitchen windows to see the two of them maneuvering down the path with enormous umbrellas. “I’ll call you later, okay? I do miss you. And my love to the boys.” I hung up the phone and opened my front door.

  “Hey, guys,” I said.

  They both closed and shook out their umbrellas before coming inside my apartment. Blaine was carrying a greasy bag emitting delicious odors. He winked at me. “Shrimp po’boys and onion rings from Please U.”

  I almost wept with joy as I got plates and napkins from the kitchen. I passed them out and sat down in my easy chair while they both sat on my couch. Blaine is only three years younger than Ryan, but they look enough alike to be twins if you don’t look closely. They both have the same blue eyes, dimples, strong chin, bluish-black curly hair, and thick eyebrows. But Ryan is about six inches taller— Blaine is only around five seven, maybe eight, depending on his shoes. And while Ryan is in good shape, Blaine’s muscles are thick and defined from hours spent in the gym. Blaine also tends to wear his clothes much tighter than Ryan does. He handed me a plate piled high with onion rings and a shrimp po’boy with fried shrimp tumbling onto the plate. I popped one in my mouth and moaned in pleasure.

  “So, Paige, tell me— what’s your interest in Fidelis Vandiver?” Venus asked, dipping an onion ring into the puddle of ketchup she’d made on her plate. She didn’t look at me, and her offhand tone made me curious.

  Venus is a beautiful woman of indeterminate age. I know she has two daugh
ters that have graduated from college and are married— so she’s at least old enough to be a grandmother. But her smooth dark skin is free of wrinkles, and she buzzes her hair close to her majestic scalp. She has strong cheekbones, round, wide-set eyes, and she’s tall. She always wears heels to increase her height to well over six feet. She went to LSU on a basketball scholarship, and I also know she won a gold medal as a member of the US Olympic women’s basketball team— but I don’t know what year, and had never cared to look it up. She’s been divorced for almost fifteen years, and her ex-husband, a lawyer, has a much younger second wife. She never talks about her ex much; she spilled that one night when we’d both had too much tequila in the months after Katrina.

  It never came up again.

  “Well, I went to the premiere of Grande Dames of New Orleans last night,” I said after swallowing a bite of my po’boy. “And I’m doing a story on the show. Lo and behold, one of the cast members winds up dead. And you said it was foul play?”

  Blaine shot a glance at his partner, which she completely ignored. “Unless she figured out a way to hit herself in the back of the head with a baseball bat, I’d say it’s definitely foul play.” Venus held up a well-manicured index finger. “Looks like it happened last night, after she got home from the premiere. She was wearing a black dress with one sleeve— House of Mercereau, according to the label.”

  “That’s what she had on at the premiere,” I confirmed. I took another bite and swallowed. “A baseball bat?” I shuddered, then something occurred to me. “What was she doing with a baseball bat in her house?”

  “It was a memento,” Blaine replied before Venus could say anything. “Signed to her with love from none other than Billy Barron.”

  “Billy Barron?” I shook my head. Once again in my head I saw him grab Fidelis by the arm, the terse exchange as she jerked away from him. “Why would he sign a baseball bat for her? I don’t understand.”

  “Apparently, it’s the very bat he used to hit the home run that won the national championship for LSU in the college world series.” Venus raised her eyebrows. “He’s also been having an affair with her for quite some time.”

  I almost choked on an onion ring. “Say what?”

  “Billy Barron and Fidelis Vandiver were having an affair.” Blaine opened another ketchup packet and squirted it out onto his plate. “And apparently, Fidelis was quite open about it on camera. For the show.”

  “Wait, wait. I thought Fidelis had an affair with Steve Barron. You’re saying she also was sleeping with his son?” My head was starting to hurt.

  Venus and Blaine exchanged a look. “Who told you she had an affair with Steve Barron?”

  “His widow.” I rubbed my temples. “I talked to her this morning. The two of them— Fidelis and Rebecca, I mean— had issues working on the show together. Rebecca believed Fidelis was helping her stepsons sue her for control of the company.” Apparently, Rebecca had been wrong about that. “So she was actually with Billy? I—”

  “He claims to have an alibi.” Venus interrupted me. “He was apparently with his other mistress.”

  “Other mistress?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “He had another mistress? Who?”

  Venus’ face was completely without expression as she replied, “Chloe Valence.”

  Chapter Five

  I stared at Blaine, trying to pick my chin up from the floor.

  Chloe Valence?

  “Seriously— Chloe is giving him an alibi?” I couldn’t be hearing that right— I wanted to laugh out loud. What a hypocrite! How many times had she talked about her happy marriage on the show last night? She’d almost convinced me that at the very least Remy was a bisexual. “She’s willing to get up in court and admit that she’s cheating on her husband?” I shook my head to clear it. That wasn’t the Chloe I’d come to know and loathe. There had to be something in it for Chloe if she was willing to risk getting off the Valence gravy train. But if Rebecca had inherited the entire Barron estate— then what did Billy have to offer her?

  Then again, it was entirely possible Remy didn’t care where Chloe got her kicks— but I couldn’t imagine him being okay with her exposing the secret of their Uptown marriage to the general public.

  And bitchy as it felt, I kind of liked the idea of Chloe being exposed as the phony she always had been.

  “Yeah, I thought you’d like to hear that,” Venus raised an eyebrow, the corners of her mouth slightly twitching. “But we haven’t been able to reach her to see if she’ll confirm his story. No one at the Best Western on St. Charles saw her. Billy was alone when he checked in last night— but why else would he check into a hotel unless he was meeting someone?”

  “Why wouldn’t they just go to his house?” I asked. “Why pay for a hotel when you live here? That doesn’t make any sense— unless he was trying to establish an alibi.”

  Blaine shrugged. “Yeah, that’s kind of what we were thinking. Of course, as soon as we asked him that, he asked for a lawyer.” He made a face. “Loren McKeithen.”

  “Well, he is the best,” I replied. It was true. When the rich and famous of New Orleans— anywhere in Louisiana, for that matter— ran afoul of the law, Loren McKeithen was the lawyer they called. I knew Loren fairly well. He was a great lawyer, and I thought he was a pretty nice guy. He did a lot of pro bono work for abused women— getting them restraining orders and representing them in divorce court and custody struggles with their exes. That goes a long way with me. I knew Chanse despised him— Loren had hired him once on behalf of one of his clients and thrown him under the bus without a qualm. It wasn’t cool, so I totally understood where Chanse was coming from— but I also kind of understood why Loren had done it. It was in the best interests of his client.

  Naturally, I never said that to Chanse— I may not the smartest person in the world, but I’m not crazy.

  “Couldn’t Chloe have just gone over to his house?” I scratched my head. “Why would she run the risk of being seen at a hotel?”

  “I would imagine,” Venus said, her voice completely deadpan, “that Chloe didn’t want to drive to English Turn.”

  English Turn really wasn’t that far from New Orleans— at most, around eight or nine miles from the Garden District. It was a gated community, with big homes that could best be described as McMansions. Snobbish New Orleanians would never deign to live there, despite the enormous lots, the access to a private country club and golf course. For one thing, it was new by New Orleans standards, and for another, it was on the West Bank. It was nestled in a curve of the Mississippi River, just across from the Marigny/Bywater neighborhoods downtown. It was called English Turn because at some point when the French were settling what is now the French Quarter, an English ship sailed up the river. French scouts spotted it and supposedly sent a crew down to meet the English and warn them about cannibalistic Indian tribes. Apparently, it never occurred to the English that the French might be lying, or why the cannibals hadn’t eaten the French, because they turned their ship around and sailed back out of the river.

  And, I reflected, Venus was probably right. New Orleanians are horrible snobs about crossing the river or even driving out to Metairie. I myself hated it so much that I avoided it as much as I possibly could, and bitched when I had to go to the DMV.

  “And no one is answering the phone at the Valence house?” That was odd. The last time I’d seen her— at a fundraiser for a battered women’s shelter— she’d delighted in telling me about her team of servants, especially the live-in housekeeper. “Where’s Chloe’s husband, Remy?”

  Blaine shrugged. “He’s not answering his cell phone just like she isn’t answering hers. We swung by on the way here but there aren’t any lights on.”

  “That’s so weird,” I commented, finishing the last bit of my po-boy.

  “You saw her last night at the premiere, didn’t you?” This from Venus as she crumpled up her sandwich wrapper and closed it up in the Styrofoam box her onion rings had come in. “How d
id she seem?”

  “I didn’t see her up close,” I said, remembering when Abe Golden called her up onstage. She’d been wearing that hideous emerald green dress with full sleeves and an Empire waist— a bad choice for her figure, as it just made her look pregnant— and of course who could forget the hideous braids? “Chanse and I were sitting in the balcony. She was grinning from ear to ear, very proud of herself.” Skittle yowled and leaped into my lap. “Come to think of it, I didn’t see Remy, but I wasn’t looking for him, either. He may have been there; I can’t say.”

  I thought about telling them that Chloe was suing Margery Lautenschlaeger, but decided it could wait until I spoke to Margery herself.

  “Do you have any suspects besides Billy Barron?”

  “Fidelis wasn’t a popular woman,” Blaine said carefully. “She’d managed to make an awful lot of enemies.”

  Venus stood. “If you think of anything, please give us a call.” She frowned. “I hate to have you walk us to the gate in this storm.”

  I smiled and walked into the kitchen, getting the spare keys out of my junk drawer. “Here you go— it’s the square one. Just drop them through the mail slot once you’re out.”

  Venus took the keys and opened my front door. “Don’t be getting yourself mixed up in any trouble, you hear?” She warned came with a smile. “We’ll let you know as soon as we make an arrest.”

  I nodded, and shut the door behind them. I walked back into the kitchen and sat down at my desk. I had three hours before my meeting at Margery’s. I opened my address book in the computer, and scrolled through the names until I found Chloe’s. It was old, from when I still worked at the paper, but maybe her home phone number was still the same. I dialed it and after a few rings, it went to voicemail. I didn’t like that— sure, maybe she’d given the servants the day off and had left the house— but it just didn’t sit right with me. I couldn’t imagine the Chloe I knew giving all the servants the same day off. The more I thought about it, the less I liked it.