by G. T. Herren
“It was like it was trying to run you down.” He shook his head.
“Did you get a good look at it?”
He shrugged, looking sheepish. “It was black. One of those expensive cars. I don’t know the make— you know, the kind rich white ladies drive.”
Chapter Nine
“What the hell happened to you?” Abby asked, a horrified look on her face. “You look terrible.”
I raised an eyebrow as I sat down on the other side of the booth from her. “Seriously, Abby. If you don’t stop with all the compliments, I might start thinking you’re a lesbian.”
I was about fifteen minutes late, and Abby had a tall glass of iced tea in front of her. She was shredding the straw wrapper. I’d had to go back to my apartment to change out of my muddy clothes, wash up, and bandage up my elbows. I’d resisted the urge to take Xanax, just to be on the safe side. While being almost run down by a car might trigger a panic attack once the adrenaline rush from the shock wore off, I figured it was better not to be fuzzy-minded. It might have been an accident and not related to the murders in any way, but better safe than sorry. While I was washing the dirt out of my bleeding elbows I realized I should have done more for that black kid who saved my life than just say ‘thanks.’ I hadn’t even gotten his name. I swore as I dried my arms with a towel and started bandaging myself. Shock is not an excuse. I just hoped he knew I was grateful.
“Just so you know,” I continued, “I was almost run down by a car on my way here. That’s why I’m late. I had to go home and change clothes and bandage my elbows.” I held up my arms to show her, and went on to explain what happened.
“Well, no wonder you look so awful,” she replied. She did, however, have the decency to look horrified.
“Enough with the compliments, already! Stop before my head gets so big I can’t get through the door.” I turned to the waitress who’d materialized and was now hovering. “I’d like a Grey Goose martini with three olives, please.” After she left, I turned back to Abby.
Of all the reasons to love Abby Grosjean, my favorite was that she rarely looked the same whenever I saw her. I’d often wondered what her actual hair color was. She had an enormous collection of wigs from her days dancing at the Catbox Club, everything from platinum to bluish-black, from short to mid-length to long. She loved playing dress-up, and had a wide variety of costumes and disguises. She can look like everything from professional businesswoman to spinster librarian to harried soccer mom to schoolgirl to nun to streetwalker. Today, her wig was a white-blonde pageboy. She was wearing pale pink lipstick and very little other make-up, a white sweater, and a jean skirt. The sweater was several sizes too big— a look she often wore to tone down the impact of her breasts.
“Are you okay?” Abby asked, taking a drink from her tea. She made a shamed face. “I probably should have asked that first, right? Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it, and yes, I’m fine. My elbows are scraped up and there’s probably some bruising on my legs, and I’ll be sore tomorrow morning, but nothing to run to the emergency room for.” I smiled back at her. “I’m a little shaken up, is all.” I sighed with relief as the waitress placed my martini down. “Do you know what you want?” I turned and smiled at the waitress. “I’ll have the General Tso’s chicken with white rice, thank you.”
Abby placed her order, and the waitress took our menus. Once she was gone, Abby asked, “Do you think someone was trying to kill you?”
I fished out one of the olives and popped it into my mouth. “I don’t know what to think, to be honest. I didn’t see the car at all. A kid saw it coming right for me and tackled me. He pushed me out of the way— the car was gone by the time I got up.” I took a sip of the martini. It was smooth and cold, pure heaven. “All he said was, it was a black car, the kind rich women drive— which could be just about anything. I was so shook up I didn’t question him or even get his name.”
“It could have been the killer,” she mused. And then she winked at me. “Or maybe it was just one of the many drivers you’ve infuriated over the years with your horrible driving.”
“Et tu, Abby?” I replied, raising an eyebrow. Honestly, it never stops.
She laughed and opened her purse, pulling out her notebook. “Shall we get the business out of the way first, so we can enjoy our meal?”
I nodded, popping another olive into my mouth. There’s nothing tastier than an olive marinated in good vodka.
“Well, as you suspected, the cell phone was a pay-as-you-go disposable.” She flipped open her notebook, and stuck a pen behind her ear. “It’s a Virgin Mobile phone, and it was purchased at a Wal-Mart in Hattiesburg— no surprise there, given the area code. As you know, it’s next to impossible to trace disposable phones.”
“Damn.” I popped the last olive into my mouth, deciding to ask for extras in the next martini.
“Next to impossible, of course, doesn’t mean impossible. Fortunately, I happen to have a fiancé with mad hacking, er, computer skills.” She smiled at me triumphantly. “Jeph was able to hack— I mean, trace the phone’s account, and find its payment history. The minutes were paid by credit card, and he was able to get the card number and the name on the card.”
“That’s not legal, is it?” I whispered, and took another sip of my martini, glancing around to make sure no one could hear what we were saying.
She lowered her voice and leaned across the table. “Don’t worry, Jeph’s learned his lesson and knows how to cover his tracks… and it’s not like we wanted the credit card for anything illegal. It belongs to a woman named Laura Pillsbury.”
The name meant nothing to me. “I don’t know anyone by that name. I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone named Pillsbury.” I frowned. “So why is this woman sending me emails?”
“Maybe she’s a crazed fan. You know how people are these days. Crazy.” She shrugged, twirling her index finger in a circle by her right temple. “What do the emails say?”
“I’d rather not say. Do you mind?”
“Okay, fine.” She rolled her eyes. “But keep in mind, you don’t know that she’s the one sending the emails, Paige. She’s just the one paying for the phone. Hell, she may not even know she IS paying for the phone. Someone could have stolen her credit card number.” She flipped a page. “I can find out more about this Pillsbury woman if you want.”
I thought about it for a minute. “Yeah.” I finally said. In for a penny… “Can you email me what you have already?”
“Of course.”
“Thanks. What about Amanda Beth? Were you able to dig up anything on her?”
“Ah, yes, Amanda Beth Lautenschlaeger. It’s amazing how little there is about her online. Not even a Facebook page. Seriously, who doesn’t have a Facebook page?”
“Chanse, for one,” I pointed out.
“Yes, my Luddite partner.” A smile played at her lips. “Like I was saying, it’s remarkable how little information there is about her online— unless, of course, you have access to private eye databases.” She glanced down at her notepad. “Jeph is working on accessing her records at Newman— it’s not as easy as you might think to hack into a private school’s computer network. Public schools are much easier. Anyway, I digress.” She frowned, and scratched her forehead. “You were right— she did leave Newman after her sophomore year. She transferred to a private school in upstate New York— but did you know that the school is for ‘troubled girls’?”
“Troubled girls? What the hell does that mean? It sounds like one of those awful 50’s B-movies.”
Abby laughed. “It’s basically a reform school for rich girls— you know, poor kids go to juvie, rich boys go to military school, and rich girls go to schools for ‘troubled girls.’ Anyway, St. Agnes is considered to be one of the best in the country. According to the testimonials page on their website, it changes lives for the better. The gratitude of St. Agnes’ graduates has resulted in a rather hefty endowment. The school has almost as much money as Tulane. Anyway
, I’m still trying to find out what Amanda Beth did to get her sent there.”
“Especially since she’s Jewish.” I shook my head. “It must have been something really bad if Margery sent her to a Catholic-run school.”
Abby shook her head. “It’s an easy mistake, given the name, but it’s not a Catholic school any more. St. Agnes was originally a home for pregnant girls, but about fifty years ago the church sold it off and it became what it is now— they just kept the name. It’s completely non-denominational. But, like I said, she must have done something pretty awful. I did some other checking— it’s what I said, a reform school. You basically get sent there by a judge to avoid juvie, or if you have a drug and alcohol problem. Girls don’t get sent there because they won’t clean their rooms or listen to their mothers, you know what I mean? Of course, I won’t be able to access any court documents. They seal teenagers’ records.”
“Hmmm.” I tapped my fingernails on the table. It was curious. “Well, at least we know Amanda Beth had some issues when she was a teen. Were you able to find out anything else about her?”
She consulted her notes. “She’s never been married, no tickets, no accidents, nothing like that. After St. Agnes, she went to the University of Massachusetts, which isn’t far from St. Agnes. She was a decent student, no dean’s list or anything like that. She majored in American History, and seemed to pretty much stay out of trouble the whole time she was there. She lived in the dorms as a freshman, and shared an apartment the next three years with an English girl named Jane Meakins— I’m trying to trace her now, see what she has to say about Amanda Beth.” She scowled. “I’m just going to shorten that to A.B., if you don’t mind. I hate women who use two first names, you know?” She blew out a raspberry. “Anyway, she came back to New Orleans after she graduated, but there’s no work history. She has her mother’s address listed as her home address.” She made a face. “I can’t imagine living with my mother, but maybe rich people are different. She does some volunteer work, mostly fund-raising. I couldn’t find any record of any engagement announcements or anything, which is weird, don’t you think? You’d think she’d have been engaged at least once. It’s not like she’s unattractive— I found some pictures from the social pages in the paper. It’s remarkable what a low profile she keeps.”
“I’m sure she’s been involved with men. She’s pretty and she’s rich,” I replied idly. Something here was off; I could feel it in my bones.
Abby whistled. “I do have a line on someone who was at Newman when she was, though. I’ve got a call into her— and as soon as I hear back, I’ll let you know.” She put her notebook back into her bag. “I have a hunch I’m going to follow when I get back to the house.”
“Oh? What kind of hunch?”
She gave me a thin smile. “I may not be able to find anything through juvenile court, but I’m betting if whatever it was she did that was so bad her mother shipped her off to St. Agnes, it made the papers. Just not with her name. I’m going to look for stuff that year with girls her age.”
“Genius.” I high-fived her.
The waitress put our plates down in front of us, and I asked for another martini. I stifled a yawn. I was crashing hard from the adrenaline rush. Maybe the second martini was a mistake, but hell, I’d almost been killed! Besides, I wasn’t going anywhere else for the rest of the day. It might not be a bad idea just to go to bed when I got home— I could certainly use the rest after the weekend I was having. “You didn’t find anything linking her to the Barrons, did you?” I asked.
I don’t know where the thought came from— my mind just works that way sometimes. The weird loose ends always seemed to lead to either Billy Barron or Amanda Beth. It stood to reason they might be connected in some way.
“Well, I didn’t find anything but I also wasn’t looking for anything. I can check on it, if you want me to.” She frowned. “I did some extraneous checking up on your Grande Dames.” She pulled out a file folder and slid it across the table to me. “No charge for this, like I said. I was bored and curious. I mean, if someone is killing the Grande Dames of New Orleans… it never hurts to have extra information. Anyway, nothing in there seemed to lead anywhere, at least for me… but maybe it’ll mean something to you.”
“Thanks.” I slid the file into my purse and dug into my General Tso’s chicken.
After we finished and I’d paid the bill, Abby insisted on walking me home “just to be on the safe side.” She promptly spoiled the lovely moment by adding, “I mean, the way you drive there’s bound to be convoys of cars wanting to run you down.”
Even so, I was a little grateful, since I hadn’t really wanted to walk home alone. Every time I heard a car behind me my heart rate shot up until it had gone safely past. Abby talked all the way, telling me some story about one of the girls she knew from the Catbox Club who’d hired her to get the dirt on her cheating husband, who was sleeping with one of her best friends while she was dancing to make the mortgage payment.
Once we reached my gate, I smiled. “Thanks for walking me home. I kind of feel silly, but—”
She shook her head. “Better safe than sorry. It wasn’t an ordeal or anything.” She gave me a hug. “I’ll call you as soon as I’m finished digging into A. B. and Billy. You be careful, okay?”
“Thanks.” I closed the gate behind me, waved goodbye, and walked back to my apartment.
Once inside, I sat down at my computer and checked my email— nothing that couldn’t keep until the next day. I was about to go lie down when I remembered the file folder Abby had given me. I opened my purse and took it out. My head was starting to ache a bit— I wasn’t sure if it was the vodka or the lump. I rubbed my eyes, and started reading.
I’ve always joked about New Orleans being a small town— which it really is. Shows like Grande Dames usually cast women who at least knew each other slightly if they weren’t actually friends off-camera. The problem with New Orleans, though, is that there really wasn’t any way they could have cast women whose lives hadn’t intersected many times over— and the producers couldn’t have known about long-standing feuds when interviewing prospective cast members if the women themselves didn’t bring it up. And would they, if it meant they might not make it onto the show? I certainly would have, but I didn’t have the narcissism requisite to wanting to be on a reality television show.
But this show’s cast? How strange was it they had cast Rebecca Barron, who was fighting with her stepsons over control of her company, and two women who were reportedly sleeping with one of those very stepsons. And Margery, who herself was having her own legal issues with one of the women sleeping with the stepson.
No wonder my head ached.
I’d spoken to every single one of the women— the ones still alive, at any rate— except for Megan Dreher. What was it Abe had said about her? Oh yes— she’d interviewed well but seemed to freeze up on camera, and he was considering replacing her for the next season.
What a miserable little troll he was! I’d always thought he was smarmy on his little talk show that aired after each episode, but I’d had no idea just how bad he really was.
I put him out of my mind as I flipped through the pages until I got to what Abby had dug up on Megan Dreher.
Megan’s husband had a really bad reputation around town. A real estate developer and building contractor before Katrina, he had been sued a ridiculous number of times but always either managed to settle or win the case somehow. After Katrina, his reputation got even worse. He’d been one of the contractors for Poydras Tower— a lawsuit ensued. He’d built some houses in the lower Ninth ward that failed inspections, and another contractor had been brought in to fix the problems. Yes, Sam Dreher was bad news.
But his wife Megan— she was another story entirely.
As I read about her, I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why she married a crook (well, an alleged crook) like Sam Dreher. She had been raised very middle class in New Orleans, gone to public schools, and after
getting her degree in English from LSU, she worked as a teacher in the New Orleans public school system until she got married. That was it. I looked through the rest of the file and while there were pages and pages about the other Grande Dames, there were just a few short paragraphs about Megan. I got my recorder out, and fast-forwarded through my interview with Abe until I got to the part about how he’d found his cast.
Abe said, I don’t remember if Fidelis or Amanda Beth found Megan Dreher. Megan didn’t work out as well as we would have liked. She of course agreed to do the show, but once we started filming she really didn’t open up much on camera. Unless she was drinking… and unfortunately we couldn’t have her drinking 24/7.
I flipped back through to the dossier on Fidelis. I scanned through it— but there was nothing there connecting Fidelis to Megan. That was strange, to say the least, but then again, if someone compiled a dossier on me based on what they could find in databases, there might not be anything linking me to Chanse, for example. I thought back to Friday evening, when Megan had come up onstage after Abe Golden called out her name, and I really couldn’t remember much about her. She’d seemed slight of build, and maybe had worn a blue dress? She hadn’t had much screen time during the episode, either.
But one thing Abby had managed to dig up on her was a home address, and it was actually in my neighborhood— the Drehers lived on Camp Place.
That figured. Camp Place was one of those New Orleans peculiarities, like how Magazine Street turned from a one-way street into a two-way street heading Uptown at St. Andrew Street. Camp Place was a block-long street that ran alongside Camp Street for one block between Race and Orange Streets. It was separated from Camp Street by a neutral ground, and the expensive homes that lined the short street were incredibly expensive. Incredibly expensive cars were always parked there.