by Greg Herren
“There is a lot of money tied up in the show,” Sloane agreed.
Serena saw the look on my face and laughed. “What a bitch you must think I am, Scotty.” Diamonds flashed as she waved her hand. “It’s not like I knew Eric that well, and Chloe…I’m sorry she’s dead, I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, but…anyway, we’re bound to be more entertaining than the other shows—especially Marin County. Those women are such bores.” She rolled her enormous blue eyes. “It’s a wonder anyone watches.”
I bit my lip. Two people were dead, and the show was their biggest concern?
Then again…a certain degree of narcissism was necessary for people to get cast.
“I doubt the network will just cancel the show.” Sloane demurred. “They’d take a pretty big loss if they did. And—awful as this sounds—the murders will push up the ratings.”
She was right. It did sound awful.
But she was probably right, which was even more awful.
People would watch.
“How is Taylor doing?” Serena asked, turning back to me. “How’s the poor dear holding up? I would never believe that darling boy could ever kill Eric. Or anyone, for that matter.”
“The two murders have to be related, don’t you think?” Sloane chimed in. “And from what I understand, there’s no way he could have killed Chloe.”
“I suppose hoping Fidelis is the killer would be too much to ask for.” Serena sighed, ringing a bell. “I hope you don’t mind, but it’s just muffins and fruit salad.”
“Not at all.” I sipped my mimosa. It was delicious. “Taylor is doing as well as can be expected. He’s shaken up, obviously.”
“Did Eric really drug him?” Serena was about to add something, but the maid showed up with a tray full of food. Just muffins apparently meant two dozen freshly made, steaming hot muffins of various kinds—blueberry, cranberry, corn, and chocolate. And the fruit salad was an enormous Baccarat crystal bowl filled with melon balls, watermelon chunks, strawberries, blueberries, blackberries, and sliced kiwi. As soon as the drawing room doors closed behind the maid, she went on, “But he didn’t sexually assault him?” She grabbed a small plate and grabbed two muffins, smeared butter on them, and spooned fruit salad into a bowl. “Help yourselves, both of you.”
“I don’t suppose we’ll ever know for sure what happened.” I waited for Sloane to help herself. She neatly sliced a corn muffin in half and put it on her plate. She added a small spoonful of fruit to it. “The doctors didn’t think so, but,” my voice started to crack, “we’re taking all the necessary precautions. You know. Just in case.”
“Poor darling. If there’s anything we can do…” Serena gestured dramatically with the muffin she was holding.
“Whoever killed Eric did us a favor,” I replied. “Sexual assault cases are hard enough for women to pursue…and seriously, if he were still alive…” I shook my head. “I could kill him myself. So could my mother, and Frank. I’ve heard he had a history of this?” I looked at Sloane. As someone who’d worked for him, she’d be more likely to know anything.
“I’ve heard…stories about Eric before.” Sloane nibbled at the half muffin, took another sip from her glass. “I didn’t want to believe them, of course, but…there’s so much of this in the industry, you know? You never know what’s true and what’s not.”
“A gay man with power is still a man with power,” Serena replied. “Why wouldn’t he take advantage of his position to get hot young men to have sex with him? Had you heard about him drugging people?”
“If we could establish a pattern of behavior, that would be great.” I bit into my blueberry muffin. “I don’t think the police seriously consider Taylor as a suspect—or at least they won’t once the toxicology report comes back—but it can’t hurt. Frank and I are trying to see what we can find out. Just in case.”
“I hadn’t heard about him drugging people, no,” Sloane replied. “Just the casting couch thing. I worked on the Spring Break show before the company moved me to Grande Dames.” Spring Break followed the antics of a group of rich kids spending a week in a gorgeous house in Cancun. It had proved popular, so the same group of kids rented a house together for the summer in South Beach, Summer Rental. “A couple of the guys on that show told me that Eric had, um, you know, made certain demands in order to cast them.”
All the guys on the show were incredibly hot. I have to admit I watched because they spent most of their time shirtless. And for the occasional bare ass shot, which happened more than one might think. “Which ones?”
“Dean and Timothy,” she replied. “I bet if I ask around, I can come up with some more names. Do you want me to?”
She works for the network—it’s not in her best interest to expose wrongdoing by Eric, is it? Maybe she had a grudge against Eric or Diva Network. “Would you mind? Anything will help.” I took another sip of the mimosa. I was already feeling a bit loopy from the alcohol, so I finished my muffin and took another. “And were you serious about Fidelis, Serena?”
Fidelis Vandiver was already a familiar face to longtime New Orleanians before she’d joined the cast of Grande Dames. She’d landed a gig as the weather girl on one of our local news broadcasts right out of LSU. She was tall and pretty with incredible bone structure. She had a penchant for enormous statement necklaces, low-cut tops designed to show off her breasts, and showing off her long lean legs. When she left the news show—the rumor was she’d been sleeping with the station manager, and his wife insisted Fidelis had to go—she managed to get her own fitness program on a rival station. Fitness with Fidelis wasn’t a huge ratings success but did well enough to stay on the air for a ridiculously long time and enabled her to open a chain of health clubs in the New Orleans area, Fid’s Gyms. I never worked for her, but I knew people who did.
What I did know was that she ripped me off.
I’d only met her in passing, at parties. She was always pleasant, and even though it was hard, I always managed to put on a happy face and be nice right back to her. It was kind of irritating, in a way.
She didn’t even have the decency to remember who I was.
She’d stolen a workout program from me.
After I flunked out of Vanderbilt, I worked as a dancer with the Southern Knights booking agency, flying all over the country to dance in underwear or a thong or a Speedo or whatever would make me the most tips at gay bars and circuit parties. I also worked as a personal trainer at Riverview Fitness and taught aerobics classes. I really hated aerobics, but every cent mattered back in those days before my grandfathers relented and let me have access to my trust funds. So, I came up with my own aerobics style class—a mix between floor movement, using the step, and using small hand weights to build muscle while toning at the same time. It was popular, and it worked. I taught five or six of those classes per week.
And then one day, Fidelis Vandiver showed up to take my class. She came in right before we started and dashed out again as soon as we were finished.
The next week, on her show, she premiered a workout program she called “Fidfit,” which was the workout I had come up with.
She also trademarked the name and copyrighted the idea.
And I could no longer teach the class unless Riverview Fitness paid her a fee.
I was furious, but as Storm told me at the time, “There’s really not anything you can do about it. You should have copyrighted it before you taught your first class.”
I thought about reinventing the class with Storm’s help, but finally decided to let it go and just teach regular step aerobics.
It was annoying, though, whenever I’d flip through the channels and see her show, or a commercial for her gyms.
But I believe in the rule of three—whatever you put out in the universe comes back to you threefold—and one day karma was going to kick her right in her toned, tight ass.
“No, nothing other than she’s a bitch,” Serena replied cheerfully. “Rain told me you had an issue with her?”
&nbs
p; “She’s not my favorite person,” I replied carefully. “I suppose I’ll have to watch the show to see why you think she’s a bitch?”
Serena grinned wickedly at me. “Confidentiality agreement,” she replied. “I’m not really allowed to talk about what happened during filming, you know. Although I suppose that doesn’t apply to murder, does it, Sloane?”
Sloane put her plate down. She’d only eaten two bites of her muffin and one melon ball. “I’m not one of the network lawyers. I don’t know.” She pushed her glasses up and rubbed her eyes. “This is such a mess.”
“Besides, it had to be Remy, right? Who else had a reason to want to kill both Eric and Chloe?” Serena said. “I wonder…” She glanced over at me. “I wonder if Eric and Remy were lovers?”
Sloan shook her head. “Eric had a thing for younger guys. Remy was too old for him.”
“What about the other women?” I asked. “Do you think anyone else in the cast might have a grudge against Eric and Chloe?”
Serena frowned. “Margery, I suppose…but Chloe wasn’t suing her.”
“She wasn’t suing anyone,” Sloan interrupted. “It was just a cease-and-desist letter, asking Margery not to say Remy was gay in front of the cameras and asking the network not to air her saying it.”
“I can’t imagine Margery killing anyone,” I replied. I only knew Margery Lautenschlaeger in passing, but everyone in New Orleans knew who she was. She and my grandmother were involved in the same charities, and sometimes I ran into Margery at parties at my grandmother’s or charity events when someone in my family was involved. “She’d hire someone to do it.” She was filthy rich. “Who else did Chloe clash with on the show?”
Sloane mimed zipping her lips and locking them.
“I’ve probably already told you too much about the show as it is,” Serena replied regretfully. She moved to refill my glass again, but I waved her off.
“I’m driving, I can’t have any more.”
“Just call an Uber, and get your car later,” Serena coaxed.
“No, I really can’t. I’m meeting with a lawyer later, so I need to have a clear head. Some other time, though—when all of this is cleared up—I’d love to come over and drink mimosas all afternoon with you.” I checked my watch. “I probably should get going.”
“Oh, damn.” Serena pouted. She rose and gave me one of her intense hugs, burying me in her massive cleavage. “If there’s anything I can do, please don’t hesitate to call me, okay? And Sloane and I will check with the lawyers, see, you know, how binding that confidentiality agreement is…I just don’t want to get sued.”
Or kicked off the show, I thought, hugging her back.
I shut the front door behind me and shivered. It was starting to rain as I ran down the walk and through the front gate. I started the car and checked my phone.
Nothing from Frank.
Maybe that was a good thing.
I sat there with my eyes closed, waiting for the car to start blowing hot air, thinking, letting the champagne cobwebs clear a bit.
Eric had a history of using his casting power to get men he found attractive to sleep with him. That had to be a plus. That information alone was worth the trip over, even if it didn’t show a history of drugging guys and assaulting them. It would, as Storm would say, lay the groundwork for showing Eric was a scumbag. And once the story got out, maybe more guys would come forward, other guys he’d victimized like he’d tried to do to Taylor.
As I put the car into drive, I realized I actually wasn’t very far from the Valence house.
Maybe I was tipsier than I thought, but it couldn’t hurt to stop by and talk to Remy, would it?
I drove the car around the block, trying to remember exactly where the Valence house was. I made a wrong turn and had to double back, but finally pulled up in front of it.
The Valence house was also in the Greek Revival style, a mansion with side porches and balconies hanging off the upper floors. It was a huge place, built in a time when you had to have living space for a passel of children, relatives, and guests. There was also a huge separate building that was now called a “dower house” but had been slave quarters before the Civil War. An enormous live oak stood directly in front of the house, between the sidewalk and the curb, and its roots had upended and cracked not only the sidewalk and the curb but the tall wrought iron fence that ran the length of the property. On the side bordered by Coliseum Street, the house sat right on the sidewalk and went back for what seemed like forever. All the downstairs windows were lit up, as were the gallery lights. I’d never been inside the Valence house.
The Valence family was considered “old money” in New Orleans, and their mansion in the Garden District had been their “home in town” when they still had the indigo plantation in St. John the Baptist Parish. The plantation was long gone, of course, and the big Greek Revival mansion on Third Street had been their primary residence since before the Spanish-American War. I knew the Valences had made money importing coffee and bananas, and I think they’d even found oil on one of their properties somewhere in the early twentieth century. But the Valence family businesses were long gone, and the family had lived for decades off the pile of money their more ambitious ancestors had earned.
I pushed through the gate and walked up to the front porch.
I hope this isn’t a mistake, I thought as I rang the doorbell.
Chapter Ten
Two of Pentacles, Reversed
The seeker is having trouble achieving his goals
As I shivered in the cold waiting for someone to answer the door, I looked off to the right.
The pool, hidden from street view by a line of hedges, was visible from where I was standing. Wisps of steam rose from the water. Crime scene tape stretched from the hedges to a series of deck chairs placed to enclose the pool, reaching back to the hedges from another chair on the far side of the pool. It flapped and fluttered and snapped in the wind. The pool looked grayish-blue, but on the far side, away from the hedges, there was a rusty stain in the water. There was also a dark puddle of water, with a thin coat of ice covering it, on the tile near the stained water.
That must be where Chloe was killed, I thought, the muffins I’d had at Serena’s turning to burning acid in my stomach. What in the hell was she doing in the pool area at that hour of the night? On a cold night like Friday?
It didn’t make sense.
Unless it was a burglar? She’d heard something, and come outside to check?
A woman in the house alone would go outside? No, she’d call the cops—or at least Garden District security.
During the late 1990s, when crime was on the rise in the city and splashed all over the front page of the newspaper every day, the Garden District Association decided that the New Orleans Police Department wasn’t enough to protect them against the criminal element. The Garden District Security District was created to protect the privileged and the wealthy—an officer would, for example, come escort you from your car to the front door of your palatial home if you were one of those who didn’t have off-street parking—and so forth.
If Chloe had heard a noise or a prowler, she would have called security, not gone outside.
She only would have gone outside if she knew her killer.
But why didn’t she invite the killer inside?
I shivered as a sudden blast of cold wind blew rain onto me. I was reaching for the doorbell to ring it again when I heard footsteps approaching over groaning floorboards on the other side of the door. I noted that the porch had been painted probably within the last year, and its floorboards felt solid under my weight, meaning it had been renovated. The shutters on the windows also looked like they’d gotten some fresh paint recently. The newer paint made the paint on the house itself look older and more weather-beaten.
It was also peeling in places.
My guess was they’d had the porch and shutters painted for the show but didn’t have enough money to have the house painted.
&nbs
p; I tried to remember if I’d heard any gossip about the Valences’ financial situation.
I’d assumed Chloe had gone on the show to promote her writing career, but maybe they’d needed the money.
Then again, maybe they’d just run out of time before filming started to have the entire house done. New Orleans contractors never deliver on time—a sad fact of life we’ve all become accustomed to.
The front door opened, and I found myself face-to-face with Remy Valence.
He hadn’t aged well since I’d seen him last, but maybe that was unfair. His wife had just been murdered, which could explain why he was unshaven, looked unkempt, and stank of body odor and stale liquor. He’d put on weight, and his hair had been dyed to hide gray—which I could see at the roots in his disheveled part. He was wearing an old green velvet dressing gown over a dirty white T-shirt and jeans. His slippers were stained and battered looking.
He didn’t seem to recognize me. “Yes?” he asked, and his breath was about forty proof.
I took a step back but kept my smile plastered on my face. “Hello, Remy. I’m Scotty Bradley, do you remember me?”
He blinked a few times before recognition dawned on his face. “Sure,” he slurred, and I realized he was still drinking.
“I heard about Chloe. I’m so sorry.”
His bloodshot eyes filled with water, and he wiped at them angrily. “Yes, well, thank you. I suppose you think I killed her, too?” His voice rose until he was shouting the last few words at me.
“Well, no, of course not.” I took another step back. His breath was truly foul. “Is that what the police think? That’s ridiculous.” I hoped I sounded convincing.
“The New Orleans police aren’t known for their brains.” He ran a hand through his hair and smiled a terrible smile at me. “Corruption, yes, brains, no.”