Royal Street Reveillon

by Greg Herren

  “How are you holding up?”

  “Well as can be expected.” He hiccoughed. “It’s fucking freezing out here. Come inside.” He stood aside and gestured.

  As I walked past him his hand brushed against my ass. God, his wife’s body is barely cold and he’s still a fucking pig.

  He closed the door and walked around me, signaling to follow. For a brief moment I worried he was going to lead me to a bedroom.

  As I followed him along the hallway the cloying, stuffy, stale heat made me start sweating. I took off my hat and gloves, shoving them into my pockets, and undid the coat buttons.

  Even over the stale air coming through the heating vents, the house smelled musty and damp. That generally meant somewhere in the house old wood was rotting. Many of the old houses in New Orleans have that smell, which makes a homeowner’s heart—and bank account—shrink. It means thousands of dollars in renovations, walls and ceilings and floors being ripped out and replaced. And it can’t be put off, else toxic black mold will form where it can’t be seen—a silent but deadly killer. Wet wood also attracts termites, which thrive in our hot damp climate and are a constant threat. Most houses in New Orleans—like the Valence place—were built up off the ground for protection from flooding. But that only protects the house from water damage from below. The constantly shifting ground can crack foundations and walls, and water gets in through the cracks. Between the humidity, the damp, and the daily rain all spring and summer, water damage from above is a greater risk than flooding from below, depending on your neighborhood.

  Hadn’t I heard somewhere that the Valences had more house than money?

  I had a vague memory of someone telling me that all the money from Chloe’s book had gone into house repair, and that the old mansion was crumbling faster than they could throw money they didn’t have at it. I was also certain someone had said the Valences could only afford repairs on the first floor of the house—the part people could see—and had let the upper floors go to ruin. As I walked past a hanging staircase I glanced up, but the lights were out upstairs so I couldn’t get a glimpse of anything.

  But…if Remy and Chloe had picked out the green and gold flocked wallpaper in the hallway, their inability to afford renovating the upper floors was the house’s good luck.

  “Come on into the parlor.” He stepped into a room just off the front hallway. The parlor had French doors that opened out onto the pool. The heavy brocade green and gold curtains were pulled back. Fortunately, the glass was covered in condensation so I couldn’t see the crime scene tape or that hideous stain on the pool water.

  There was an open bottle of Scotch on a table next to a faded old wingback chair, and a glass with melting ice. “Sit.” Remy pointed to another chair and walked over to the doors, pulling the drapes shut. “I’m not at my best, Scotty. You’re looking good, though.” He gave me a crooked grin that turned my stomach.

  He is hitting on me.

  “I’m sorry about your wife,” I replied, slipping off my coat and draping it over an overstuffed wingback chair. “I didn’t know her, but I can’t imagine what you must be going through.”

  “Sit.” He pointed at the chair again as he sat down in the matching chair. “My wife was murdered.” He shook his head and wiped at his eyes again. “Friday night, after that stupid show’s premiere party. If I’d known…I would have stayed in town.”

  “And you might be dead, too.”

  He gave me that leering smile again. It made me feel slimy. “And on that very same night your nephew”—he made air quotes as he said nephew—“was killing that rat bastard Eric Brewer.” He picked up the bottle of Scotch. “I’m going to have to have the pool drained and cleaned,” he said glumly, staring at the melting ice in the empty glass. “That’s going to cost a fortune.”

  Such an inconvenience. I sat down on the other side of the little table. The fabric of the chair felt coarse against my arm. “My nephew didn’t kill Eric Brewer.”

  He made a face and filled his glass without offering me any.

  “The police surely don’t think you had anything to do with Chloe’s—”

  “Of course not,” he snapped. “Well, they did, but I have an alibi.” He narrowed his eyes to slits and took another big drink of the Scotch. “I wasn’t even in New Orleans.”

  “You didn’t go to the party on Friday night?”

  “Why would I go celebrate that—that show?” He glowered at me. “It was a disgrace that Chloe went on that show in the first place. Thank God Mama is dead. She would have never allowed it. Never.”

  If it’s not the first rule of being a detective, talking to a witness when he’s drunk should be in the top five.

  “You didn’t like Chloe being on the show?” I asked.

  “Hell no! The last thing I want is cameras following us around, prying into our lives.” He glowered at me. “I didn’t see anyone in your damned family being on the show, nor any woman who is actually a part of real New Orleans society, on it.”

  “Margery Lautenschlaeger—”

  “That miserable old bitch isn’t society.” He laughed.

  I waited for him to make some anti-Semitic remark, but that was as far as he was willing to go. “I heard you had some problems with her.”

  “The old bitch said I was gay in front of the cameras.” He took another swig of the Scotch and turned his glassy, bloodshot eyes to me. “Can you believe that shit?”

  Maybe he didn’t remember we’d slept together all those years ago, and inwardly I breathed a sigh of relief. “Yeah, that’s terrible. I guess that’s why the cops thought you might have killed Eric Brewer Friday night?”

  “Yeah, they were going to try to hang killing them both on me.” His eyes got watery, and he wiped at them. “Damn it, I still can’t believe she’s dead, that someone killed her. I keep expecting her to walk in the room and say something that doesn’t make sense the way she always did and then laugh at herself, you know? Why would someone kill Chloe? She was amazing, and so sweet and kind and loving…” He choked off his sentence with a sob.

  “Can you think of anyone who would have wanted to hurt Chloe?” I prodded, feeling like an asshole. “I mean, besides the people on the show.”

  “Thash what’s sho weird,” he slurred. “That shtupid fucking show. I told her not to do it, but she thought it would be good for her career. I told her no one would take her seriously as a writer if she was doing a reality television show. I mean, can you see Curtis Sattlefield or Claire Messud doing a reality show? Please.” He shook his head. “She really hated Eric Brewer, though. He was a real dick to her…” His voice trailed off and he stared off into space. “Look, I probably shouldn’t tell you this…”

  “You can trust me,” I replied, feeling like an even bigger asshole.

  “Chloe and I have had an open marriage for a while now.” He tried to straighten himself up but couldn’t. He slurped some more Scotch from the glass, spilling some onto his shirt. I reached over and took the glass from him.

  “I don’t think you should have any more, Remy,” I said. “Let me get you some water.”

  “Ish fine.” He waved his hands. “Yeah, maybe no more booze. Whatever. Anyway. Chloe and me, it was our business and nobody else’s, you know? As long as we were safe, and discreet, we had a deal we could do whatever we wanted as long as we didn’t endanger each other. No babies, no VD…nothing like that.” He tried to focus on me, but his eyes looked a little too bleary for that. “She was seeing someone lately. We never told each other who we were fucking, that was part of the deal, but she was fucking someone. And she was happy, you know? So happy I wondered if maybe she was going to finally say she didn’t want to stay married to me anymore.” He waved his arms sloppily. “I mean, what did she need me for? We hadn’t had sex in years, and we didn’t even sleep in the same bed anymore.”

  “You don’t know who she was having an affair with?”

  “No.” Remy slumped over on the chaise, some drool coming
out of the corner of his mouth. “She never told me. But I know it was someone who had something to do with the show.”

  How had I ever found this man attractive enough to have sex with? Granted, it was a long time ago, but…I’ve always felt you have an obligation to people you sleep with to remain reasonably attractive the rest of your life, so they aren’t mortified when they see you. But to be fair, he was still in decent shape, and despite the redness and slight alcohol bloat to his face, he was still handsome. A few weeks of exercise and eating right would shape him up.

  “Not—Eric Brewer?” Maybe he was bisexual.

  Remy started laughing, until he choked. “Eric Brewer? The only Valence who was fucking Eric Brewer was me.”

  Wait—what?

  “You were sleeping with Eric Brewer?” So much for Eric only being into younger men.

  Remy nodded. “It was only a couple of times. Before filming started. And he swore—he swore to me—nothing about it would ever show up on the show.” His eyes narrowed to slits. “And then the Lautenschlaeger bitch said something on camera.”

  “And you threatened to sue them, right?”

  “How did you—Jesus H. Christ, I always forget what a small fucking town this is.” Remy reached for the bottle, but I got to it before he did it and placed it on the floor on the other side of my chair. He glared at me for a moment, and then sighed. “It was a cease-and-desist letter, but I wasn’t going to sue anybody. Besides, it wasn’t real.”

  “What do you mean, it wasn’t real?”

  “It was for the show.” He threw his hands up in the air. “Chloe was upset Margery said it in front of the camera, sure.” He shook his head. “She was the one who cared, not me. She wanted everyone to think we had this terrific, perfect, normal marriage and she was New Orleans society and that would be ruined if people knew about my men. The cease-and-desist letter was something she dreamed up with Eric.”

  “I don’t understand.” I scratched my head. “It wasn’t real?”

  “Nothing about these shows is real, Scotty, haven’t you noticed?” He took another swig from his glass. “Eric thought it would be good for the ratings. Everything was about the ratings, and what kind of shit-show the gossip rags would make out of it. I didn’t fucking care. Everyone knows I fuck men, okay? Everyone. Chloe liked to think no one knew, but we would have been laughed out of court if we tried any real legal action.” He looked at me. “You could testify I’d had sex with men.”

  Great. He does remember. Perfect.

  But I was also trying to wrap my mind around the cease-and-desist letter not being real. “Did Margery or the others know the legal stuff wasn’t for real?”

  “I doubt it.” He was staring into his glass. “You know, that way they’d be convincing. These aren’t professional actors, Scotty.” He waved his hand. “Eric and his production team set the women up in all kinds of ways and situations, to create drama. None of it’s for real.”

  “So, you said you have an alibi, though, for the murders?”

  His cheeks were wet, and a tear was dangling from the side of his chin. “I found her when I got home. I was at our place in Destin for a few days. She wasn’t around when I got home, and so I came in here for a drink. When I opened the curtains—” He shuddered and started sobbing again.

  My head was starting to hurt. “So, you were out of town?”

  “I had breakfast with my friends in Destin before I drove back Saturday morning. It was when I got home…that I found her,” he said brokenly. “Friday night I had dinner with some other friends, was with them until midnight or so.”

  You still could have driven to New Orleans, killed them both, and then driven back to Destin in time for breakfast, I thought, doing the math in my head. It was pushing it, but it wasn’t impossible.

  And if you’re trying to alibi yourself…the point is to make it seem impossible that you could have done it.

  “And you have no idea who the guy she was involved with was.”

  “I told you, no. We didn’t talk about our…other people.”

  “And you can’t think of any reason anyone else would have for wanting to kill her?” I looked at Remy.

  “I don’t know. Maybe one of those other bitches on that stupid show.” Remy slammed his hand down on the coffee table. “I told her not to do the fucking show!” He buried his face in his hands again. “I told her not to do this show. I begged her, but she really thought it would be a big help to her writing career, and I wanted to be supportive. I thought it was an incredibly stupid idea, like I said a thousand goddamned times.”

  “There wasn’t anyone she had made angry? Is it possible the guy was married?”

  If the guy was married…and it was going to somehow wind up on the show, and the guy didn’t want his wife to know—there was a motive for both murders.

  Killing Eric to stop the show from airing was stupid.

  His death didn’t guarantee the show would be canceled.

  But if the murders were connected, then Taylor was off the hook. He couldn’t have killed Chloe, even if he had killed Eric.

  But if the murders weren’t connected…

  My head was really starting to hurt.

  “Those vulgar, nasty, vicious bitches!” He dropped his hands and his face twisted. “They were all so jealous of Chloe, you know. Especially that Fidelis Vandiver bitch.” He spat the words out. “West Bank trash is all she was. I don’t care who she slept with to get that stupid fitness show, or who her sugar daddies were—the way she always went after Chloe! And me!”

  Okay, he was the second person to bring up Fidelis. I knew from personal experience she wasn’t a good person.

  So, maybe she did bear looking into.

  If you have something to hide, the last thing you should do is go on a reality show, I thought, even if it is mostly scripted in some ways. Things have a way of coming out on camera.

  “You’re a detective, aren’t you?”

  Startled, I looked at him. “What? Yes, yes, I am. I already told you that.”

  “I want you to find who did this to Chloe. I owe her that.”

  “It’s a conflict of interest, Remy. I already have a client.”

  “I’ll double what they’re paying you.”

  I stood up. “I can’t, Remy. I wish I could help you, but I can’t.”

  He somehow managed to get to his own feet and leered at me. “You want me to sleep with you?”

  He lunged toward me, throwing his arms around me but going limp at the same time, so his dead weight dragged me down to the floor with him half on top of me and half off. Repulsed, I shoved him off me, and he rolled over on his back, eyes closed, drool running out of the side of his mouth.

  He’d passed out.

  I got back to my feet, shaking my head.

  I said, “Thanks, I can see myself out.”

  I walked down the dark hallway back to the front door, shutting it behind me with a sigh of relief. I felt like I needed a long, hot shower.

  How had I ever slept with him in the first place? It was a long time ago, but still.

  It was pouring rain now, lightning lighting up the sky with thunder shaking the house almost immediately after. I sat down on one of the iron chairs on the porch. I didn’t have an umbrella, and the rain was coming down so strong and hard that I was going to get soaked just running to the car. I checked my watch. I still had some time before Loren was supposed to show up at the house. I could wait a few minutes before braving the rain and running to the car.

  Chloe had a lover and Remy claimed to not know who it was.

  Remy also claimed to have slept with Eric Brewer.

  He was also drunk. Drunks generally don’t have the wherewithal to lie, so I had no reason to think he wasn’t telling me the truth. I made a mental note to talk to Storm about the cease-and-desist letter. If we could prove it was just manipulation for the show…

  What if Margery had found out that it wasn’t real? That Eric was setting her up for
some drama for the sake of the cameras?

  Wouldn’t that give her a motive for killing Eric? And Chloe, too?

  But I couldn’t see the glamorous liquor heiress killing two people in anger.

  She’s rich enough to pay someone to do it for her, though.

  I pressed my thumbs against my temples. I was getting a bad headache, and the rain was getting worse rather than letting up.

  I was going to have to brave it, much as I didn’t want to.

  Just as I was getting up my nerve, a black Chevy Suburban pulled up to the curb on the other side of the street from the Valence house. I watched Venus and Blaine get out and open umbrellas before dashing across the street.

  “I might have known you’d be here,” Venus said expressionlessly as she climbed the steps to the porch. She closed her umbrella and shook it to dry. Blaine was doing the same.

  “If you’re here to talk to the widower Valence, you’re out of luck,” I replied. “He’s passed out drunk.”

  “He was in pretty bad shape yesterday, but it’s not every day you find your wife’s body floating in the pool,” Blaine replied.

  “I know you can’t talk about the case, but don’t you think the murders—Chloe and Eric—have to be connected in some way?”

  “It’s too early in the investigation to make assumptions,” Venus said. “But I will tell you this: both were killed with a very similar weapon, if not the same one.” She reached out to ring the doorbell. “A baseball bat, to be exact—or something similarly shaped.”

  “A baseball bat?”

  She nodded as she pressed the doorbell.

  Yeah, you’ll be waiting a long time for the lord of the manor to answer.

  I ran through the rain to my car, unlocking it as soon as I reached the bottom of the front steps. I waited for the heater to start blowing hot air, shivering as I noticed that some of the rain was actually sleet. I turned the wipers on and pulled away from the curb, I turned right on Prytania and started driving back downtown.

  The last thing I remember was seeing a car coming up, very quickly, out of the corner of my eye as I entered the intersection at Sixth Street.