Royal Street Reveillon

by Greg Herren

  “We think the Grande Dames are excessive narcissists,” she told me once, “but almost everyone is a narcissist to some degree. They just haven’t gotten the chance to show it yet.”

  I heard the back door open, so I told her to call me if anything new turned up. I hung up and ran around the end of the couch hopefully…but it was Frank, not Taylor.

  Taylor doesn’t have his keys, he’d have to ring the buzzer.

  Frank hung up his coat and rubbed his hands together. “No sign of him anywhere. I’m really worried, Scotty.”

  I put my arms around him and hugged him as tightly as I could. It took him a moment or two, but his arms eventually went around me and tightened. “He’ll turn up, Frank, he’ll be okay.”

  “I’m wondering if I—if I should call his mother.”

  I let go and stepped back away from him, not believing what I’d just heard. “What?”

  He held up his big hands, reddened from cold. “I know, I know, but she is his mother…and she has a right to know what’s going on with him.”

  “They gave up their right to know anything about Taylor when they threw him out two years ago.” I could feel the tears rising in my eyes and wiped them away. “They threw him out like garbage.”

  “The news is going to break that Taylor was the guy with Eric Brewer the night of the murder.” Frank had the decency not to look me in the eye. “Better to give them a heads-up, don’t you think? Or would you rather them coming swooping down to New Orleans and get in our way when we don’t even know where he is?”

  I stared at him for a few moments more. “Fine.” I grabbed my coat. “Go ahead and call your sister. You’re probably right.”

  “Where are you going?” Frank called after me as I headed down the hallway.

  “I’m going to Mom’s for a little while.”

  “I’ll come with you—”

  “Call your sister,” I interrupted him as I opened the back door. “And get it over with. I kind of want to be by myself for a few minutes anyway.”

  I closed the door harder than I should have—he probably thought I was angrier than I actually was—and headed down the back steps. When I reached the bottom, I took a deep breath and sat down on the cold wood. The sky was gray, and the air felt damp—it was going to rain again; did I really want to get caught in the cold rain?

  But I could hardly go back upstairs and get an umbrella.

  It was small of me, I know, but I wanted Frank to feel bad for calling his sister.

  “You’re such a child,” I said, getting up and walking to the shed, to cut through to the parking lot. “You’re more mature than this, Milton Scott Bradley. Making Frank feel bad for doing the right thing just because you don’t want him to do it is hardly the adult thing, now is it?”

  I was out on Barracks Street, almost to the corner at Chartres when it hit me.

  Paige had said Megan, Fidelis, and Billy had all gone to Newman together. Billy had said the same.

  Was that their only connection, pre-show?

  I started walking faster.

  I could use Mom and Dad’s computer.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ace of Pentacles, Reversed

  Great plans may come to naught

  It’s very hard to be a private eye when the case is personal.

  And it’s not like we’re conventional private eyes in the first place. Me with my weird psychic gift, Frank and his past as an FBI agent, Colin…well, like I said, there’s nothing conventional about any of us. Keeping a professional distance is difficult when someone you love is involved—and that’s how mistakes are made, clues overlooked, important things not recognized for what they are—which is why cops aren’t allowed to get involved with cases involving people they know.

  As I walked, I put aside my fears about Taylor and thought about the case.

  Billy, Fidelis, Megan, and Margery’s daughter Amanda had all gone to Newman together. They’d had a prior history before being cast in the show. It wasn’t unusual—according to things I’d read, the producers would find a woman to be the cast anchor and then use her to recruit other women to the show. So the women usually had some kind of connection before they started filming. And as the show ran, the women would compete to find their own friends to replace the Dames who either quit or were fired.

  New Orleans was a small town, so it only stood to reason that the cast would be connected to each other beforehand.

  So, who had been the cast anchor for New Orleans?

  My phone started vibrating in my pocket. I pulled it out and saw Brandon’s number lit up on the screen.

  I ducked into a doorway and answered. “Brandon! Thanks for calling me back!”

  “I didn’t think you’d call,” his voice purred in my ear. “But I’m glad you did.”

  I bit my lower lip. “How are you doing? Things must be really crazy for you since…” I let my voice trail off.

  “Oh, God, you have no idea.” He went into a long diatribe about the network, and the future of the show, and they had asked him to step in for Eric temporarily, and there was just so much going on, and trying to put out fires and save the show and—

  When he paused to breathe, I said, “I thought you were going out clubbing with Taylor and Eric Friday night?”

  He took so long to answer I wondered if he’d hung up. When he did, his tone was cool. “Yes, I did go with them to a couple of places. But once we got to the Brass Rail—well, I know I’d told you I’d watch out for your nephew, but that just wasn’t my kind of place, so I left.” Another pause. “I suppose you blame me. I wouldn’t have left had I know what was going to happen.”

  “I don’t blame you, Brandon. I was just curious, is all.”

  “Yes…well, I have another call. Let’s have a drink or coffee sometime soon?” He hung up before I could answer.

  I slid my phone back into my pocket and started walking again.

  Nice job, Scotty. He probably won’t take your next call.

  I smiled. I could, of course, text him to meet me for a drink.

  He was definitely interested—I’d just have to be sneakier about pumping him for information.

  I shivered as another cold blast of wind came from the direction of the river.

  So, who had been the anchor for the New Orleans cast?

  It had to have been either Fidelis or Megan. But why cast Margery instead of her daughter, who was someone they’d gone to high school with? But that was the key; those three were the seed they’d planted to grow the show from. Rebecca Barron was connected through them through Billy, but even so…why would they cast Rebecca?

  Maybe Rebecca was right. Maybe she’d been recruited as an underhanded way to hand Billy some ammunition to win his lawsuit.

  And how were Serena and Chloe connected to the others?

  I tried to remember everything Serena had said about getting cast on the show. For someone who was very open to talking about anything from the size of her breasts to the shortcomings of men she’d slept with, she’d been kind of cagey about how she’d wound up on the show. Maybe she was connected to one of the other women through charity work or something. That was how she’d met my sister.

  I made a mental note to follow up on the casting and to see if there were other connections beside Newman High.

  I started walking. Lord, it was cold. I could see my breath as I walked. According to the weather app on my phone, the hard freeze alert was still in place for the south shore of the lake until Tuesday afternoon. I tried to focus on enjoying the Christmas decorations on the houses as I walked up Royal Street, pushing everything else out of my mind. Taylor would turn up, we’d find out who killed Eric and Chloe, and the Colin situation would turn out fine. It always had in the past, right, so there was no reason to think this would be any different. He’d have to keep us in the dark, like always, and so I’d never know why that Russian had wound up in our apartment dead.

  The important thing to do was stay calm and think clearly.


  And consider every possibility, no matter how outrageous it might seem.

  I tried to remember any time I’d seen Taylor lose his temper. It didn’t happen often—unlike his uncle Frank, Taylor was pretty even-keeled. He wasn’t even too angry with his parents for throwing him out.

  I couldn’t imagine any scenario where Taylor would take a baseball bat and swing at someone’s head.

  And from the position of the body, whoever had killed Eric had swung at him from behind.

  Taylor might kill someone if he was defending himself, but I couldn’t see any way clear to where Taylor—drugged or not—would hit someone from behind.

  You don’t know that. You don’t know what Taylor is capable of.

  I pushed that nagging little voice out of my head.

  I hate that voice.

  It started raining again when I was still about a block or so from reaching Mom and Dad’s. The temperature was still falling, and my face felt frozen. I started darting from balcony to balcony, trying to keep dry. The drops were big and wet and stung a little on bare skin. The sun had vanished, and it seemed dark as night—which made the twinkling of Christmas lights in store windows brighter and more festive. I ran across Dumaine Street, managing to avoid being hit by a speeding yellow cab who also had the nerve to honk at me, even though he’d run a stop sign, and by the time my trembling gloved fingers were fitting my key into Mom and Dad’s back gate, water was running off my trench coat and stocking cap. Cold water was also dripping from my coat collar onto my neck.

  I ran up the back stairs, letting the gate slam shut behind me, and reached the back door.

  At least the gate blocked the wind, even if it didn’t block the rain.

  I took the steps two at a time, hoping against hope that Taylor would be here. It wouldn’t explain why he left without his phone or his keys, but…

  Hope springs eternal.

  I was a little out of breath when I reached the landing, but there was an overhang that protected me from the rain. I banged with my first on the kitchen door to let them know I was coming in before unlocking it—Mom and Dad can be a little jumpy if you just let yourself into their apartment without warning.

  They may be hippies, but they also take full advantage of their Second Amendment rights.

  And safe is always better than sorry.

  Mom and Dad are late risers, usually not getting out of bed before noon. They’re nocturnal by choice—they love staying up all night drinking wine and smoking pot and talking about politics and the things that were wrong in the world, and what they might be able to do to correct those wrongs. I remember many a night growing up, falling asleep in my bed to the murmur of their voices in the living room. The hardest part of moving out of their home was getting used to falling asleep to silence.

  When I opened the door, warm air escaping the apartment washed over me and my skin started tingling from the temperature change. I stepped inside and pulled the door shut. There was a small foyer—Mom used to call it a mud room when we were kids, even though we were rarely muddy when we came home. But there were hooks on the wall for coats, and mats for wiping off your shoes. I slipped my coat and hat off and hung them up before stepping into the kitchen.

  Mom was standing at the stove adding wine to whatever she was sautéing on the stove in her big black cast iron skillet. Whatever it was, it smelled amazing.

  “Scotty!” Mom smiled, looking up from the stove. “A pleasant surprise! Are you by yourself?”

  My heart sank. “Just me. Taylor’s not here, by any chance?”

  “No.” She picked up the joint burning in the black-and-gold Saints ashtray on the counter next to the range. She took a hit as she reached up to give me a big hug. Mom is a little shorter than I am. Physically, she’s a bit on the tiny side. I don’t think she’s ever weighed more than 110 pounds, even when she was pregnant.

  She seems much bigger than she is because her personality is so huge.

  She touched my cheeks. “Oh, you’re freezing, you poor thing.” She pressed the joint into my mouth as she stepped away from me. “Take a couple of hits and have a seat. You want me to make you some tea? It’ll warm you right up.”

  I obliged, taking a small hit before handing the joint back to her. “Some tea would be great.” I sat down on one of the barstools in front of the other counter top.

  She filled the kettle with water, reaching with her other hand into the cabinet above the sink. She grabbed the metal container she kept her tea bags in and took off the top, frowning at the contents. “Oh, dear, I need to restock, I’m almost out of everything. Is English breakfast okay? I think that’s all I have. But I can run downstairs if you want something else?”

  “English breakfast is fine. Lemon and honey, if you have it.”

  She laughed. “Have you ever known me to not have either?” She turned on another burner, blue flames making a ring beneath the black iron top. She placed the kettle over the flames, opened the tea bag, and placed it in a mug. In one fluid motion she retrieved a slice of lemon from the refrigerator. The little plastic bear containing organic local honey was sitting on the counter near me. “Are you hungry? I’m making risotto.”

  My stomach still felt uncomfortably full from my lunch at Five Guys. That seemed like it had been weeks ago. “No, I’m not hungry. I had lunch a little while ago, but thanks. It smells terrific.” I took another small hit from the joint and put it back in the ashtray. My brain and body were already starting to relax from the weed, tension and stress drifting away in a cloud of smoke.

  “Go sit in the living room with your father and get comfortable.” Her smile started to fade as she looked at my face. “Something’s wrong. What’s wrong, honey?”

  “It can wait,” I replied, slipping out of the kitchen and into the living room.

  Dad was watching a Marvel superhero movie on the big screen television—I couldn’t tell which one, but the lead actor was a stunningly beautiful blond man whose body was the stuff of erotic fantasy—and wore a Saints hooded sweatshirt and matching sweatpants. A wisp of smoke was rising out of the bowl of the golden-colored dragon-shaped bong on the coffee table. “Hey, son,” he said, blowing smoke out through his nostrils. “Have a seat. I’m watching a special effects movie.”

  I couldn’t help but smile in spite of everything. Just being around my parents always makes me feel better. They had good energy. My dad loved what he called special effects movies, watching them all the time—but never knew what their names were, who the stars were, or what the movie was about if he was asked later. He just enjoyed the visuals—which probably had something to do with him being such a huge stoner. Mom usually could name the movies and the casts, although she despised the celebrity culture the American entertainment industry fostered.

  Don’t ever get her started on the E! Network. “Making people famous for nothing besides being famous,” she would sniff angrily. “Dumbing the whole country down, making women feel like they have to have their faces reshaped and remolded, implants here, shave this bone down there…and for what? The almighty dollar? Thanks for setting women back a thousand years.”

  It probably goes without saying that she hate-watched Grande Dames.

  “Everything okay, son?” Dad asked.

  I’ve never had much of a poker face, especially around my parents. I’ve never been able to lie to them, primarily because I’ve never really needed to—they weren’t those parents. They always trusted us to use our best judgment, and we weren’t ever punished for making bad decisions. They believed that experience was the best teacher, and we needed to make our own mistakes so we could learn and grow from them. We were also what they call now free-range kids, and we grew up in the French Quarter. Sure, when we did something wrong, we didn’t get away scot-free—but they didn’t believe in grounding and they certainly didn’t believe in hitting. Usually, they’d just sit us down and we would have a long discussion about why what we did was wrong, how it affected other people, and
as long as we could figure out what lesson we’d learned from making the mistake, we wouldn’t have to clean the tobacco shop or scrub the kitchen floor or any of the other chores used for punishment.

  Doing domestic work was what my parents considered a win-win punishment. We hated doing it and an odious chore got checked off the list—which made the overall effect a positive one.

  Mom and Dad were all about positive experiences.

  Mom and Dad had also taught us, from earliest childhood, to think for ourselves and to use logic in making arguments. They didn’t believe in shielding us from anything, either.

  And since we grew up in the Quarter, we were pretty jaded by the time we were teenagers.

  “I was kind of hoping Taylor would be here,” I said. “He hasn’t been by, has he?”

  Mom walked into the living room, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “No, not today. You don’t know where he is? Did you try calling him?”

  “He left the house without his phone—”

  Mom turned white and sat down, hard, on the arm of the sofa. “He doesn’t go anywhere without that phone. Have you called the police?”

  “It’s probably a bit early to be worried, but yeah. He wasn’t there when we got home from interviewing a witness on the West Bank,” I replied. Mom and Dad wouldn’t ask questions about the case—they’d want to know everything but respected confidentiality. “He left his keys and his phone behind. I thought I’d check here, you know, just in case.”

  “What did the cops say?”

  “Frank and I talked to Blaine and Venus,” I said, “but it’s too soon for them to be able to do anything about it. I suppose it’s not too much to hope that he might have gone somewhere without his phone, is it?”

  “Well, I’d like to believe that,” Dad said, “but that kid suffers from separation anxiety if he’s away from that phone for too long.” He shook his head sadly, and I could almost hear him thinking kids these days. “You don’t think—you don’t think something’s happened to him, do you?”