Royal Street Reveillon

by Greg Herren

  “Troubled girls? That sounds like one of those awful 50s B-movies.”

  He 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. Dymphna is considered one of the best in the country. According to the testimonials page on their website, St. Dymphna changes lives for the better. The gratitude of St. Dymphna graduates has resulted in a rather hefty endowment. The school has almost as much money as Tulane. But still—it must have been a big change from Newman.”

  “She ran down Deborah Holt in cold blood—she’s lucky she wasn’t sent to prison.” I shook my head. “But rich people have been buying their kids out of trouble in New Orleans for centuries. I can’t believe Margery sent her to a Catholic-run school. I mean, they’re Jewish.”

  Frank shook his head. “It’s an easy mistake, given the name, but it’s not a Catholic school anymore. St. Dymphna 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 nondenominational. But I can’t find any court records, even sealed ones. 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? But her record has been scrubbed clean. I mean, her record would have been sealed because she was a minor but—” He shrugged. “And she’s never been married, no tickets, no accidents, nothing like that. After St. Dymphna, she went to the University of Massachusetts, which isn’t far from St. Dymphna. She was a decent student, no dean’s list or anything like that. She majored in American history, seemed to pretty much stay out of trouble the whole time she was there. She lived in the dorms as a freshman, shared an apartment the next three years with a girl named Erin Fleming, who seems to have vanished—I’m trying to trace her now, see what she has to say about Amanda.” He scowled. “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 does some volunteer work, mostly fundraising. 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. Maybe it was time to talk to Billy again.

  The weird loose ends always seemed to lead to either Billy Barron or Amanda.

  “I also did some extraneous checking up on the Grande Dames.”

  Shows like Grande Dames usually cast women who 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.

  No wonder my head ached.

  And now two women were dead. And so was Eric Brewer, the man responsible for mixing up the ingredients into this toxic gumbo.

  What a miserable little troll he was, I thought as Frank pulled up a document focusing on Megan Dreher. I’d always thought Eric was smarmy on his little talk show that aired after each episode, but I’d had no idea just how bad he really was.

  Megan’s husband had a bad reputation around town. A real estate developer and building contractor before Katrina, he’d been sued so many times you’d think he’d have trouble staying in business or finding financing. He always managed to settle before going to trial. After Katrina, his reputation got even worse. He’d been one of the contractors for Poydras Tower—which had resulted in yet another settlement of a lawsuit. 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 Megan was another story entirely.

  As I read the research Frank had done on 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 upper middle class in New Orleans, gone to Newman, 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; she was squeaky clean other than marrying a con man. 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.

  “She was with Paige at Café Envie,” I said, rubbing Frank’s back. There were some serious knots between his shoulder blades. I started kneading them with my fingers.

  “What was she doing there?” Frank moaned a little and leaned back into my back rub. “That feels so good, please don’t stop.”

  “She told me she was there when Amanda ran over Deborah Holt—Margery bought them all off,” I replied, digging my fingertips into a particularly nasty knot. “You know, it all comes back to Amanda Lautenschlaeger.” I explained to him about all the lines drawing outward from Amanda Lautenschlaeger. “Her mother, two of her friends from high school, and Billy Barron’s stepmother. They even tried to recruit Billy’s ex-wife for the show. So Amanda is at the center of whatever it is that’s going on here.”

  “Serena doesn’t have a connection to her,” Frank pointed out, moaning as the knot finally gave way to my digging fingers.

  “That we know about,” I replied. “Megan said she was leaving town—she’s afraid of Amanda. Maybe we can catch her before she leaves and talk to her some more?”

  “I don’t know if I’m comfortable leaving Taylor here alone.”

  It was a good point. “Maybe we could get Mom to come over?”

  Frank stood up and stretched. “I’ll call her.”

  Frank had dug up Megan’s home address, and it was in the lower Garden District—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 large homes that lined the short street were incredibly expensive.

  Mom and Dad both came over to stay with Taylor, and Mom was carrying a paper bag from Whole Foods. “I’ll make you boys dinner,” she said with a big smile as she started taking things out of the bag and placing them on the kitchen counter.

  It would probably be some tofu atrocity, but you really can’t say no to Mom.

  The temperature had dropped even more. It had stopped raining, but the air was so wet and cold and heavy, this was probably just a break. I shivered as Frank turned off Melpomene onto Coliseum Street. Coliseum Square, usually filled with people and their dogs, was deserted. The fountain was going, and the live oaks were rustling in the wind. Megan’s address was on Race Street, which bordered the park on its uptown side.

  It was amazing how much Coliseum Square had changed over the years—the entire neighborhood, for that matter. When I was a kid, the neighborhood was sketchy. I could remember driving through here when the houses all looked derelict and blighted. Now they had all been renovated and the park area looked genteel.

  We were almost to Race Street when I heard sirens approaching. A patrol car came screaming up Race from the direction of the river, and another shot past us on Coliseum. They both turned onto Camp Place.

  “This do
esn’t bode well,” Frank said, pulling over and parking in front of a big house on the corner at Race and Coliseum. We both headed down the sidewalk quickly, without running, to the corner at Camp Place. Both patrol cars had pulled up in front of a coral Greek Revival house. Officers with weapons drawn were heading up the walk to the front door, while two others were going around the house to the back. We crossed Camp Place to the neutral ground and looked at the house number.

  It was the Dreher house.

  “Scotty? Frank?”

  I turned to see Blaine frowning at us. He was wearing a pair of jeans and an LSU sweatshirt. He had his shoulder holster strapped on, the butt of his revolver clearly showing. He had both hands on his hips as he glanced over to the patrol cars before looking back at me, his thick eyebrows knit together.

  “What are you doing?”

  “We were actually coming over here when the police cars showed up,” I replied. “That’s the Dreher house, isn’t it?”

  He licked his lower lip. “Yeah.”

  “Is it Megan Dreher?”

  He didn’t answer for a moment. Finally, he said, “Sam Dreher called 9-1-1.” He nodded. “It’s Megan. He found her in the backyard.” He shook his head. “At this rate, we’re going to have to give the rest of the goddamned Grande Dames twenty-four seven police protection.”

  The crime lab van came around the corner. As he walked over to where it parked, Blaine said over his shoulder, “You guys get out of here, and be careful.”

  I watched as he talked with the crime scene techs before walking into the house with them. I almost suggesting waiting—Venus was bound to show up at some point, but—no, better to just head back home.

  Frank scowled. “And now a third Grande Dame is dead.” He sighed. “Come on, let’s head over to Serena’s, see what she has to say.”

  We started walking back to the car, lost in thought.

  Maybe I was going about this whole thing the wrong way. Maybe it had nothing to do with the show, and everything to do with their private lives. Fidelis Vandiver had an ugly divorce and custody battle with her ex-husband—but that was years ago. What was the standard rule of thumb when someone was killed? It’s almost always someone close to the victim, a spouse or a relative or a lover. Billy Barron admitted he was having an affair with both Fidelis and Chloe and now they were both dead—and now Megan Dreher probably was, too. Was she having an affair with Billy Barron? Or was this about her knowing about Deborah Holt’s murder all those years ago?

  All roads led back to Amanda Lautenschlaeger.

  My phone vibrated in my pocket, and I pulled it out. I didn’t recognize the number. “Hello?”

  “Scotty? Oh, thank God I got you. This is Margery Lautenschlaeger. I’m sorry to ask you this, but do you think you can come over right now? It’s important.”

  “Well, yes, Margery, but what is it?”

  “I’d rather not discuss it over the phone. Please hurry.” She disconnected the call.

  I stared at my phone for a minute, more than a little annoyed. I was getting sick and tired of these stupid Grande Dames. I was working myself up quite a state of irritation by the time we reached the car again when my phone vibrated again. “Yes?”

  “Scotty?” It was a man’s deep voice, one I didn’t recognize. “It’s Billy Barron. I was wondering if it would be possible to have a moment of your time?”

  I put my hand on the door handle. How weird that he’s calling me right after Megan was murdered. “What can I do for you, Billy?” Frank shot me a look as he started the car. I held up a finger as warm air started blowing through the vents.

  “I’ve hired an attorney, but I don’t really have anything to hide.” His voice was calm and soothing. Even over the phone, that charisma was irresistible. “I think someone is trying to frame me for these killings.” He sounded remarkably relaxed, if that was indeed true.

  Murderers could often be charming.

  “It certainly seems like all these murders could be traced back to you.” Frank was looking at me, but I didn’t want to put Billy on speaker, in case he could hear Frank with me and got spooked. “Doesn’t this all have something to do with the death of Deborah Holt back when you were in high school?”

  Silence for a moment. “You are a good detective.” He exhaled into the phone. “And I think you’re right. This has everything to do with Amanda Lautenschlaeger.”

  “You took her to the premiere party, didn’t you?”

  “Look, there hasn’t been anything between me and Amanda since high school,” Billy replied quickly—a little too quickly, in my opinion. “Yes, I’ve—we’ve—we’re still friends.”

  “She killed that girl, didn’t she?” I met Frank’s gray eyes. His brow was furrowed. “In high school? It wasn’t an accident.”

  “No, it wasn’t. Megan and Fidelis and I—we’ve always known.”

  “And Margery—Margery pulled her out of Newman and sent her to St. Dymphna’s.” I closed my eyes and leaned back in my seat. “And she’s pretty much been in and out of hospitals ever since, hasn’t she?”

  “She’s not a bad person, or at least I didn’t think so.” He sighed. “She’s obsessed with me, Scotty.”

  Yes, and I bet your ego just HATED that.

  “She’s got some kind of a chemical imbalance, bipolar, or something like that. When she takes her medications, she’s fine. But when she gets better she doesn’t think she needs to take the meds anymore and…” His voice trailed off. “She wanted me to take her to the premiere party. I didn’t see the harm. But…”

  “What happened that night?”

  “She wanted me to bring her home with me. I already had made arrangements with Fidelis to come by later, after Eric’s after-party, and I’m not interested in her that way anymore, you know? I haven’t been since high school.”

  “She’s killed for you before. You think she’s doing it again?”

  “Someone is setting me up. And no matter what Amanda…no matter what her illness makes her think, she wouldn’t do this to me. She thinks we’re meant to be together, so she wouldn’t try to send me to prison.”

  “But if she can’t have you…”

  “I’m telling you, it’s not Amanda doing this. This isn’t her style.”

  “But you were sleeping with both Chloe and Fidelis, and she’s killed a rival before.”

  “I would believe that if it wasn’t being set up to make it look like I killed them.” He took a deep breath. “Some of my bats are missing.”

  “You said you think you know who’s setting you up?”

  “It’s complicated. I’ll explain it all to you when I see you.”

  “Well—” I looked at my watch. It was getting late. “Not tonight, Billy. I’m on my way somewhere now, and it’s just not possible. How about tomorrow morning?” I motioned to Frank to start driving, He put the car into gear and pulled away from the curb.

  I didn’t look at the Dreher house as we drove past it.

  “Okay, but first thing?”

  “I’ll call when we’re on our way.” I disconnected the call and looked at Frank. “Why would he want to talk to us when he has a lawyer?”

  Frank shook his head as he turned right on Magazine to head uptown. “None of this makes sense to me, to tell you the truth.”

  I resisted the urge to pound my head on the dashboard.

  Billy and his brother were suing Rebecca for control of their father’s company.

  Amanda was the one who’d gotten Chloe and Fidelis and her mother and Megan on the show in the first place.

  There was something there, but I couldn’t get it all to come together in my head.

  I was missing something, and it was driving me insane.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The Fool

  A choice is offered

  I couldn’t help but feel it was staring me right in the face. It was like a having a loose tooth I couldn’t stop worrying with my tongue.

  I just couldn’t f
it the pieces together in a way that made any sense.

  And this is why I hate jigsaw fucking puzzles.

  Feeling like I was letting down Taylor only intensified the sense of utter failure.

  If we ever close this case, I thought as I rested my head against the passenger window of the Jaguar, I’m going to lock myself in the bathroom and cry for a week. Or sleep for a week. Maybe a weekend at a beach somewhere.

  I was so tired my synapses were barely firing. I looked over at Frank, behind the wheel. His leather driving gloves were clenched on the steering wheel, and that muscle in his jaw was jumping again. His eyes were bloodshot and the dark circles under his eyes looked angry. He wasn’t sleeping well. He’d tossed and turned most of last night.

  He didn’t keep waking me up, either. I never fell asleep, other than maybe a few minutes here and there.

  I reached over and put my hand on his right leg. He glanced over at me, smiled, and put his right hand down on top of mine. “I love you,” he said as the light changed and he moved his hand to shift the car into first, “and I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “Hopefully you’ll never have to find out,” I replied, leaving my hand on his leg, feeling the quad muscle fibers move and shift as he accelerated or slowed down Claiborne Avenue in the cold rain. An occasional click against the glass of the windshield reminded me that some of the rain was turning to ice.

  I was teasing, but the Colin question hung over us like a dark cloud.

  Is he okay? Did Bestuzhev’s murder actually go down the way he said, or did he lie? Are we in danger?

  And what if something happened to FRANK?

  I guess some of those questions had always been there in the back of my mind, but I never acknowledged them until now.

  “We do need to decide what to do about Colin,” I said into the silence that had fallen as he turned onto Napoleon Avenue.