by Greg Herren
I reached down to the floor and grabbed my sweatpants, pulling them on while still beneath the warm blankets. Frank grumbled and turned over onto his stomach, but didn’t wake up. I sat up and slid my house shoes on, cursing as I realized there wasn’t a sweatshirt in arm’s reach. I wrapped my arms around myself and managed to make it to the dresser without making a sound. I threw on some sweats while my teeth chattered. I brushed my teeth and swallowed some aspirin before heading into the kitchen to make coffee and toss a bagel into the toaster.
I dialed our office number—we maintained a small office for the detective agency about a block away on Frenchmen Street—and checked the voicemail. No new messages. I grinned. Still no need to leave the house today, I thought as I walked into the big room that served as our dining room and living room.
I could smell the coffee brewing as I sat down to check my e-mail in the little alcove we used as a home office. The aspirin started kicking in, but my stomach was still a little queasy. I didn’t think I’d been that drunk, but wine has a bad habit of sneaking up on you. At some point, I’d completely lost track of how many bottles had been opened. All I knew for sure was my glass had never been empty for long. Come to think of it, I couldn’t remember much of the stumble—er, walk home from Mom and Dad’s. I vaguely remembered Storm and Marguerite showing up—they’d been a little sloppy themselves. There was also a lot of spirited discussion—Storm felt the protest of the PAM rally was a mistake. “Asking for trouble” was how he put it, which of course put Mom into debate mode. Dad and Father Dan joined in while the rest of us listened and gulped down more wine.
My bagel popped up in the toaster as the home page for my e-mail account opened. I started to get up when I caught a headline out of the corner of my eye that stopped me in my tracks.
ANTI-GAY MARRIAGE ADVOCATE SEX SCANDAL!
And right next to the headline was an extremely unflattering photograph of Tara.
I started laughing and dashed into the kitchen with a very light step, my hangover completely forgotten. I quickly poured myself a cup of coffee and smeared cream cheese on the bagel. I took a big bite and managed to not spill the coffee as I hurried back to the computer, sliding into the seat and grinning at Tara’s face. Her hair wasn’t blond in the picture, it was a darker brown, and she was scowling at the camera. She didn’t have on much makeup, and the lighting was incredibly unflattering. Her mouth was open. Her teeth hadn’t been capped yet, either, I smirked, and she probably hadn’t gotten the boob upgrade, either.
Almost immediately, I felt ashamed of my reaction.
Okay, she may be a small-minded mean-spirited homophobe, I reminded myself, but she’s still a human being, and you should never enjoy the pain and humiliation of other human beings. That makes you no better than she is.
I closed my eyes and apologized in a quick prayer.
“Of course, that doesn’t mean I can’t read about it,” I said under my breath. It was news, after all.
How many times had some high-and-mighty person who presumed to sit in judgment on their fellow humans taken such a fall and been exposed as the worst kind of hypocrite? There was the homophobic senator arrested for soliciting a cop for sex in the airport bathroom, the family values senator exposed for going to prostitutes regularly, and that homophobic televangelist who’d snorted crystal meth with male prostitutes before satisfying his lusts.
I clicked on the link and started reading. In spite of my better inclinations, I could feel my grin growing with every sentence.
Like Mom always said, the ones who preach the loudest have the nastiest secrets.
NEW ORLEANS, LA. Tara Bourgeois, the former Miss Louisiana who made headlines all over the country with her on-stage comments against same-sex marriage at the Miss United States pageant, and later claimed she lost her state crown due to a “gay conspiracy” against her, has appeared in at least one, and maybe more, private sex tapes.
A former boyfriend, Joe Billette, released one of the tapes to the press today, and claims there are “plenty more.”
“I think it’s just plain wrong that Tara has set herself up as this person of high moral character, lecturing everyone else about what is and isn’t godly, when the truth is she’s the last person who should be making judgments about other people’s behavior and conduct,” Mr. Billette said in a statement released to the press along with the tape. “She’s portrayed herself in the media regularly over the past year as a good Christian who uses the Bible to make all of her important life decisions. As evidenced by her behavior in this tape, she is the worst kind of hypocrite. I couldn’t allow the release of her book—in which she portrays herself as a ‘warrior for Christ’—to pass without exposing her true character.”
An unidentified source confirms that Billette and Bourgeois dated casually while she was preparing for the Miss United States pageant.
Bourgeois did not return calls requesting for comment.
Since the Miss United States pageant, Bourgeois has made a name for herself as a speaker at conservative events and rallies against same-sex marriage. She signed a six-figure deal to be the spokesperson for Protect American Marriage (PAM), an organization involved in fighting the legalization of same-sex marriage.
Peggy MacGillicudy, executive director of PAM, was also unavailable for comment.
The article then went over more of her history, her book, blah blah blah, and closed with:
Miss Louisiana pageant director Devon Sheppard released the following statement through the pageant attorneys:
“While we certainly harbor no ill will against Tara and wish her nothing but the best in her future endeavors, we are horrified at the contents of these and other tapes, which certainly were a breach of the code of conduct she agreed to when she entered the Miss Louisiana pageant. Our attorneys will be pursuing this matter further.”
At press time, Trinity Press had also not released a statement.
“Hmm,” I said to myself. “If she made those tapes while she was still Miss Louisiana, or even before, she can kiss her lawsuit good-bye.”
I wonder what Papa Bradley thinks of her now, I thought, scrolling through the comments on the piece. While there was a supportive one every now and then, the vast majority mocked her—and some were quite nasty. The delighted grin on my face started to fade as I continued reading the comments.
Where does it say it’s okay to make a sex tape in the Bible? She’s nothing but a hypocritical whore.
Stupid bitch is getting what she deserves.
Maybe she sees herself as a modern day Mary Magdalene? Wait, Mary repented of being a whore…
Finally I got so nauseous over the tone of the comments I closed the page.
Why do people have to be so nasty? I asked myself as I refilled my coffee cup. Isn’t it enough that her true nature has been exposed? Her hypocrisy? She must be so humiliated—and now no one’s going to buy her stupid book. Maybe she is getting what she deserved, but how shitty she must feel this morning.
I sipped my coffee. Mom was going to be absolutely delighted to hear about this—and the PAM rally was now pretty discredited, especially since Tara was the headlining speaker.
But that reminded me of what Enid had said to Frank at Papa Bradley’s. In spite of myself, I couldn’t help but smile. “Poor girl,” I said, mocking her voice. “The gays were picking on her!” I laughed. “I wonder how she’s going to blame the sex tape on the gays?”
I took a deep breath. I wasn’t as angry I’d been, but something had to be done about what Enid had said. Much as I didn’t want to deal with her, I was going to have to.
At the very least she needed to apologize to Frank.
I was jarred out of my thoughts by a knock on the front door. Assuming it was either Millie or Velma, I walked down the hall and opened it.
I certainly wasn’t expecting to see my cousin Jared.
“Jared?” My jaw dropped. “What are you doing here?”
His hair was soaked, and he was holding
an umbrella in his left hand. He was shivering, and as he pushed past me a cold wind blasted through the door. “I need your help,” he said briskly.
“Well, come on in.” I said sarcastically. “There’s coffee in the kitchen.” I walked over to the thermostat and turned on the heat.
He stalked down the hall while I ducked into the bedroom. Frank moaned and shifted in his sleep while I grabbed a towel for Jared. What the hell does he want? I wondered as I tucked the blankets back around Frank’s head. His eyes opened for a moment before shutting again. He rolled over onto his stomach and settled back to sleep. And how did he get in without buzzing?
Jared was sprawled on the couch, his legs spread wide. A cup of steaming coffee was on the table in front of him. He was wearing a pair of khaki trousers and a tight black sweater. He’d tossed his olive trench coat over one of the wingback chairs, where it was dripping onto the floor. I bit my lip, irritated. I tossed him the towel. “Make yourself at home,” I snapped. He’d never set foot in my apartment before. That, I realized, is part of the reason I don’t like him—the way he just automatically assumes everyone else is here to serve him.
He rubbed the towel over his head. “Thanks,” he mumbled. “Nice place you’ve got here.”
“I know,” I said. He tossed the towel to me, and I pointedly used it to mop up the water from his raincoat. I picked the coat up and hung it up on a coat tree, putting the towel underneath it to keep another puddle from forming.
“So, you need my help.” I kept my voice neutral as I took a seat in the dry wingback chair and crossed my legs, adding to myself, and how galling that must be for you.
“Yeah, this is a nice place,” He ignored what I said, looking around appreciatively. “Much nicer than mine. But you gays are good at the decorating thing.”
I felt my face get hot but bit my lip and didn’t answer. I wasn’t about to let him get under my skin.
We weren’t kids anymore.
A ghost of a smile crept over his face. “That was offensive, wasn’t it? I’m sorry.” He shook his head. “I always put my foot in my mouth. I really don’t mean to be offensive, Scotty. I’m sorry.” He gave me an earnest look, like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.
That look had helped him get away with almost anything when we were kids.
I took a deep breath, closing my eyes. “Why are you here, Jared?”
“Look, I want you to know I’m sorry about last night,” he said in a rush. “I wasn’t thinking when I brought Tara to Papa’s. I’m not too bright sometimes, if you haven’t noticed.”
Trust me, I have.
“I mean, I’m not going to lie—I think what you and Frank do in the bedroom is kind of gross, but it’s your business, okay? If that’s what y’all want to do, it’s none of my business and more power to you.”
He’s apologizing, I realized with a start. It’s back-asswards, but he’s apologizing. “Okay.” I sipped my coffee. “Apology accepted.”
“So you guys shouldn’t hold it against Papa and MiMi,” he went on. “They didn’t know I was bringing her—they didn’t know I was seeing her. I told them I was bringing a date, and it never occurred to me you’d get mad.” He rolled his eyes. “Well, how pissed Aunt Cecile would get.”
I couldn’t decide if he was stupid or just insensitive—and which option was actually worse.
“I didn’t know Aunt Cecile had such a mean right hook.” He grinned. “Man, I’m glad she didn’t take a swing at me.”
“Well, if she’d raised you you’d have known,” I replied, unable to stop myself from grinning back.
“I’ve always envied you your mom, you know.”
In spite of myself, I felt a moment of sympathy. The “revolving door of stepmothers,” as Mom called it, couldn’t have been easy for him.
“That’s partly why I’m here.” He stood up and walked over to where I’d hung his coat. He reached into the pocket of his trench coat and put something wrapped in a plastic grocery bag from Rouse’s on my coffee table.
I inhaled. I could tell it was a gun—and the handle was sticking out of the bag. Across the bottom of it I could see the initials CDB carved into it.
CDB.
Cecile Diderot Bradley.
“Where did you get that?” I said sharply. “What are you doing with Mom’s gun?”
“That’s why I need your help, Scotty.” He leaned forward. “I got it out of Tara’s apartment. She’s dead.”
What? I stared at him in disbelief. What is wrong with him? No one could possibly be that stupid, could they? I struggled to hold on to my temper. “Wouldn’t it have made more sense to have started with that information? Christ on the cross, Jared!”
He licked his lips. “I’m sorry, don’t get mad. I’ve never had to deal with this kind of thing before, Scotty—I’m not like you, you know. I don’t know what to do—that’s why I came here.”
It would have been annoying if it weren’t true. “Start at the beginning.” My voice was shaking. I couldn’t take my eyes off Mom’s gun. “And don’t leave anything out.”
“Well, after your mom decked her, obviously Tara didn’t want to stay.” He leaned back on the sofa and closed his eyes. “Once her nose stopped bleeding and she stopped crying, I took her home. She lives in Poydras Tower.”
“Ugh,” I said involuntarily, making a face. Poydras Tower was a condo/apartment high-rise built after Hurricane Katrina in the Central Business District, a few blocks down from the Superdome. It was hideously ugly—most New Orleanians thought it an unsightly architectural monstrosity. There had been a long, nasty battle over building it.
He ignored me. “So, we go up to her apartment and she’s sniffling all the way up, you know? It was really getting on my nerves. I mean, it’s not like she hasn’t gotten hit in the face with eggs before, and it was just a bloody nose, for God’s sake. So, in the elevator I told her to suck it up, and she got mad at me.” He looked at me for confirmation that she’d behaved unreasonably.
He truly was a Neanderthal.
Unable to speak, I just nodded and he took that for agreement. “She starts yelling at me in the elevator, and so I start yelling back. By the time we get out of the elevator, we’re really screaming at each other. All her neighbors had to hear us.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “We finally get into her apartment, and she tells me she wants me to go home. I tell her fine, but my electric razor’s in her bathroom, I want to get that, then I’ll go, okay? So she lets me in, I go get my razor and get the fuck out of there. As far as I’m concerned, she can go to hell, right?”
“What the hell is he doing here?”
I hadn’t heard Frank get out of bed or come down the hall. I started and stared. He was standing in the hallway, wearing just a pair of very revealing red bikini briefs. His hands were at his sides, clenched into fists. Veins were popping out in his arms, and the one on his forehead was also throbbing—which was never a good sign.
I smothered a laugh. Even though he’s in his late forties, Frank still gets what we call “morning wood.”
“Dude, put some clothes on!” Jared said, looking away quickly.
“Yes, Frank, why don’t you put on some clothes,” I echoed, raising my eyebrows. “Jared needs our help.”
Frank made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a hiss and walked back to the bedroom. The underwear was riding up in the back, giving us both a nice shot of his right cheek.
“Do you want some more coffee?” I asked, getting up and grabbing my cup. “Might as well wait until he gets back so you don’t have to tell it twice.”
“Yeah,” Jared muttered, his face a bright red.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” I snapped. “You’re a fucking football player, Jared—you can’t tell me you haven’t seen other guys naked before—or do you not change and shower in the locker room?”
“Well, yeah, but—” He couldn’t look me in the eyes.
I grabbed his mug and stormed into the kitchen. I took a few clea
nsing breaths. He’s so fucking infuriating, I thought. I was adding sweetener to mine when Frank came up behind me, putting his arms around me and rubbing the stubble on his chin against the back of my neck. It sounds annoying, but I kind of like it.
“What is the asshole doing here?” he whispered before closing his teeth on my earlobe and giving it a playful nip.
“I’m not entirely sure,” I replied, reluctantly pushing him away. “He showed up saying he needs our help, and he’s got Mom’s Glock somehow. He and Tara had a fight last night at her place—apparently she’s dead and Mom’s gun was there.”
“What?”
“That’s as far as he got when you walked in.” I grinned at him. “Your, um, morning excitement made him a little uncomfortable.”
“Good.” He reached over me and got a big mug down. I stepped aside so he could fill it. “I don’t know why you let him in the house—especially after last night.”
“I’m glad I did,” I replied. “We need to find out what’s going on, and how Mom’s gun got to Tara’s apartment.”
“Do you believe anything he says?”
I rolled my eyes and carried the two full mugs back into the living room, handing one to Jared, who mumbled thanks as I sat back down in my chair. Frank plopped down on the opposite end of the sofa from Jared.
“So, you had a fight with Tara last night,” I prompted.
“Yeah,” Jared said glumly, pointedly not looking at Frank. “And I went back to my place, right? I thought about hitting some bars or something—you know, fuck her for being such an unreasonable bitch, right—but I just went home and went to bed. When I got up this morning, I checked my e-mail and, well, I saw about the sex tape.”