Murder in the Rue Ursulines

by Greg Herren

  Somehow, I doubted it. An addiction is an addiction. From what I heard, alcoholics never stopped wanting a drink, so why would nicotine be any different?

  I just wanted to get home and be by myself, smoke some pot, open a bottle of wine, and decompress. I’d already had a couple of close calls with anxiety attacks, and I was in no mood to tempt fate. There’s nothing more horrible than those things, and I’d had enough of them to know that I was dangerously close to having one that no amount of calming exercises would head off. I’d much prefer to be in my house if it happened—and my Xanax stash was in the medicine cabinet. My heart rate had been getting steadily faster since I set foot in the precinct building, and the exercises my therapist had taught me to ward off the attacks were losing their effectiveness. I just stood there, leaning against the Mint’s fence, my eyes narrowed to slits, and tried to regulate my breathing. In and out, nice and slow and steady—I knew that as long as I had my breathing under control, my heart rate would gradually slow down and I’d be safe. The cab pulled up and honked, and I climbed into the back, giving the cabbie my address. As soon as I settled into the backseat and the cab pulled back out onto Decatur Street, I closed my eyes and imagined a quiet beach, with palm trees and white sand, gentle green waves lapping at the shore. I pulled out my phone. I’d turned the ringer off before meeting with Rosemary.

  The little digital window informed me that I had two new voice-mail messages.

  I checked the messages as we crossed Canal Street. The first one was from Paige.Hey Chanse, Paige here. You are so not going to believe what happened during my interview with Shirley Harris! I still don’t believe it myself. I did get some rather interesting dirt on both Freddy and Jillian before we were interrupted—and therein lies a tale like you wouldn’t believe…Sandy Carter had to postpone—I’m meeting her for breakfast in the morning. So, call me whenever you get home so we can get together and compare notes. Why don’t you just come over to my place and we can order in? I am dying to hear what the assistant wanted to talk to you about, and if you got anything out of her. Love ya!

  I punched the seven key to delete it. I smiled to myself. I was definitely curious to hear her opinion of the Rosemary conversation. The Shirley Harris thing sounded good too—Paige’s voice had been in her high-pitched “I don’t know if I can keep from laughing” mode.

  Chanse MacLeod? Hello, how are you, this is Veronica Vance, from CNN Headline News. I would love the opportunity to interview you tonight on my show. It airs at seven o’clock eastern, and I can guarantee you I’ll be the most fair journalist you could speak to. Please give me a call back at 415-555-0909, so we can make arrangements for the satellite feed from either your office or your home, or from a local affiliate’s studio; whichever is the most convenient for you. If you’re familiar with my show, you KNOW that I am the only journalist who would give you a fair shake to tell your side of the story. Thanks in advance, and I look forward to talking to you further.

  I couldn’t delete that one fast enough.

  Oh yes, I was familiar with Veronica Vance, all right. Before the flood, I’d found her shrill and obviously affected Southern accent offensive—as offensive as her regular claims to be fair and unbiased. She was one of those horrible ‘journalists’ who never allowed her guests a chance to finish anything they were saying, cutting them off rudely, and while she claimed to be giving them an opportunity to tell their side of whatever story she was reporting on, she usually came across as a cross between an avenging harpy and a banshee. Every once in a while, I’d watched her show when I was bored and nothing else was on. But after the levees failed, when all the news networks were reporting on New Orleans 24/7—I’d grown to hate her with the burning intensity of the sun. The lies and inaccuracies that had flown out of her mouth, while she sat in her high and dry studio in Atlanta, wrapped in her usual cloak of sanctimonious superiority, made me burn with rage. She placed blame everywhere but where it belonged—with the Army Corps of Engineers and the White House. She blamed the mayor, the governor, the people who hadn’t evacuated—you name it, she blamed them.

  To me, she was the epitome of everything that was wrong with the news media.

  I wondered how she’d gotten my cell number. Undoubtedly, she had sources everywhere. I sighed and took no small pleasure in deleting the message. There was no way in hell I was going to call her back—let alone agree to an interview.

  The car swung around the corner of Euterpe onto Camp Street and came to a dead stop. The traffic on Camp Street was intense—which was rare. I craned my neck forward to see what was going on, and my jaw dropped. I felt all the blood draining from my face.

  The street in front of my house was clogged with news vans.

  The sidewalk in front of my house was filled with photographers and cameramen.

  Oh my God, oh my God oh my God.

  “Stop here and wait a minute,” I said to the cab driver, my voice shaking.

  How am I going to get into the house through that mob? I thought.

  My heart was beating so loud I could hear it in my ears.

  My breath was coming fast.

  A panic attack. No, please God, no, I can’t melt down in front of the media.

  Somehow, I managed to croak out Paige’s address to the driver. He pulled around the vans along the curb and headed up Camp Street.

  I tried to measure my breathing as I scrolled through my stored numbers.

  I found Paige’s number and hit call.

  “Tourneur.”

  “Paige, it’s Chanse.” I was beginning to hyperventilate. I tucked my head down and tried to control my breathing. “Please….I need…help.”

  “Are you okay?” Her voice was alarmed. “Where are you?”

  “There’s a—there’s a crowd of reporters in front of my house.” I forced myself to take long, slow, deep breaths. I was getting faint. There was a roaring in my ears, and my heart was pumping so hard it felt like it was going to jump out of my chest. Breathe, just breathe, focus on your breathing, everything is going to be okay.

  “Don’t answer the door, make sure the curtains are closed, and don’t answer the door whatever you do.” She instructed. “Those fucking vultures.”

  “I’m…not…in…the…house…” I started gasping for air. Think about your happy place, think about the beach, get a hold of yourself, you can do it, Chanse, you can stay calm and focused.. “I…am…in…a…cab…”

  “Oh God, where are you right now?”

  “On…my…way…to...your…house”

  “You’re having an anxiety attack, aren’t you? Shit, fuck, SHIT! Hang on, how close are you?

  “Corner…of…Melpomene…and Camp…” I swallowed. “I…think…I…can…make…it…”

  “Buddy, are you all right?” the cabdriver asked as he turned up Melpomene.

  “Hang in there, Chanse! I’ll be out front waiting for you.” Her voice was panicked. She hung up.

  “I’m…fine…” I said to the cabdriver. “Just…drive…” I put my head down between my knees.

  Breathe, just breathe, you’re on a beach, close your eyes and imagine you’re on a beach, with the sun shining and the waves coming ashore and…

  It wasn’t working.

  My mind raced on. Horrible thoughts filled my mind, one after another, each one worse than the one before.

  I hadn’t had an anxiety attack in months.

  They’re terrifying, absolutely terrifying. There’s nothing worse than having your mind race out of control. What makes it even worse is there’s a flicker of awareness, of your normal mind working, and it KNOWS you are acting crazy, that you’re mind is racing out of control and there’s not a goddamned thing you can do about it. You can’t stop yourself, no matter how you try, and while it’s going on you want to die, you pray to die, anything would be better than letting it go on.

  I’d thought they were a part of the past.

  After I’d returned from the evacuation, they’d happened almost dai
ly. They would come on suddenly, without warning. One moment, I’d be perfectly fine. The next moment, I’d be on the floor in a fetal position, my mind racing out of control, my breathing so fast I was close to hyperventilating, my heart beating so fast I thought it would explode. My doctor had prescribed Xanax for me to handle the anxiety attacks, and Lexapro to handle the depression. It didn’t take long before I was addicted to both.

  But I’d kicked them both, and now the last of the Xanax sat in my medicine cabinet collecting dust for those increasingly rare anxiety attacks.. I’d been proud of myself, and my therapist had given me some control exercises—breathing, creative visualizations, all that psychoanalytical mumbo jumbo I’d always dismissed as stupid in my past life. But much as I hated to admit it, they did work most of the time.

  But they weren’t working as I waited for the cab to get to Paige’s house. Time seemed to have slowed to a complete standstill. Nothing was working. All I knew was that I was helpless, melting into a puddle in the backseat of the cab. I tried imagining myself on the beach again, tried imagining myself in any number of happier places, tried to remember times when I enjoyed myself and was happy…and nothing would come to replace the panic overwhelming me. Tears began streaming out of my eyes as I fought for my sanity, to keep my grip on reality, to stay out of that dark pit where I’d spent so many horrible hours.

  I wanted to die. I wanted someone to just shoot me to make it stop.

  Maybe I could just crawl out into the street in front of a car…

  The cab pulled up in front of Paige’s. She dashed over to the cab, shoved a pill into my mouth and gave me a bottle of water to wash it down with. “Come on, baby, you’re going to be all right, come on, just get out of the car and we’ll go back to my house, okay, you’re going to be just fine…”

  “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. “ I blathered and babbled as she somehow helped me out of the cab, and I leaned on her. I was vaguely aware of her tossing a bill and talking to the cabdriver. I couldn’t understand what she was saying to him. My entire body was shaking. “Breathe, Chanse, focus on your breathing,” she shouted as she walked me through her front gate. I just kept my eyes closed, waiting for the Xanax she’d given me to take effect.

  Then, I was walking along the side of the house to Paige’s apartment in the back. I had just stepped onto the small set of stairs to her door when suddenly the terror stopped and as she fumbled with her keys, a curtain of calm came down over me.

  I collapsed onto her couch, and Nicky, her thirty-pound Maine Coon cat jumped into my lap, purring and rubbing his head against my chest. “Thanks, Paige.” I took a deep breath. “Sorry about that.”

  She lit a cigarette as she poured herself a glass of red wine at the small bar she had set up in the corner of the living room just beneath the curving staircase to the second floor. “No problem.” She handed me a glass. “I take it you weren’t expecting the media circus to be waiting for you at the front door, huh?”

  I took a swallow of the wine.. “No. No, I wasn’t.” I ran my other hand through my hair. It was damp with sweat. “It was coming on before then, though. I knew when I was at the precinct this morning that it was coming.”

  “You should have gone home and taken a pill then. You know better.”

  “I know.” I replied. “When I see the signs, I should just write off the rest of the day and take one.” I took another deep breath and exhaled. “I just wasn’t expecting the media waiting to ambush me.”

  “Yeah, well, you should have been. I warned you they already had your name.” She plopped down in the reclining chair. “All the damned news networks are all Frillian, all the time.” She shook her head. “It’s fucking insane, and they’re all talking about you.”

  “About me?” I tried to stand, but my legs were still weak. I sat back down. “What are they saying?”

  “Trust me, you don’t want to know what they’re saying. It’ll just bring on another attack. Let the Xanax work its magic, and then we’ll turn on the television and you can hear it for yourself.”

  “Okay. So, tell me what Shirley Harris had to say.” I was starting to feel a lot calmer, if a little bit foggy, from the drug.

  “That was something.” Paige started to laugh “It was kind of sad, actually. I really felt sorry for the old woman. She was, shall we say, definitely in her cups when I got there. She looks terrible, poor thing. And she was so pathetically grateful to see me. She offered me a drink—I declined—and then poured herself a huge tumbler of vodka.”

  “You said she had all kinds of dirt on them?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Paige said down on the couch and crossed her legs. “Did you know that Jillian, Miss Adopt-every-Third-World Orphan in the world, had an abortion when she was sixteen? And then had her tubes tied when she was twenty because she was afraid of what having a baby would do to her figure?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t really see how that’s relevant.” I paused, then added, “That’s just embarrassing stuff—nothing for them to get worked up over.”

  “It isn’t—but it is good dirt, and stuff I doubt very much that Jillian would want to be public knowledge.” Paige replied with a sigh. “And it’s certainly nothing I would ever use in a story without confirmation of some kind.”

  “Did she have anything on Freddy?”

  “Get this.” Paige leaned forward. “When they started seeing each other, Shirley hired a private investigator to check him out. Apparently, Shirley did that with every guy her daughter got involved with. And there was something unsavory in his past. When Shirley brought this report from the detective to Jillian, that was when they had their big blow-up.” She shook her head. “Shirley started crying at this point, about how her daughter had turned on her, how all she wanted was what was best for her, on and on and on.” She made a face. Paige’s mother was a drunk, so she had little patience with them. “It was sickening.”

  “She didn’t tell you what the unsavory thing was?”

  “This is where it gets good.” Paige leaned forward. “I was just about to ask her to get specific—and she was just soused enough I think to spill the big secret, when the door bursts open, and guess who is there? None other than Jillian herself! And some of her hulking bodyguards. She ordered me out—and when I said I was Shirley’s guest—well, Shirley was no help whatsoever. She was so glad to see Jillian—if Jillian told her to jump out of the window she would have. The thugs escorted me, not only to the elevator, but all the way out of the hotel.” Paige laughed. “Talk about a bum’s rush! I’d always wondered what that was like. Now I know.”

  “It’s weird that they showed up like that in the nick of time.” I struggled to keep my mind focused. It wasn’t easy. Nicky started kneading my chest with his front paws. He was purring, and he started head butting my chin. I scratched him under his chin, and his purring got even louder. Such a sweet cat…I smiled at him.

  “Well, if I had to hazard a guess…I think Shirley let Jillian know she’d be talking to a reporter.” Paige shrugged. “From everything Shirley said, she’s been trying to reconcile with her since the blow-up.” She shrugged. “I guess threatening to spill the big secret to a reporter finally did the trick. Now, what did Rosemary have to say for herself?”

  “Apparently, she was the last person to see Glynis alive, other than her killer—and she found the body.” I replied. “I’m not sure if I believe her or not, to be honest. She said that Glynis wanted her out of the house, gave her the night off. She left around five, and went to have dinner at Angeli. She forgot her own keys and went back and found the body shortly after six.” I frowned. “I’m not sure I buy the forgotten key story.”

  Paige reached into her purse and pulled out her notebook. “And you saw Freddy leaving Glynis’s just before six? Right before you met me at Port of Call, right?”

  “Rosemary thinks Glynis and Freddy were meeting secretly—because there was someone coming to see her that Glynis didn’t want Rosemary to know about. She doesn’t know fo
r a fact it was Freddy, but she knew about the trainer Glynis was sleeping with. I booked a training session with him tomorrow.” Nicky jumped down to the floor and sat down, staring at me. “Now, I’m not so sure it was Freddy I saw.” I shrugged. “I go back and forth. At the time, I would have sworn it was Freddy—but now? The guy I saw was built like Freddy, but I didn’t see his whole face. It could have been someone who looked like him.”

  “Well, what Rosemary said goes with your identification. And come on, Chanse. I mean, how many guys are there that look like Freddy Bliss? It’s not like they’re a dime a dozen, unfortunately.” She sighed. “And after the way I was thrown out of the Ritz-Carlton today by Jillian’s thugs, I don’t know if I’m convinced they’re so innocent in all of this.” She lit another cigarette. “They definitely have something to hide.”

  “We need to figure out how to find out whatever it was he did they don’t want us—or anyone—to know.” I said slowly. My mind was clouded by the Xanax. I was having a hard time focusing.

  “Are you hungry? Let’s order some food.” She closed her notebook and shoved it back into her purse. “Enough of this for now…we can eat and get back to work. I’m starved.” She grinned. “Getting thrown out of places seems to make me hungry. What are you in the mood for? Bar burgers from the corner?”

  “Yeah, that’s fine.” Pretty much anything sounded good at that point. I didn’t care one way or the other.

  She placed the order and hung up the phone. “Are you up for some television?” She picked up the remote. She looked at me. “See what they’re saying? You’re going to have to hear it at some point—might as well get it over with.”