Murder in the Rue Chartres

by Greg Herren

  My mother was, well, a rather formidable woman, I heard Iris saying again.

  She sure looked the part. She didn’t look like she could ever be happy.

  I was startled out of my reverie by my cell phone ringing. I flipped it open and saw a local number, the caller ID reading VERLAINE SHIPPING. “Hello?”

  “Mr. MacLeod?” The voice was soft and feminine.

  “Yes?”

  “Josh Verlaine suggested that I get in touch with you. My name is Valerie Stratton; I worked—” She paused for a moment. “I worked for Iris Verlaine here at the company. I was her assistant. Although I can’t imagine why he thought I should. I mean, I don’t know what—” she broke off.

  She sounded as if she was ready to start crying at any moment. “Thank you for calling. I’m sure this has all been rather difficult for you,” I said, trying to make my own voice as calm and soothing as possible.

  She sniffed a little, and I heard the unmistakable sound of her blowing her nose. “Excuse me, I’m sorry. It’s just—well, I’ve been so overwhelmed. I didn’t even know about Iris until I got back to the city, and now I have to figure out all this—oh, you don’t care about any of this. When Josh suggested I call you, I thought, you know, I don’t know what help I could be to you, but what the hell, I’ll call and see, you know?” She gave a nervous giggle. “So, here I am.”

  “There’s a couple of things you could help me with right now—but I’d really like to meet you in person.” She seemed almost on the verge of hysteria, so it made sense to me to give her something to focus on.

  “Oh. Okay. What can I do?”

  “I need to know how to reach Phillip Shea. I’d like to talk to him. Did you know him well?”

  “Oh, yes, I have his information right here in the Rolodex.” I heard her flipping through it. “Here you go.” She read off an address in Uptown, as well as two phone numbers. “That second number is his cell. I don’t know if he’s back in New Orleans yet or not, but these days who knows? I mean, I don’t know if he left or…” Her voice trailed off.

  “Did Phillip and Iris seem happy together?” I asked as I scribbled the information down.

  She sucked in some air, and let it out with a slight whistle. “Well, that’s a good question, Mr. MacLeod. You know, I’ve been working with—oh, I guess I mean I worked with—Iris for almost five years. She didn’t really talk much about her personal life, but you know, when you’re an assistant you can’t help but know things. I came to work for her right after she moved out to Lakeview, and I gathered her mother was not too happy about it—moving out of the house, I mean, and neither was Mr. Percy.”

  “Did you know her mother?”

  “Not well, but you were asking about Phillip. Let me think, how can I put this?” She paused for a few moments, clicking her tongue. “The engagement came out of the blue. I had no idea she was even dating Phillip. He never called here, she never mentioned him once, and then all of a sudden one day she’s showing me a diamond ring.”

  “Did she seem happy?”

  “Hmmm.” She laughed. “I suppose I shouldn’t be saying this, respect for the deceased and all, but she never seemed happy about anything. She rarely smiled, she never laughed…it was like she’d had her sense of humor surgically removed.” She paused for a moment. “Her mother was like that too—you know, like she had a block of ice where her heart was supposed to be. I don’t think I ever saw Margot smile, but then I only dealt with her here in the office about business things. She was a very hard woman. Iris, at least, was easy enough to work for.”

  “And what about Phillip Shea?”

  “Such a nice man. Always sending her flowers and chocolates, he was always very sweet to me when he called…I’d say he definitely was in love with her.”

  “Well, thank you, Valerie. I’m glad you called.” I got out my date book. “I’m going out of town for a day, maybe two, but can I call you and set up lunch or coffee when I get back?”

  “Sure. Let me give you my cell number.” She recited it for me. “If I can be of any help to you, don’t hesitate to call.” She swallowed. “It’s all so awful…” She hung up the phone.

  I looked at the address for Phillip Shea. It wasn’t a Garden District address; it was on the wrong side of Louisiana Avenue, but it was pretty darned close. I looked at the clock on the wall. I had time to drive by and take a look on my way to meet Allen. I put on a pair of jeans and a yellow polo shirt, and headed back outside.

  *

  The lights were on at the address Valerie had given me. It wasn’t a big house, but rather a Creole cottage. There was a white Lexus parked in the driveway. I slowed down as I drove past, but didn’t stop. At least I was reasonably sure Phillip was in town. Someone was staying at his house.

  I debated stopping, but after looking at my watch, decided it could wait until the next morning.

  Allen was just locking up when I pulled into the parking lot at Bodytech. He’d changed from his tank top and shorts into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. He smiled when I got out of the car. “Hey, bud.”

  “Hey,” I said, and there was an awkward silence between us.

  “You mind Louisiana Pizza Kitchen?” he asked finally. “The one in Riverbend is open.”

  “Fine with me.”

  We took his car. We didn’t talk much as we drove up St. Charles Avenue, so I just looked out the window. Other than a few trees down and the huge pickup trucks parked all over the neutral ground, you wouldn’t think anything had even happened. The Jewish Community Center at the corner of St. Charles and Jefferson had a huge FEMA RELIEF CENTER sign hanging on the front, but it was deserted, closed for the night. None of the stoplights uptown was working, either—apparently stoplights weren’t working anywhere in New Orleans. The campuses of both Loyola and Tulane Universities were dark, and Audubon Park was a mass of black velvety silence. But when we reached the curve where St. Charles ends at Carrollton, there were cars and trucks parked all over the neutral ground.

  Allen gestured with his head. “That pisses me off. All these relief workers parking all over the streetcar tracks. Don’t they know they’re tearing up the tracks?” He shook his head. “I mean, I appreciate the workers coming to help clean up and work and all, but they don’t show any respect for the city at all. Every time I see that, I just want to take a baseball bat and bust out all their windows.”

  I didn’t say anything as he parked, and we walked into the restaurant. I’d never eaten at this particular location but had enjoyed a couple of meals at the Louisiana Pizza Kitchen in the Quarter. Every table was taken, and people were three-deep at the bar. The hostess looked tired. “Two?” she asked.

  We nodded, and Allen gave her his name, and we went back outside so I could have a cigarette. Allen just nodded okay when I made the request, which I appreciated. I kind of figured I’d get a lecture on the evils of smoking, him being a trainer and all, but he didn’t say anything. A huge pickup truck, the kind with a back seat, pulled into a spot in the back of the lot, and a tired-looking family got out. The entire back of the truck was filled with boxes and mattresses, as of they’d grabbed everything they could out of their house. The father was holding a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon. The two kids couldn’t have been older than six; the boy looked like he’d been crying. The girl looked dirty, had a thumb in her mouth, and was holding a baby doll by one arm. The father walked inside without even glancing at us. The mother got some wet wipes and started wiping the kids’ faces down.

  “I wanna go home, Mommy,” the boy said, starting to sniffle again.

  “I know, Joey,” she said, pulling out a comb and trying to straighten his hair. “I do, too. But we can’t. You saw what the house looked like. We have to stay with Grandma for a while.”

  “I DON’T WANNA!” he started wailing.

  The dad came back outside, again walking past us without a look. “Darla, it’s going to be about an hour wait. And why is he crying again?”

  “Let’s just get
back on the road.” She stood up. “Don’t cry, Joey.” She turned back to her husband. “Surely there will be something open on the road.” She patted Joey on the head. “Maybe we could find a McDonald’s. Would you like that, Joey?”

  He sniffled. “Could I have a happy meal?”

  “Of course you can, darlin’.”

  They all got back into the truck, and he backed up. Just before they pulled out onto Carrollton Avenue, I got a good look at her face. She, like Joey, was crying, but she wiped at her eyes and with a monumental effort, pulled herself back together. She gave Allen and me a sad little wave, and then they were gone, two red taillights disappearing into the darkness down Carrollton.

  I don’t think I will ever forget the look on her face.

  “Breaks your heart, doesn’t it?” Allen said, sitting down on a bench as I lit another cigarette. “It’s the kids that get me the most, you know. I’m so glad I don’t have any. How do you explain to a child what’s happened? What about the teenagers? I mean, can you imagine being a senior in high school, and being all excited about finishing and getting out to college or whatever, and suddenly it’s all taken away from you, you don’t know when you’re going to get back in school or graduate or anything… Oh, hell, I don’t know what the hell I am saying. It’s bad for everyone.”

  The hostess opened the door. “Table for two?”

  I ordered a margarita on the rocks with salt as soon as we sat down. It seemed like a tequila evening. Allen ordered a vodka martini. I looked around the room. Every table had at least one bottle of wine, and there were cocktail glasses too. Everyone was drinking, and drinking heavily.

  We made small talk throughout the dinner, Allen talking about his plans for the gym, and I managed to relax as the drinks kept coming. The menu was one page, a computer printout with just a few choices. The tablecloth was paper, as were the napkins, and the silverware was plastic and came packaged in cellophane. But the food was good, and before I knew it, we were finished.

  When we got back to the parking lot at Bodytech, Allen asked, “Would you mind if I came over? I really don’t want to go back to that big empty house.”

  I was going to say no, but then I saw the look in his eyes and changed my mind. He just needs a friend, I told myself, and these days, we all could use whatever friends we could get. “Sure, Allen. We can have a drink or something. Just let me get my car.”

  Chapter Ten

  Allen was gone when I woke up in the morning.

  It was almost nine; I’d slept later than I usually did. I used to always sleep late before unless I had a reason to get up early; since the levees broke, I’d been getting up around seven every morning. I was kind of relieved that Allen was gone; the morning after—especially with a friend—can be really awkward, and I don’t think all that clearly, before I’ve put down a pot of coffee in my system. I washed my face and brushed my teeth before walking into the kitchen, the entire time wondering what the hell I’d been thinking. Had it been the drinks at the restaurant? No, that was too easy, and to be completely honest with myself, I hadn’t been drunk. In my new way of thinking—my new sense of personal responsibility—I couldn’t accept that, even if I had been drunk. I had to start owning up to my mistakes—and if liquor was the problem, maybe I’d have to think about giving that up. Maybe it was a mistake; then again, maybe it wasn’t—it was too early to tell. There’s nothing like a sexual encounter to ruin a perfectly good friendship, but I wasn’t about to let that happen. If Allen had a problem with it, I’d deal with it then. As far as I was concerned, giving comfort to someone in pain, even if it was a sexual experience, couldn’t be wrong. It would all work out all right in the end.

  Everything always seemed to.

  There was a note propped on the coffee maker. I had to move it to make the coffee, and once it was brewing, I opened and read it.

  Chanse—

  Thanks for being there for me last night. I really appreciate it, but I couldn’t sleep, and decided it was probably best if I went back home. I didn’t want to wake you…see you at the gym later?

  Thanks,

  Allen

  It was nice of him to leave a note, I thought as I waited for the coffee to finish brewing. He could have just left, but then again, it wasn’t like I wasn’t going to run into him at the gym sometime. In the past, I probably would have just ignored him when I saw him again, or pretended like last night had never happened. That had been my old method of dealing with people I’d slept with. No, that wasn’t fair. The truth was I never really knew how to act around someone I’d picked up in a bar when I saw them again, so I just always waited to see how they’d react to me. If they said “Hi,” I’d talk to them. If they ignored me, I’d ignore them. It was a stupid way to behave, and actually kind of mean, now that I thought about it. I shook my head and wondered how many feelings my behavior had hurt over the years.

  I filled a big mug with coffee and walked into the living room to check my emails. There was nothing new there other than the usual junk bullshit, so I logged off and sat down on the couch, grabbing my file on the Verlaine case.

  The next thing to do was plan a trip up to see Cathy Hollis and arrange a meeting with Jolene McConnell on the way. Jackson was about two and a half hours north of New Orleans and Cortez another two and a half hours from there. So, if I left New Orleans the next morning around seven, I could be in Jackson around nine-thirty—and even assuming I’d be speaking to Mrs. McConnell for about an hour, I could still be in Cortez before two in the afternoon. All in all, it could easily be accomplished in one day. I could be back in New Orleans before eight, given stops for gas, bathroom breaks, and dinner. Not bad.

  I got my cell phone and dialed the number I had for Jolene. On the fourth ring, a machine picked up. I left my name and number, explaining that I was looking for her brother Michael, and hung up the phone.

  I sat there for a moment thinking, and then thumbed through my speed-dial numbers, and called my landlady/employer, Barbara Castlemaine.

  When I’d resigned from the New Orleans Police Department and given up my apartment in the French Quarter, I’d found the apartment on Camp Street, which had been my home ever since, through a property management company. The rent had originally been six hundred dollars a month, but within a week of moving in, I’d gotten a call from the property owner, Barbara Castlemaine. She had a little problem she needed me to take care of for her—involving a pair of twin body builders from Thibodeaux, some rather explicit photographs, and a blackmailer—which I’d handled rather quickly for her. She’d been set up by her personal assistant, and not only did I manage to get all the prints and negatives back for her, but I’d convinced the assistant it was probably a good idea to get as far away from New Orleans as possible. In gratitude, she’d lowered my rent to $100 per month with a permanent lease, and also hired me as a corporate security consultant for Crown Oil, the company she’d inherited from her late husband. The gig with Crown Oil was quite lucrative, required very little work on my part, and not only paid my bills but enabled me to acquire a rather healthy savings account. Barbara is nothing if not a generous and grateful woman. In the years since, she and I had become friends. Barbara was also a great source of information. She knew where all the bodies were buried in New Orleans, from Jackson Avenue to Riverbend. I didn’t know how she did it, but she did seem to know everything.

  “Chanse!” she answered. “Darling, I am in New Orleans! What excellent timing!”

  “Really?” I was a little startled. The last time I’d spoken to her, she was leaving to stay in Paris for a few months. “I thought you were in Paris.”

  “I changed my mind—I know it’s the culture capital of the world and all, but sometimes Paris is just boring—and went to New York instead—shopped, saw some shows, and then decided to get back here and check on things. I got in late last night, and I wanted to give you a call this morning, but you beat me to the punch, as always. Why don’t you come by the house? I’m about to mak
e mimosas.” Barbara’s weakness was champagne. She drank it morning, noon, and night, and never seemed the worse for her intake.

  “Let me jump into the shower and I can be there in a little bit.”

  “Well, don’t dawdle. The champagne will go flat. And you know there’s nothing I hate more than wasting perfectly good champagne—and I can’t drink this entire bottle by myself.” She laughed. “Well, of course I could, but I don’t want to. You know what they say about women who get drunk before noon…so hurry, darling.”

  *

  Half an hour later, I parked in the driveway of Barbara’s house on Chestnut Street, between Philip and First Streets. Known to the Garden District tours and the Historic Registry as the Palmer House, it was a huge Italianate monstrosity with black wrought-iron railings on its galleries and was painted a strange deep shade of red with black shutters at every window. Like the Verlaine place, her usually well-tended lawn looked a little unkempt. The first time I’d ever set foot in it, I’d been a little overawed. Barbara had completely redecorated the interior after the death of her second husband—the Palmer who’d left her the house—but now I was used to it. Rather than the traditional Garden District style of antiques, she’d done the entire place with modern stuff. “I like the contrast between the age of the house and the modern look,” she told me once, “and it drives the Garden District biddies insane that I did this.”

  She opened the door before I could even ring the bell. She gave me a big hug and drew me into the house. She smelled, as always, of Chanel. Barbara is one of those women whose age you cannot determine by looking at her. She exercised to keep her figure, and her face showed telltale lines she refused to have surgically corrected. She told me once that she had no intention of looking like “one of those frightening old bags with a face pulled so tight her jaw pops open when she crosses her legs.” Her blond hair had traces of gray, and she was still very beautiful. She somehow managed to make fleece sweats look like they came from a designer show in Paris. To me, she was the epitome of elegance and class—although she could swear like a sailor and could, on occasion—usually when she was drinking and bored out of her mind at a party—be as vulgar and crass as a drag queen. Today, she was wearing a pair of blue jeans, sneakers, and a black cashmere sweater. Her only jewelry was diamonds at her ears, and she wasn’t wearing any makeup.