by Greg Herren
She led me to the drawing room and handed me a mimosa before I could sit. “Drink up, darling.” She gave me a big smile. “I’m already two ahead of you.” She sat down next to me on the couch and took a big swallow of her own drink. “Well, things certainly are different here, aren’t they?” She shook her head. “It breaks my heart to see the city like this.” She waved her hand. “And it simply sickens me that they’ve abandoned us.” Her face set grimly. “Don’t think Crown Oil won’t be throwing its money—and considerable clout—around to make sure some of those bastards in Congress don’t get re-elected.” She sighed. “And so many people are seriously considering leaving—or not coming back. Isn’t that insane?”
“To say the least.” I took a sip. Barbara’s idea of a mimosa was to add orange juice for color.
“After living here, how can anyone even consider living somewhere else? Houston? Atlanta? Dallas?” She went on as though I hadn’t spoken, shuddering at the mention of the other cities. Barbara was like that. Conversations with her were generally one-sided—you had to wait until she paused for breath to get a word, maybe two, if you were lucky—into the conversation. “I mean, really. How dreadful. We’ve got to do something, and if the bastards in Washington aren’t going to help us, well, goddamnit, we have to roll up our sleeves and get to work.”
“Yes.” When Barbara was on a roll, it was best to just listen.
“I have plans. Crown Oil is going to be doing a lot around here. I’ve set up a foundation to grant out money, and I’m going to strong-arm everyone I know to give money. Thank God, Crown Oil is not responsible for the disappearance of the wetlands. It’s criminal, simply criminal what we’ve all allowed those other bastard oil companies to do to Louisiana. Of course, I’ve done nothing for years, and look what happens when you just sit around and do nothing.” She set her drink down.
“So, what’s this I hear about you looking for Michael Mercereau? Are you sure it’s a good idea to get involved with that whacked-out family?”
I was in the midst of swallowing and almost choked on my mimosa. When I finally managed to get my coughing fit under control, I spluttered, “How did you know that?”
She waved a hand airily. “Darling, when will you learn I know everything? Nothing goes on in this city—and especially not in this neighborhood—without me knowing about it. I have eyes and ears everywhere. The CIA should have as effective a network as me.” She grinned at me, her eyes twinkling. “Joshua Verlaine called me to check you out—you know how that goes. Can this Chanse man be trusted?” She rolled her eyes. “Like most men, he gave away more information than I gave him. So, what do you think of the freak-show Verlaines?”
“Well, Joshua seems nice. I like him. He seems like a good guy.”
“Certainly not the sharpest knife in the drawer, by any means, but you’re right, he is a nice man, and considering that family—that’s saying something.” She got up to refill her glass, and refilled mine as well. “A shame about Iris, but that girl had some serious problems. But who wouldn’t, with a mother like Margot?”
“You didn’t like Margot Verlaine?” I asked.
“Honey.” She sat down and patted my leg. “No one liked Margot Verlaine. One merely tolerated her. Talk about having the personality of a dust mop! How that witch ever landed a man in the first place was always beyond me—and it certainly was no surprise she never remarried. What man would want her? What a cold bitch she was…we served on several committees together; I remember we did something for the Bridge House, what was it? A concert? A dinner?” She shrugged. “I don’t remember exactly what it was, but Verlaine Shipping was one of the bigger donors, so I had no choice but to take her on as a co-chair on whatever the hell it was. What an unpleasant experience that was.” She gave me a sharp glance. “She had to have her own way, that’s for sure—and she offended everyone. Everyone. I spent most of my time running around behind her apologizing for her sheer bitchery. My God, the sucking up I had to do! And how creepy was it that she never moved out of that house? There was certainly something sick and twisted there, believe you me. She was in her forties and still called him daddy.” She shuddered. “And the old man—Percy. Ugh, what a monster that one is! Mean as a snake, and about as warm as one…”
“Did you know Michael Mercereau?”
“Not well.” She looked off into the distance. “I was married to my second husband then.”
Barbara had never really talked about any of her past marriages to me, other than Charles Castlemaine, her third husband. Paige had done research on her for me, simply because I was curious about her. She’d originally been born in Algiers Point, on the West bank, to a nice lower-middle-class family. She’d married her first husband at eighteen—they’d apparently been high school sweethearts, but they were divorced before she was nineteen. Her second husband, Roger Palmer had been thirty years her senior. She was his second wife; his first marriage was childless. They married when she was in her early twenties, and he was the father of her only child, Brenda. I’d never met Brenda, and Barbara didn’t talk about her either. Brenda, I knew, lived in Los Angeles, where she’d moved after graduating from Newcomb. I thought it odd that Barbara never talked about her daughter—and that her daughter never seemed to ever set foot in New Orleans. That kind of thing always made me curious, but I knew better than to ask about it. Obviously, there had been a falling out. Roger had died when Barbara was around thirty, and shortly thereafter she’d married Charles Castlemaine, the heir to the Crown Oil empire out of Tulsa, Oklahoma. Charles had been killed about ten years ago when his private plane went down in the Gulf of Mexico. She narrowed her eyes. “You know I wasn’t always the glamorous queen of New Orleans high society I am today, right?”
“Um—”
“You don’t have to answer that—obviously, I wasn’t born to this.” She laughed as she gestured around the room. “No, I married my second husband when I was little more than a child, and he was thirty years older than I. Most people in the Garden District considered it a mésalliance on his part; they thought of me as little better than a whore who was after his money. It certainly never occurred to any of them that he was handsome or interesting or charming as well as rich as Midas. I met Michael and Margot at my first Comus Ball, shortly after Roger and I married. Michael was a nice, kind man—Margot was a bitch of the first order. I always figured he married her for her money—why else would anyone marry her? She had to be one cold fish in the sack.” She rolled her eyes. “Listen at me! Margot certainly thought I married Roger for his money—but at least Roger was a handsome man with a certain charm…She certainly had nothing to offer but the Verlaine money. I hated Margot on sight—she was so rude and condescending to me, like being born into that family somehow made her better than me. My father might have been an accountant for the Coca-Cola bottling company, but I wouldn’t trade him for Percy Verlaine for any amount of money.” She shuddered.
“Did you know Cathy Hollis?”
“Ah, Cathy.” She smiled. “I adored Cathy Hollis. Now she was a live wire; old Percy didn’t know what to do with her. I’ll never forget going outside the Comus Ball for a cigarette and there she was, cool as you please, smoking a joint with one of the musicians in the band. She introduced herself to me as a ‘poor relation of the Verlaines.’ Oh, that girl could make me laugh! Roger didn’t want me to have anything to do with her, he thought she was ‘fast’ and ‘trouble,’ so of course I sought her out whenever I could get away with it. She liked her scotch, and she liked her men.” Barbara scratched her head. “There was a to-do, as I recall…Cathy missed her call outs because she was out partying with the band guys. Percy and Margot were fit to be tied.”
“Is it possible that Michael and Cathy were having an affair?”
She frowned. “Well, Cathy was wild…there was no doubt about that. She liked men…and she liked to shock the family, but I don’t think she would ever go that far. Cathy really liked Michael, but he was more like a brother to her. H
e used to escort her; chaperone her, if you will, and Margot often stayed home…Margot hated going to things, small wonder. No one would talk to her. You know he was a painter?”
“I’d heard that, yes.”
“I went to his last opening.” She put her glass down. “It was at this cute little place on Royal Street that isn’t there anymore, The owner died from AIDS back in the 80s when everyone was dying. Can you believe not a single member of the Verlaine family went? The old man, of course, was—and still is—a complete Philistine—all of his taste, such as it is, is in his mouth—so it was no surprise he wasn’t there. But Margot? Why would any woman not attend her husband’s opening? If it was my husband’s opening, you couldn’t have kept me away from it. But Margot and the old man were two peas in a pod, if you will…dull as dishwater. Cathy was there, of course, and got drunk…I think she actually passed out…or was that another party I’m thinking about?” She wrinkled her brow, thinking, and then laughed. “No, it was the opening she passed out at, I believe. I do remember I asked Michael why Margot wasn’t there…he just gave me one of those funny little looks…I got the distinct impression that there was trouble in that marriage…and then he left, about a month later. And poor Cathy had a breakdown. Although if you ask me, they were just looking for a chance to lock her away somewhere—you know, the old-fashioned way of dealing with a problem—lock it away!” She gestured to a painting hanging between the windows. “I bought that painting at the show. It’s a Mercereau.”
I’d noticed the painting before, but never really paid a lot of attention to it. I don’t know much about painting, and I usually just think of it as wall decoration. I suppose Barbara would consider me a Philistine as well. I like black-and-white photography; paintings have never held much interest for me. I got up and walked over to it. In the lower-right-hand corner was scrawled M. MERCEREAU. The painting seemed innocuous at first from across the room: a simple scene of a man and a woman riding together in a horse-drawn carriage in the Garden District. But up close, you could see that the man’s face was tense, his knuckles clutching the reins of the buggy with a death grip. And the expression on the woman’s face was disturbing. Her face was cadaverous, the hand clutching at his sleeve claw-like and bony. Her eyes were narrowed, and her exposed teeth looked sharp and predatory. In the background was a house, and as I looked I realized it was the Verlaine mansion, but distorted like in a funhouse mirror. I shivered and turned away from it.
“Disturbing, isn’t it?” Barbara said. “It draws you in, though, and you can’t really look away. All of Michael’s work was like that—beautiful in a glance, but really unsettling the more you looked at it. He was, I think, a genius.”
“It seems weird that he would have walked away from everything the way he did.”
“We-ell, that’s what the family would have you believe.” She gave me a sly wink. “Of course, most people whispered that Margot killed him, you know, and Cathy saw it all happen—which is why they locked her up in that mental hospital.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond to that. “Is that what you believe?”
She shrugged. “All I know is that none of them, other than Cathy, was very upset that he was gone. And his painting career was finally starting to take off; why would he walk away from everything the way he did? If he truly left Margot, and New Orleans, why wouldn’t he show his work elsewhere?” She pointed over at the painting. “He was talented. I know art is subjective, and all of that, but he was getting national attention for that show. So, he not only left his wife and his children, but his career and his dreams?” She reached for her glass and drained it. “I always thought, you know, that he was dead. But the person you really should talk to is Eric Valmont.”
“And who might that be?”
“Eric used to be the art critic for Crescent City magazine, and used to write for some national magazines, too.” She gave me a sly wink. “He’s a little old for you now, but he was quite a hottie in his day.”
Barbara had frequently tried to fix me up in the days before I met Paul. “Is he even still in New Orleans?”
“His mother lives in Hammond. Surely you’ve heard of Joyce Valmont?”
I gave her a blank look. “No.”
She rolled her eyes. “I am sure you’ve met her at one of my parties. Her husband was Congressman Valmont? He served in Congress for about thirty years?” She gave me a disgusted look. “I’ll call her and see if I can find out where Eric is. If he isn’t in New Orleans, he’s at her place.” She glanced at her watch. “Now get out of here like a good boy. I’ve got to meet a contractor at one of my places in the Irish Channel—and the insurance adjustor.”
“Thanks, Barbara.” I leaned over to kiss her cheek. “You’ve been an enormous help.”
“I’ll call you after I talk to Joyce.” She blew a kiss at me. “It is nice to see you, Chanse. Are you doing okay?”
I gave her a smile. “One day at a time, Barbara. One day at a time.”
Chapter Eleven
I decided to swing by Phillip Shea’s just on the chance he might be home. There had been a car there when I’d driven by before and lights on, so someone was staying at his house. The white Lexus was in the driveway of his house, so I parked in the street and got out of the car. The house was a small Creole cottage, out of place among its huge neighbors in the Garden District across the street. It had probably, at one time, been a part of the grounds of one of its neighbors—maybe a mother-in-law residence or something that had been parceled off and sold years ago. It was a nice house, with a front porch that ran the length of the front, and it looked well kept. It had been painted recently, and there was a swing at the right end of the porch. The front yard was small, mostly bushes with a brick border around them, and the front walk was red bricks. I climbed the steps and rang the doorbell.
“Yeah?”
Phillip Shea was having a bad morning, apparently. His brown hair looked greasy and unclean, and it could definitely use a comb run through it. He hadn’t shaved in days, and his cheeks and chin were covered with black stubble. He had full, thick lips and long eyelashes over gray eyes. He was tall, maybe an inch or so shorter than me, with long limbs and a high waist—he looked like he was almost all legs. He was wearing a food-stained T-shirt with “New Orleans Saints” written across the front with the fleur-de-lis, and a pair of black sweatpants that were also covered with stains, and his feet were bare. His arms were tanned, and his veins were prominent. He looked like he usually kept himself in pretty good shape, despite the condition he was currently in. His eyes were bloodshot, and he reeked of sour alcohol. His eyes weren’t even open all the way.
“Maybe I should have called first,” I said. “My name’s Chanse MacLeod—”
His eyes widened as he cut me off. “Ah, Iris’s detective.” He smirked. “I was wondering when you were going to show up. Come in.” He yawned and stretched, and the dirty T-shirt rode up to show a relatively flat stomach. He ran his fingers through the messy hair. “Come on in. Want something to drink?” He stepped aside and I walked into the hallway of the house. The floors were hardwood and in need of sweeping. There was a thin layer of dust coating them, keeping them from shining.
He walked through a door on the right. I followed him in. “Have a seat.” He waved his arm arbitrarily.
I sat down on a green-and-gold-brocade couch that wasn’t comfortable in the least. The front room had to be a showroom, even though everything was covered in dust and cobwebs hung from the ceiling. The room didn’t look lived-in, and the furniture had been chosen for appearance rather than comfort. There was a baby grand piano in one corner of the room, and Audubon prints hung on the walls. A huge gilt mirror hung on the bricks over the mantelpiece. There were no rugs, just the bare floor. He walked over to the bar and poured himself a glass of gin, and dumped slices of blood-red orange into it. He stirred it for a moment, and took a drink before he came back into the sitting area and plopped down in a chair. He looked over at me and gav
e me a weak smile. “I look like hell, don’t I?” He took another drink. “Don’t answer that. I know the answer and I don’t need polite social bullshit. I’ve certainly seen better days. But we’ve all been through a lot this last month and you know what? I don’t give a shit what people think, no offense.” He took another drink and looked over at me.
“You know, I told Iris not to hire you. Of course she didn’t listen to me.”
“Why?” I asked. “What harm was there in her trying to find her father?”
“It was a stupid idea. I told her no good would come of it, and I was right—but Iris never listened to anyone once she made up her mind. She was always that way.” He shrugged. “I mean, come on. Her fucking dad walked out on her before she was even born, right? If he wanted to know her, he knew where the hell she was—and her brothers. If you ask me, any man who could just walk away from his wife and kids that way doesn’t deserve to know them—and it sure seemed like that’s how he felt, right?” He barked out a laugh. “And now he’ll never know her, right? She’s dead.” He lifted his glass. “And I doubt if Darrin or Joshua gives a shit. I know Darrin didn’t. He had the right attitude, if you ask me.”