by Greg Herren
“I’m so sorry you had to find him like that, Meredith. Did you know him well?”
“I knew him. I don’t know if I’d say well. We weren’t friends. I mean, I’m the hired help, and that’s a line people like the Lovejoys never cross, if you know what I mean.”
I did. I knew plenty of people like that. The social strata in a city like New Orleans have built up over generations, and it wasn’t as easy to move up a level as it was to move down. Barbara Castlemaine might invite me to her parties on occasion, but I never fooled myself that she viewed me as anything more than an employee whose company she enjoyed from time to time. No matter how often we sat around in her parlor drinking champagne and gossiping, I never forgot that we were not on the same level.
She took a sip from the water bottle. “I don’t think the Lovejoys had many friends, really.” She frowned. “People were socially polite to them—they certainly knew a lot of people. All the openings here were packed. That piece in the New York Times didn’t do either of them any favors, if you know what I mean. She was doing major damage control once that came out. People were pissed. But you know she was good at spin.” She rubbed her forehead. “She claimed things she said were twisted, taken out of context, you know what I mean. It was all bullshit, of course she said all of those things. She really had a low opinion of New Orleans, and the locals. But she just saw everyone as a sucker to be fleeced.” She gestured to the artwork in the gallery. “She wasn’t interested in art. She was interested in making money, which is fine. I just have a different opinion about art, is all. If the job market was any better I would have quit.” She sighed. “I’ve been looking, there just isn’t anything out there.” She swallowed and recapped her water. “I suppose now I’ll have to flip burgers or something.”
“What did you think of Collier?”
“He wasn’t as bad as she is, you know? I’m not sure how to put it…Everything she said or did was calculated and phony. Collier was—he didn’t seem as phony as Myrna. He seemed naturally nice, like he didn’t have to work at it the way she did. Do you know what I mean?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Myrna was different, but she was a saleswoman, you know? She could talk to anyone, put them at ease, make them feel at home here, like she was their friend and was doing them this enormous favor by selling them art at these low prices.” She rolled her eyes. “I guess she was just better at being phony than he is—was.” Her eyes got wide. “I should probably try to call her—” She reached for her purse.
I gently grabbed her wrist to stop her. “I think it would probably be better if the police let her know, Meredith,” I said softly.
She resisted me for just a moment before letting her arm go limp. “Yes, you’re probably right.” Her eyes filled with tears. “This is horrible, absolutely horrible. Myrna’s going to be destroyed, just devastated.”
“They had a good marriage?”
“Oh, yes, it was pretty obvious if you ever saw them together how much they adored each other. And Cooper—” She broke off again, her hand flying up to her lips. “Cooper. Oh, that poor boy. That poor, poor boy.” She smiled, using a tissue to dab at her eyes. “Such a nice kid, Chanse. I mean, no matter what I may think of Myrna and her business practices, that is one sweet boy. I always say you can tell the parents by the child, you know? And he’s so nice, and smart. Really good-looking, straight A’s at Newman, plays football. Myrna and Collier adore—adored—him.” She drummed her fingernails on the desktop. “Listen at me, rambling on like some crazy bitch, right? Oh, what is taking the police so long? I’m sorry, Chanse, I—I know I’m acting like a fool.”
“It’s all right, Meredith,” I said, managing to keep my voice calm and soothing. “In this case, you’re allowed. I’d be more concerned if you didn’t react to this kind of shock.”
One of the reasons I left the police force in the first place and started my own business is because I got tired of seeing death. Car accidents, fires, suicides, accidental shootings, domestic disputes, bar fights—after two years I’d had enough and turned in my badge. I’d never regretted the decision. But as a private eye, I still came across more death than the average person. I knew by focusing on Meredith I was warding off my own shock, my body’s reaction. “It’s okay. Keep talking.”
“Thanks for letting me ramble on like an utter fool,” she replied, shaking her head. Some of her hair had come loose from the French braid, wispy tendrils bouncing around her face. “I’m sorry, really.” She gave me a wan smile. “Was I this bad the last time?”
“You’re much better this time,” I said, giving her a smile and a pat on the shoulder. She rewarded me with a smile just as a police car pulled up to the curb outside. I stood up and my back rewarded me with a sharp jolt of pain. Oh, not now, for Christ’s sake, I thought as I put my hands up and moved to the front window. The throbbing was getting stronger. The crime lab van also came screeching up, going up onto the curb. Once it stopped moving, doors began opening and lab techs in raincoats started getting out with their equipment. I walked back over to the door and unlocked it, pulling it open and holding up my hands so the cops could see I wasn’t a threat. “I called it in,” I said to the two uniformed officers as they came inside. I gestured in Meredith’s direction with my head. “She works here. The victim is the gallery owner’s husband. The body’s back in the owner’s office, in the hallway back there. The door’s open. The body’s been there for some time, maybe overnight.”
The younger officer, a white woman with all of her hair tucked up inside her cap, flipped open a notebook and pulled a pen out of her jacket pocket. She was short, barely over five feet tall, with pale skin and a slender figure the uniform didn’t flatter. Her name was A. LATRELLE. Her eyes were dark brown, framed by long curly lashes. She wasn’t wearing makeup, and water from her yellow rain slicker was dripping onto the floor. Her partner, an older black man with a thick, stocky body, drew his gun from its holster and headed for the back of the gallery. “And you are?” she asked, both of her eyebrows going up. Her eyes flicked up and down, giving me a suspicious once-over.
“Chanse MacLeod. I’m a private eye. My ID is in my wallet, in my back pocket.” I turned slightly to the side to let her see it before reaching back and pulling it out of my pocket. I flipped it open. My private eye license was on the right side, my driver’s license on the left.
“Private eye?” She frowned after writing my name and driver’s license number down. “What are you doing here? Did a case bring you to the Lovejoy Gallery?” Unasked was and does your investigation have something to do with why there’s a dead body here?
I didn’t want to explain anything to her. Venus and Blaine were on their way, and I’d just have to explain it all over again to them. But I didn’t want to be flagged as uncooperative, either. “I was hired yesterday to find some missing paintings,” I said, opening the door again so the crime scene techs could bring their equipment in. “The paintings were purchased from here—my client bought them from Myrna Lovejoy, or rather, she acted as the agent for the previous owner. My client doesn’t know who the original owner was, so I came by here see if Myrna Lovejoy would tell me. There was some question about the provenance—the past ownership of the paintings. The last thing in the world I wanted to do was stumble over her husband’s body.” I quickly described how Meredith and I had wound up finding the body. “I’ve never seen him before,” I concluded. “It was Ms. Cole who identified him.”
“And where is Mrs. Lovejoy?” She frowned. “Has she tried to reach her since—” She paused.
“She hasn’t tried since we found the body. When I arrived, Ms. Cole mentioned that she had tried to reach Mrs. Lovejoy this morning—but it would be best if Ms. Cole told you her story about this morning, right?” I gave her what I hoped was my most reassuring smile. “After we found the body, Ms. Cole was shaken up, understandably. She wanted to try to reach Mrs. Lovejoy again, but I told her it would probably be better if the police were t
he ones who broke the news to Mrs. Lovejoy.”
Office Latrelle nodded and flipped the notebook closed. “All right. Have a seat, and don’t go anywhere, all right? The detectives are going to want to talk to you.”
I took a seat. She walked over and started interviewing Meredith, but I was far enough away so that I couldn’t hear anything they were saying. I glanced at my watch. God only knew how long I was going to be stuck here. I glanced over at Office Latrelle. She was intently questioning Meredith, writing down her answers, nodding every once in a while at something Meredith told her. She was paying no attention to me. I slipped my phone out of my jacket pocket and sent a quick text to Abby: Collier Lovejoy murdered at the gallery probably last night Myrna not answering her phone Son is at Newman any way you can get over there?
Less than a minute later I got her answer: I would but am in Redemption Parish remember?
I cursed under my breath. Cooper might know where Myrna was—but it was strange Myrna hadn’t noticed her husband hadn’t come home last night. It would have been great to question Myrna before the police got to her, but it couldn’t be helped. I shook my head. I couldn’t believe I’d forgotten Abby was in Redemption Parish for the morning. The meds were definitely fucking with my memory. I texted back no problem, I’ll figure it out.
I decided to check my emails and read the report she’d prepared on Bill Marren to pass the time when a black SUV I recognized pulled up outside, parking behind the crime lab van. Both doors opened, two enormous black and gold Saints umbrellas opening on either side of the SUV before Venus and Blaine climbed down. It was still pouring outside, and they hurriedly crossed the sidewalk. Venus made a face when she opened the gallery door and saw me. She shut her umbrella and shook it out as she came inside. She strolled over to me with an eyebrow arched. “Again?” she asked, putting her hands on her hips. “I’m starting to think of you as the angel of death, my friend.”
I hadn’t known Venus when I worked on the force, but I knew who she was. Now in her late fifties, she was a bit of a legend with the New Orleans Police Department. She was the first woman of color to make detective, and she was tougher than most of her male colleagues. An athlete, she’d put herself through college on a basketball scholarship and won an Olympic medal as an alternate on the women’s team. She’d majored in criminal justice. She was New Orleans born and bred, growing up in the East, and after college she came back home to join the department. She’d married a lawyer and raised two daughters—also athletes—while working as a beat cop. Once the girls were in school she made detective. She’d divorced her husband after her youngest daughter went off to college, keeping the big house in a gated community in New Orleans East as part of her divorce settlement. The flood had, of course, destroyed the house completely, and she’d been living in the carriage house behind Blaine and Todd’s house ever since.
She was a tall woman, and you’d never guess her age from looking at her smooth, unwrinkled face. She had strong features, cheekbones that could cut glass, and a slim, muscular body with a small waist and long, well-muscled legs she liked to show off with stiletto heels that added a couple of inches to her six feet. Her hair was cut close to the scalp. There was some gray in there now, but that was the only indication of her age. She was wearing a long gray trench coat, belted but unbuttoned. Underneath I could see a white silk blouse over black wool slacks. A black leather shoulder bag hung over her left arm, and she held a cup of Starbucks coffee in her right hand. She had a reputation for honesty and not putting up with any crap from anyone. She’d pushed a lot of buttons on the force when she moved up to detective—there were still plenty of assholes who objected to her gender and her race. But she’d ignored the nastiness, outlasting and outsmarting the assholes who wanted her gone. She earned the grudging respect of even the biggest misogynist racists in the NOPD through her hard work and dedication to the job. There were still some rumors about her being a lesbian, which she just laughed off, saying, “If the worst thing they can find to say about me is I’m a lesbian, well, that says more about them than it does me. If I was a lesbian there’d be no question about it because there’s nothing wrong with being one.”
I shrugged. “I swear, this time I had no clue what I was walking into, Venus. I just came by to talk to Myrna Lovejoy.”
“Yeah, you always say that.” Venus rolled her eyes as she put the coffee down on the little table next to the chair I was sitting on. She fished her notepad out of her shoulder bag. There was an expensive pen clipped to it. I knew Venus was an honest cop, but she had a definite taste for the finer things. Paige told me once that Venus had taken her husband to the cleaners in the divorce—he’d gotten his secretary pregnant and was willing to do pretty much anything to get free to marry her. She glanced over to where Blaine was talking to the cop who’d been interviewing Meredith. She lowered her voice. “You think this has something to do with Bill Warren and those damned paintings stolen from Belle Riviere?”
“I honestly don’t know.” I replied. Of course Blaine had told her about the Belle Riviere case. If Blaine hadn’t, Todd would have. “But it seems like a pretty big coincidence, don’t you think? The paintings are stolen, and there’s a murder in the gallery that originally sold them?” Venus liked coincidences even less than I did.
The look on my face made her laugh. “Yeah, I know all about the robbery. I was there when Todd asked Blaine to have you go out there and talk to them.” She shook her head. “Just between you and me, Blaine and I have done a little checking into it ourselves, you know—unofficially.” She glanced over her shoulder at Blaine again and lowered her voice even more. “Let’s meet up later at my place for drinks, we can swap stories, okay? I was going to call you later anyway—Blaine and I can tell you what we know…this isn’t the place for it, though. But something’s seriously rotten in Redemption Parish.”
“Shit—I sent Abby up there today to nose around,” I replied, wincing as another bolt of pain shot out from my lower back. “She’s not in any danger up there, is she?”
She hissed through her teeth. “She should be okay, but if she asks the wrong person the wrong question…” She let her voice trail off for a moment. “No, get that look off your face! I was fucking with you.” She shook her head and barked out a little laugh. “Seriously, though, Abby’s not a fool, Chanse—you of all people should know that. She’s not going to get herself into trouble, she knows how to take care of herself.” She patted me on the shoulder. “Let me go check on the lab techs and get a view of the crime scene. Don’t go anywhere, okay?” She looked at me. “Take a pain pill, buddy, if your back’s bothering you that bad.”
I nodded as she walked away, her heels clicking across the floor as she headed to the hallway. I glanced over at Blaine, now talking to Meredith with a sympathetic look on his face. Venus was right; if I was going to have to stay here and give a full statement, I needed a pain pill. I’d just dry-swallowed a Vicodin when my phone started vibrating in my pocket. I pulled it out and didn’t recognize the number on the screen, but I recognized the area code. Redemption Parish. Thinking it might be Abby, I answered. “MacLeod.”
“Chanse! This is Tom Ziebell,” he said cheerfully. “Glad I caught you. I’m on my way into the city, and was wondering if maybe we could meet for dinner? I want to talk to you some more about the paintings and everything. Bill—well, Bill didn’t want me to tell you about my problems with the sheriff’s department yesterday because he thinks I’m overreacting and the two things aren’t related. But I can’t help but feel they are, you know? I figure you should at least know about what’s going on up here, make up your own mind if the two cases are related. No matter what Bill says, the way the sheriff is treating us is definitely motivated by homophobia. Anyway. What do you say, are you free around, say, eight? I have some business but I should be free by then.”
“Yeah, sure. Um—”
“I met your partner this morning. She’s your business partner, right?” His emphasis on th
e adjective caught me a bit off guard.
“Yes.” Was he flirting with me? I shook my head. He was a client, and he was already involved with someone. It must be the meds messing with my perceptions again.
“She’s sharp. And pretty.” He laughed. “She thinks I’m right to be suspicious of Sheriff Parlange. I can tell you all about him over dinner.”
“Yes, well, Tom, I’m actually at the Lovejoy Gallery right now.” Might as well tell him, get it out in the open—he was going to find out soon enough anyway. “I came by here to talk to Myrna. Have you or Bill talked to her since I was out at Belle Riviere yesterday?”
“Bill talked to her last night, let her know you’d be wanting to meet with her and that it was okay with us if she talked to you,” he replied, his tone questioning. “Is Myrna refusing to talk to you about the paintings? Do you need me to talk to her?”
I bit my lower lip. “I haven’t seen Myrna, Tom. Her assistant here at the gallery can’t seem to reach her, either. Do you know about what time Bill talked to her?”
“It was around seven, I think, right before we had dinner. Why?”
I exhaled. “No one seems to be able to find her today, and her husband—Collier—well, he’s been shot. He’s dead, Tom. Sometime last night, here at the gallery, in her office—someone shot and killed him. The police are here now.”
There was a long silence before he finally let out a low whistle. “Holy shit. This isn’t good.”
“No, it’s not,” I replied, wondering if Tom could prove he hadn’t come into the city last night. He’s your client. Why would he want to kill Myrna’s husband? What was his motive?
Just because I didn’t know what his motive was didn’t mean he didn’t have one.
Hell, for that matter, Bill could have driven in and killed Collier.
There was another long silence. “Should Bill and I be worried?” he asked quietly. “Should we talk to a lawyer?”