G.T. Herren - Paige Tourneur 01 - Fashion Victim (11 page)

He kissed me and climbed the steps. Once he disappeared upstairs, I walked into the kitchen and sat down at my computer. I scrolled through all of my emails, finding nothing that needed answering, and then checked my electronic appointment book. The only thing on my schedule for the office tomorrow was a budget meeting at one, so I quickly typed out an email to Rachel, explaining why I wouldn’t be in until later and giving her an update.

I closed the mail program and did an Internet search for Isabelle DePew.

There was nothing, not even a Facebook account.

Who on earth has no presence at all on the Internet?
I wondered. That was enough to make me suspicious.

I emailed Chanse and asked him to find out everything he possibly could about one Isabelle DePew.

I shut down my computer and turned off the lights.

I yawned as I climbed the stairs.

Damn, it had been a hell of a weekend
.

Chapter Twelve

Ryan was gone when I woke up the next morning at nine, but I could smell freshly brewed coffee downstairs.

I really don’t deserve him
, I thought as I brushed my teeth and washed my face,
and I’m crazy not to leap at the chance to marry him
.

Marriage, though, was an option for my life I’d discarded long ago.

I didn’t even like to think about it.

The fact Ryan wasn’t going to push me only made me love him that much more.

I walked downstairs and poured myself a cup of coffee. I sighed with bliss as I took a drink. Ryan always made the best coffee.

Enough of this, you have work to do, so get to it. That article isn’t going to write itself
.

I stared at the computer screen. The word document I’d opened last night taunted me, the cursor blinking maddeningly back at me. I typed two words:
Fashion Victim
.

That’s a start
, I thought with a slight smile. I pushed the cobwebs out of my mind by sheer force of will and started typing:

In the early morning hours of a Saturday, Marigny Mercereau was shot to death in her luxurious Uptown home. Earlier in the evening, she had enjoyed one of the biggest successes of her long career in fashion: her first full showing of a new line of designs since Hurricane Katrina. As she stood at the foot of the grand staircase in her showroom, drinking in the applause of everyone in attendance, she couldn’t have possibly known she had only a few hours left to live
.

The words began flowing, the way they always had, and I went into what I always referred to as “the trance,” when everything else around me went away and all that mattered was the words flowing from my mind through my body to my fingers tapping away on the keyboard. Nothing matters when I’m in the trance— my house could burn to the ground around me and I wouldn’t notice. I kept typing, leaving a series of bold question marks in place where I needed to either refer to my notes or verify some information. At some point Skittle hopped into my lap, purring, and went to sleep while my coffee got cold in its cup.

I finally came out of it and sat back in the chair with a heavy sigh. My forearms ached a bit from resting on the edge of my desk. My shoulders and neck were also sore. I pushed Skittle off my lap and looked down at the bottom of the document for the word count. I had typed three thousand words. But I couldn’t finish it because I still didn’t know how I was going to end the piece. I got up and dumped my cold coffee in the sink and poured another cup. The coffee maker had shut itself off— it was past eleven. I heated the coffee in the microwave and ran a hand through my hair.

If Jackson didn’t kill his mother, who had?

The first person the cops look at in the case of a homicide is the spouse. Marigny might be divorced, and there was so clearly bad blood between her and her most recent ex… but why would he wait so long to come after her? Surely Marigny would have changed any will she might have made in his favor. And while she had done an excellent job of assassinating his character in her memoirs, he couldn’t possibly have known that.

But the embezzler couldn’t have been Tony— there was no way he could have stolen anything from her after that nasty divorce. Still it bothered me that he and his mistress had disappeared so completely. I drummed my fingers on the desktop, thinking.

I did not believe for one second Jackson had embezzled from his mother.

Jackson was certainly extravagant— he liked to put on airs, as they say— but to steal from his mother? I couldn’t believe he would do that. No, if someone was stealing from the House of Mercereau, it made more sense that it was Isabelle DePew.

What
had
she been doing at Audrey Vidrine’s Saturday afternoon, anyway? I remembered her manner, the way she talked, how her eyes had stayed cold when she put that phony smile on her face. She hadn’t sounded sincere as she raved on and on about Marigny. Something about her was just not right.

I didn’t like not being able to find out
anything
about her on the Internet.

I sat down at the desk. I pulled up my browser and tried again. Nothing. I went to the House of Mercereau website, but she wasn’t even listed there as an employee when I clicked on the “staff” link. Weird.

I clicked my email program open to see if Chanse had responded.

There was one from Rachel, telling me not to bother coming into the office:
The story is a lot more important than the meeting. I’ll reschedule it. Just get this done!

I responded, attaching what I had written so far, along with some notes about what I needed to add to it, what sidebars should be done— and I also requested she send me all the picture files from the party. We were probably going to have to use an old portrait of Marigny for the cover, since the scheduled photo shoot had never taken place. I swore under my breath— where the hell were we going to get an old publicity shot of her? There was one on her website, of course, but it wouldn’t be high enough resolution for print. The house was probably still sealed off as a crime scene, and chances were they’d hauled off her computer as evidence.

Jackson would hardly be in the mood to be bothered at this point. I’d seen him last night at the police station, when Loren McKeithen had finally put a stop to the police questioning. He’d been a wreck, his eyes bloodshot and his face red, his hands shaking. Having witnessed police interrogations plenty of times, I wasn’t surprised he was in such bad shape. He’d barely mumbled a “thank you” to me when Aramis and Loren escorted him out of the station.

Jackson wouldn’t welcome a call or visit from me today.

Maybe— maybe I could stop by the House of Mercereau? Maybe someone was there who could find the photo I needed.

It was an excuse, of course. I really just wanted to snoop around the house.

The cops might buy it— but I’d only need to use it if I got caught.

I checked through the rest of my email, but there wasn’t anything from Chanse, not even an acknowledgment of my request for information about Isabelle. I tried his cell, but it went right to voicemail.

Maybe he’s hot on the trail of Amber and Tony
, I thought, heading up the stairs to take a shower and get dressed.

I still hadn’t heard back from him half an hour later as I got into my car and headed uptown. Rachel hadn’t responded to my email yet, either. As I drove, I continued convincing myself that it made perfect sense for me to go by the House of Mercereau without getting permission from Jackson, or seeing if he had any pictures of his mother the magazine could use. Besides, I wasn’t going to break in. I was just going to see if any of the staff was around and get some more material for my article in addition to a photo of Marigny. If no one was there, I could just take some shots of the place with my digital camera.

It might piss off Venus and Blaine for me to mess around at their crime scene, but they’d get over it. They also didn’t have to know.

You could call them
, an annoying little voice whispered in my head. Of course I ignored it, the way I always did.

They’d be happy if by some remote chance I solved their case for them, right? A win-win for everyone.

Ah, the lies we tell ourselves.

I found a place to park on Nashville and walked up to Magazine Street. I tried calling Chanse again but got his voicemail. I frowned, and turned the corner just in time to see someone slip inside the front gates of the House of Mercereau.

Interesting
, I thought, dumping my phone back into my purse. I hadn’t gotten a good look, so I hurried along the sidewalk, fumbling in my bag for my digital camera. The gates were slightly open, and I got to them just in time to see a woman going inside the front door. I couldn’t be certain, but it sure looked a lot like Isabelle DePew. I pressed the silver button on my digital camera and tried to get a picture of her entry, but I wasn’t fast enough. Now what in the hell was
she
doing here? Destroying evidence, maybe?

I should have called Venus. But I didn’t.

I wanted to see what Isabelle was up to before getting the police involved. After all, her being here could be entirely innocent, right? Maybe she just wanted to get some personal items out of her office or desk. I didn’t see crime scene tape anywhere, so maybe it was perfectly legit for her to go inside.

I carefully opened the gates and walked inside. I didn’t close them completely, just enough so they looked closed. I made sure the latch didn’t catch. The last thing in the world I needed was to be trapped inside. I bit my lower lip. What would I do if she left before me and locked the gates? I’d have to climb the fence or figure out some other way to let myself out. I looked at the fence and swallowed. It looked climbable.

I hurried up the walkway to the steps, hesitating a moment before climbing up to the gallery. A chill went up my spine. The last time I’d been here the place had been alive, full of people and light and noise. Now the only sound was the occasional car driving past on Magazine Street. The entire place was silent as a tomb. I took a deep breath and climbed the steps. When I reached the top, I could see the crime scene tape had been bunched up into a ball and tossed into a corner.

Whoever was inside was contaminating a crime scene.

The smart thing to do was go back to the gates and call Venus.

But I’m not known for doing the smart thing.

The front door was ajar, and it was just too big a temptation for me. I stepped inside carefully, trying desperately not to make any sound, afraid that I was even breathing too loud.

I could hear voices murmuring upstairs. I strained to hear but couldn’t make out any words, couldn’t tell who was doing the talking. All I knew for sure was there was more than one person trespassing inside the House of Mercereau.

I had to find out who was upstairs.

I reached in my purse and put my hand on my phone. I flicked the switch on the side, setting it to vibrate. I touched the screen and pressed the voice memo app button. I turned it on, placing it in the side pocket of my purse.

I didn’t know what its range was, but it was best to be prepared for anything.

I turned off my camera and put it back in my purse. The shutters were closed, and it was so dark and shadowy inside, any picture would need a flash. Since it’s hard to sneak pictures of anyone when a flash goes off, it was going to be useless to me.

The big main room was still set up for the fashion show from Friday night. The uncomfortable white plastic chairs were still in rows, but some were askew, others lying on their sides. Plastic cups with the remnants of drinks were almost everywhere— clearly Marigny had planned on having the place cleaned up the next morning. I tiptoed to the foot of the stairs, carefully stepping around chairs and cups, trying not to make any noise. I was listening, but still couldn’t make out what the voices were saying. I could only hope I wouldn’t step on a creaky board. That little voice in my head started urging me to get the hell out and call Venus, but again I ignored it. I could hear my heart beating in my ears, and I was getting the old adrenaline rush I used to get when I was on a story for the paper.

I’d missed that feeling.

The voices were still too muffled for me to hear anything clearly, but now I could make out that one of them was male, one female— probably the woman I’d seen. I paused, my foot on the bottom step. All my instincts were telling me to run, get the hell out of there, and call the police.

But what if they didn’t get here in time?

I was the only person who could find out who was here and why they’d broken in.

I took a deep breath, said a short prayer, and started creeping up the stairs.

The voices became more and more clear as I got closer to the second floor. I was starting to be able to make out individual words.

One of the speakers was definitely Isabelle— I recognized her high-pitched voice. But I couldn’t tell who the man was— I’d never heard his voice before.

“I’m telling you it has to be here,” the man was saying. “She must have moved it somewhere. She wouldn’t have gotten rid of anything that made her money. You know that as well as I do.”

“You need to hurry up,” Isabelle’s voice was angry. “If we get caught in here we’re going to jail, and I am not going to go to jail for you. Just take the goddamned money and jewelry from the safe. They already think Jackson was embezzling from the old bitch, they’ll just think he stole this stuff, too.”

Her voice was harder, more mature sounding than when I’d talked to her before. I knew this was the
real
Isabelle— whoever the hell she was.

“Honey, you know as well as I do the real money is on that fucking flash drive,” the man replied, his voice cajoling. “How are we going to turn these jewels into cash anyway? And there’s only a couple grand in her fucking safe. The flash drive is a gold mine.”

“I told you, I don’t know what she did with it. She might have destroyed it. She got the money, didn’t she?” Isabelle‘s voice became whiny. “Come on, Tony, let’s get out of here. Isn’t it enough that she’s dead and her son’s going to fry for it?”