G.T. Herren - Paige Tourneur 02 - Dead Housewives of New Orleans (10 page)

I closed my eyes and muttered a quick prayer for Chloe.

I may not have liked her, but even I didn’t want her to not rest in peace.

I barely made it to Margery Lautenschlaeger’s on time.

I was still a little shaky, to be honest— and several times on the drive from the Garden District to Margery’s, my hands were shaking so badly I wondered if I should just turn the car around, head home, and curl up in my easy chair with a glass of whiskey. It’s not like it was the first time I’d ever found a dead body— but I think it’s a good thing that I haven’t gotten so used to it that it doesn’t bother me. There were a couple of times I had to pull over to the side of the road and take some long deep cleansing breaths like the therapist I used to see taught me. I hadn’t had a panic attack in years— but I still could recognize the signs of one starting so I could take appropriate measures to head it off.

I don’t think that’s something one ever forgets, to be honest.

I was also afraid if I cancelled at the last minute, I might not get another chance to talk to Margery, and I was really curious to find out why she wanted to speak to me so urgently.

At the rate the grande dames were getting killed, she might not be around long enough for me to interview.

The tea Remy Valence had given me helped calm my nerves somewhat. The paramedics had wanted me to go to Touro to get my head X-rayed, but I was pretty certain I was fine. I have a pretty hard head, and I could handle the lump as long as I had something to make the headache go away. I had to promise to call an ambulance if I got dizzy or started throwing up or had any of the other signs of concussion. They gave me some ibuprofen and an icepack while I waited for Venus and Blaine to finish looking over the crime scene. A uniformed black woman asked me some questions while another cop took Remy away from me— they like to keep witnesses apart so we can’t cook up a story together. I sat there impatiently, checking the time on my phone as the crime lab took care of the crime scene outside— I could see them out of the windows. It hadn’t stopped raining, either, which had to be playing havoc with any physical evidence out there. Finally, I was able to give Venus and Blaine my statement about finding Chloe dead by the pool, just hours after sharing a meal with them in my apartment. I also had to promise to come down to the station to give an official statement— but they were kind enough to let me wait until the morning.

Of course, I’m fairly certain they thought I was going to head home when I left the Valence mansion.

And to be completely honest, I did play up the whole head injury thing a bit so I could get out of there faster.

If that makes me a bad person, well, that’s something I can live with. But if I hadn’t, I could have been stuck there for the rest of the evening— either at the mansion or at the police station. I didn’t want to call Margery and try to reschedule. And I really wanted to see the inside of her house— this might be my only chance.

There was really nothing I could contribute to their investigation anyway. All I did was find the body— I didn’t see or hear anything. There was no telling how long Chloe had been dead, either, until there was an autopsy.

I did kind of feel bad for Billy Barron though— he certainly no longer had an alibi for killing Fidelis. It couldn’t be a coincidence that two cast-mates from the show were having affairs with him, and both had been murdered by blunt force trauma to the head.

Such were my thoughts as I headed uptown on St. Charles Avenue.

The gates were open when I turned into the driveway. The Schwartzberg mansion, built sometime after the Civil War, was an anomaly in New Orleans— there was no other house even remotely like it in the city. Isaac Schwartzberg got rich as a jeweler to the New Orleans society after the Civil War. He’d built the house as a kind of ‘fuck-you’ to his anti-Semitic clients, who were more than happy to buy his diamonds but wouldn’t invite him and his wife to dine in their homes— or allow them to join the Boston Club or mix with the highest levels of New Orleans society. His goal was to build the biggest, most spacious, most one of a kind house in the city— a showplace impossible to forget once seen. He brought is an architect from New York known for the colossal ‘summer cottages’ he’d built for the wealthy in Newport or the Hamptons, told him what he wanted, and opened his wallet, ready to spend whatever he had to. He wound up having to buy several lots, tearing down the houses that were already there, and started building what was often referred to as Isaac’s Folly behind his back.

As far as “fuck-you’s” went, it was pretty impressive.

It was intended to look like a castle on the outside while the inside was more along the lines of royal country chateaus in the Loire Valley. He even had an artificial hill made for the house to sit on so it was higher than every other house on the Avenue. It was one of the few houses in the city made of stone— tan Arizona sandstone, which he’d imported at enormous expense by railroad. It was built square with each side the same length, and at each corner of the house was a square tower with crenellated molding at the top. The windows were all enormous but the curtains were rarely, if ever, open. I didn’t even want to think about how much the entire property might be valued at today. Once the house was finished, he and his wife went on a tour of Europe, buying paintings to adorn the walls and sculptures for the alcoves and the gardens behind it. The collection was one of the most famous in the South, and Margery was always loaning pieces to museums. The library was one of the largest private book collections in the south— there were rumors that a first edition
Huckleberry Finn,
autographed by Mark Twain, was the showpiece of the library. There were stories that Twain had actually stayed in the house on a visit to New Orleans.

Margery was the last descendant of Isaac to bear the name Schwartzberg. The Buchmaier family were also direct descendants of Isaac— they lived in a much more traditional Victorian mansion further downtown on the Avenue. When Isaac diversified into alcohol, he handed the jewelry business over to his daughter Leah and her husband, Judah Buchmaier. The liquor business Isaac founded, Black Mountain Liquors, stopped producing their own brands shortly after World War II, but they still were the major liquor distributor in New Orleans— and you’ll never go broke supplying bars, stores, and restaurants in this city with liquor.

The mansion was polarizing— people either loved it because it was unique and different, or hated it because it was unique and different.

I’d loved it from the first time I saw it. I was still at LSU, and had come down to New Orleans to use the library at Tulane. As I drove my battered Toyota up St. Charles, I’d seen it out of the corner of my eye and pulled over immediately, unable to stop staring at it. The more traditional New Orleans architecture is stunningly beautiful, of course— but I thought Schwartzberg Castle was equally as beautiful. I’d always wanted to see the inside of the house, and Margery’s reluctance to allow photographers inside only heightened my desire.

It had finally stopped raining as I drove up the man-made hill and parked in front of the house. As I got out of the car, a servant opened the front door and stood there, patiently waiting as I locked up the car and climbed the stone steps. When I reached the small porch I realized he was huge— taller than even Chanse, which was rare. “Ms. Tourneur?” he asked, his voice deep yet somehow soft at the same time, with a slight bow of his bald head. There was a trace of a British accent in his voice. “Madame is waiting for you in the library. Just walk down the hallway, and it’s the second door on the left.”

“Thank you,” I replied with a smile as I walked into the enormous foyer. The floor was a pale pink marble, polished till it shone. The massive chandelier sparkled with thousands of teardrop crystals as my wet workout shoes made splooshing sounds on the floor. Everything in the foyer and the wide hallway had to be an antique, and everything was completely spotless and shining in the light from the chandeliers. I was very aware of my ratty sweats and wished that I’d had the time to run home and change into something more appropriate for an audience with Margery Lautenschlaeger at Schwartzberg Castle.

Seeing that the second door on the left was open, I rapped my knuckles on it, and entered. The room was like something out of
Architectural Digest.
Each wall was built-in bookshelves from floor to ceiling, and each shelf was neatly filled with books organized efficiently by size. Another gorgeous crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling in the direct center of the room, over a beautiful carved wood table. In the very back of the room was a glass case, with an opened book inside resting on a red velvet pillow.

The priceless
Huckleberry Finn,
no doubt.

Margery rose from her chair and walked toward me, a wide smile on her face. I knew she wasn’t a tall woman, but I wasn’t prepared for how short she actually was. She was wearing white Keds on her feet, and a pair of black skinny jeans beneath a beautiful white cashmere sweater. She’d allowed her dark hair to fall naturally to her shoulders, but I could see enormous diamonds sparkling at her ears, matching the jumbo teardrop diamond hanging on a gold link chain around her neck. Her hands were unadorned except for a plain gold wedding ring. She had on very little make-up— some eyeliner, pale lipstick, and perhaps some mascara. Her smile was warm, and I realized that despite her age there weren’t many lines on her face, or any telltale skin hanging from her chin. Her skin, though, glowed naturally— no surgeon’s knife had ever touched her face. “Paige!” she said, her voice soft and musical. “Thank you for coming. I’ve wanted to meet you for quite some time. I so admire the job you’ve done with
Crescent City.”

“Thank you,” I managed to stammer as she clasped my right hand inside both of hers. Her hands were soft and warm, the nails perfectly manicured. Her eyes were a velvety brown, and almond-shaped. Her eyebrows were too perfectly shaped to be natural, and there was a faint smell of 24 Faubourg, an extremely expensive perfume from Hermes.

“Do come in,” she said, her smile never wavering. “Would you care for something to drink?”

As she gently maneuvered me deeper into the room, I became aware that the two dark blue wingback chairs with their backs to the door were actually occupied. “Um, some water?”

“Have a martini,” said a throaty-voiced woman as she rose from her chair. She turned to face me with a brittle smile. “Serena Castlemaine.” She stuck out her right hand, which I took with mine. Her fingers were long and tapered, and she’d clearly been chewing at her manicured nails, which were now in ruins.

“Nice to meet you,” I replied, noting that she simply allowed her hand to lie limply in mine. Serena was just as tall as Margery was short— she had to be at least five ten in her stocking feet— but she wasn’t in her stocking feet. She was wearing a gorgeous pair of Jimmy Choo pumps, covered in silver glitter and sequins, matching perfectly the sleeveless top she was wearing over black skinny jeans. Her legs seemed to go on forever, and I couldn’t get over how thin she was. She did have big, firm breasts that were straining at the top in a desperate attempt to break free, and her thick blonde hair had been curled and ratted and teased and lacquered into an enormous frame for her face. Her lips had been plumped up at some point, and the skin between her upper lip and her nose was far too smooth to be natural. Her forehead had that same smoothness, and a surgeon had clearly filled in her upper cheeks to make them so oddly yet perfectly round. There was a touch of accent in her voice— Oklahoma or Texas, I wasn’t sure which— and she seemed to have been bathing in Hermes Perfume 24 Faubourg, the same scent Athalie preferred.

“You know Amanda Beth?” Serena asked as she led me around to the chair I was clearly meant to sit down in.

“I’m afraid I don’t,” I stammered, and the other woman rose from her chair to offer me her hand.

“I’m Margery’s daughter, Amanda Beth,” she said, our hands barely touching. She gave me the phoniest smile I’d ever seen. She sat back down, smoothing out her black silk Phillip Lim skirt and crossing her long legs. She was wearing a peach silk Phillip Lim T-shirt, and her shoes were peach leather Jimmy Choos. Her legs were, frankly, extraordinary, and she was tall enough— and beautiful enough— to be a supermodel. Her skin was flawless, and she’d pulled her chestnut brown hair back from a widow’s peak into a chignon. A perfectly round diamond hung from each ear on a two-inch gold chain. A golden squirrel studded with diamonds was pinned to her left shoulder. Her make-up was perfect, accentuating the strong cheekbones in her heart-shaped face, and her waist was so tiny that it almost didn’t seem human. She pursed her lips as she took a sip from an oversized crystal martini glass with two speared olives sunken at the bottom of what must have been highly expensive gin.

Despite my request for water, Margery handed me a similar martini glass filled to the absolute brim with the same liquid. “You do drink gin, don’t you?” she asked, settling into her own chair, picking up her own glass, and taking a swig of unladylike proportions. “I do love a good gin, don’t you?”

The paramedics had warned me not to drink, but this was hardly the first time today I’d done something I shouldn’t. Besides, clearly I didn’t have a concussion. And I might not ever have a chance to have drinks at Schwartzberg Castle again. I took a delicate sip from the glass, and couldn’t believe how delicious the martini was. It was absolutely perfect— but then, why wouldn’t it be? Margery Lautenschlaeger was probably the definitive expert on liquor in a city where almost everyone drank heavily. I took another sip, and put the glass down on a gold coaster with the Black Mountain Liquor emblem on it.

If I’d felt self-conscious about my messy hair, lack of make-up, and old sweat clothes when I’d arrived, sitting in the drawing room with these three exquisitely dressed women made me wish a hole in the ground would open up and swallow me whole. Not, of course, that anything I had in my closet would make me feel any less uncomfortable. All of my designer clothing came from consignment shops on Magazine Street— I was always amazed at what I could find for decent prices in those shops. I could even get away with wearing those second-hand designer threads to society parties around town, even though I often wondered if the original owner of my outfit was at the same party, and the thought always made me laugh out loud.