G.T. Herren - Paige Tourneur 02 - Dead Housewives of New Orleans (12 page)

I had to give him credit— he sat there next to me in the theater Friday night, watching Remy and Chloe pretending to be a happily married couple and didn’t even flinch or blink or say something snarky.

I seriously doubt I would have been able to keep a straight face through that performance had I known about these pictures then.

I picked up the envelope and swiveled in my chair, opening the top drawer of my little file cabinet. I placed it in the very back, and closed the drawer.

Again, I couldn’t help but wonder why someone with so much to hide would go on a reality television show.

I finished the bagel and opened my web browser. I typed in the web address for the cable channel that aired the
Grande Dames
shows. I clicked on the ‘
Grande Dames’
button, and the page promoting the New Orleans franchise opened. I examined the promotional photo of the women, sitting on the veranda of a Greek Revival-style home in formal dresses, all smiling at the camera. I leaned back in my chair.

Two of them were now dead. I stroked my chin. Fidelis and Chloe hadn’t liked each other, dragging the other women into their feud. I clicked on the bio button for Chloe again, reading the bio some publicist for the network had obviously written for her. I scrolled down, glancing through the bios for the other women. I stared at the words and the glamorous headshots of the women next to their bios.

I’d always assumed the shows were staged— that most of the feuding and arguments between the women were actually engineered by the producers of the show. After all, no one watched to see the women get along and be friends. We watched for the drama, after all. Each woman would write a blog for the website after each episode aired, and viewers could post comments— either in support or haranguing her. There were numerous other websites devoted to the shows and other reality shows, as well. Some websites even had writers do recaps, mocking the characters and the drama. Some of them were absolutely hilarious— more fun to read than the shows themselves were to watch. And of course, every celebrity ‘news’ magazine had pretty much abandoned film and television stars to focus on this new breed of celebrity— narcissists who liked to air their dirty laundry on national television. It was now an entire industry, all based on manufactured drama that was really more along the lines of junior high school mean girls behavior. The other franchises of the show’s story lines pretty much followed the classic tropes refined on the old soap operas— misunderstandings, back-stabbing, talking behind each other’s backs.

But the New Orleans bitches weren’t playing around— they’d raised the ante in ways I would have never dreamed of— and I was sure even Abe Golden had expected it to go so far.

Threatening each other with lawyers and hiring private detectives to dig up dirt on the other cast members was raising the bar far higher than any of the other shows had ever dared to go.

Looking through the photographs had been an eye-opening experience about my own behavior.

I’d always watched these shows with a smug air of superiority regarding the women. It wasn’t even a conscious thing with me. They might have the money to wear designer clothes and have beautiful homes and jewelry and take fabulous vacations in exclusive places— places I certainly could never afford to go— but I felt like I was better than they were. I didn’t indulge in the kind of petty junior-high-girls-in-the-cafeteria behavior they did, which made me a better person. I could moralize about their behavior, discussing it with Chanse or posting comments on their blogs or the Huffington Post’s recap, all the while believing myself above the fray.

Yet I had never told Ryan the truth about my past— and even after having decided to come clean with him, I kept putting it off. I’d been relieved when Athalie called me— hadn’t even tried to put up any resistance to her insistence that I come back to New Orleans.

How was I any better than Chloe? She’d tried to bury her past and reinvent herself. I’d done the same thing. I’d run away to start over, even changing my name. And for the last fifteen or sixteen years, rather than dealing with any of it, I kept pushing it to the back of my mind.
I’ll deal with that some other time
was the mantra I kept repeating. And now almost sixteen years had passed.

I opened another tab and went to my email inbox. I clicked on the ‘stalker’ folder, and the list of weird emails popped up on the screen, all from the same series of numbers.

I did a web search for the area code of the first three numbers of the return addresses.

Hattiesburg, Mississippi.

Less than three hours away.

I plugged the entire address into an online reverse directory, but nothing came up. The phone number was either unlisted or blocked from the public.

I got my cell phone and scrolled through the contacts until I found the one I was looking for. I pressed the call button.

“Hey, Paige. What’s up?”

“Abby, are you busy?”

Abby Grosjean was Chanse’s business partner, and she was absolutely amazing. In her mid-twenties, she’d put herself through the University of New Orleans with a dual major in Pre-Law and Theater by working as a dancer at the Catbox Club on Bourbon Street. She’d been accepted into Loyola’s law school, but couldn’t swing the tuition. Chanse had originally hired her on a part-time basis to do some research for him, and she’d proved to be a natural at investigation. Her theater training, coupled with the years dancing on Bourbon Street, gave her a leg-up on disguises and surveillance work. After she’d proven herself to be invaluable, he’d helped her get licensed as a private eye and brought her on board as a partner.

“Nah, got nothing going on at the moment. What d’ya need?”

“It’s not much of anything, really, but I’ll pay you for your time, of course.” I took a deep breath. Chanse probably wouldn’t charge me for this, but I wasn’t ready to answer any of the questions he’d ask me if I went to him. “I’ve been getting some weird emails from a cell phone. I was able to get a bead on the area code, of course— Hattiesburg— but I can’t trace the number.”

“Probably a disposable cell,” Abby replied. “Is that all you want, a trace on the number?”

“Well, if it’s disposable, it can’t be traced, right?”

“Depends.” She laughed. “It’s not easy, but it can be done. They usually come with a small amount of minutes, and if they never reload the minutes, no, it can’t be traced. But to buy more time, you have to have a form of payment— you can’t use cash. It has to be a debit or a credit card. Most people don’t think about that— but then, most people aren’t criminals, either.”

“Terrific.” I looked at the list of emails. “I’ve been getting these off and on for a few weeks now.”

“Pay as you go phones are ridiculously overpriced. I think they charge like thirty-five cents per minute, minimum. And data— emails, the Internet— is even more expensive. Sounds like whoever’s sending you the emails had to have re-upped at least once.”

I blew out a sigh of relief. This was better than I’d hoped. “Just send me an invoice as soon as you’re finished, of course.”

She laughed again. “Shit, Paige, I can’t charge you for that. That’ll take no more than ten minutes, tops— Jeph could do this with his eyes closed while playing Halo.” Her live-in boyfriend, Jephtha, had a natural gift for computers. That was actually how Chanse and I had met her— I’d done a story on Jephtha when he got out of jail. He’d grown up in the lower 9th ward with an absentee father and a mother who didn’t really give a shit what he did. Once he was in high school, his aptitude for computers showed itself, and unfortunately he got caught doing some hacking and on-line credit card fraud. He got his GED while in prison, but once he got out couldn’t get any work other than washing dishes or something just as menial. I’d done a story on him, using him to illustrate how promising kids’ futures were being thrown away in Orleans Parish, and Chanse hired him to do some computer work for him. It worked out so well Chanse put him on a regular retainer. I’d even had Jephtha do some research for me from time to time. Between Abby’s working with Chanse and Jephtha’s freelance work, they were doing quite well for themselves. Jephtha’s dream, though, was to design computer games. He’d already done a couple that I thought were amazing. “What’s the number?”

I gave it to her, adding, “Well, how about if I buy you lunch at Hoshun? Does that work for you?”

“It’s overpayment, but I’ll never turn down some General Tso’s chicken.” I heard her rustling around doing something. “I’ve got to do some final interviews with some people to wrap up another case, and that’ll probably take the rest of the morning… I should be done with them around one, and then I can get started on this.” She hummed for a few moments. “Like I said, it shouldn’t take long. But to be safe, give me a couple of hours. Want to meet at three, or can you wait that long to eat?”

“Perfect.”

“Cool— hey, did you see the news about those
Grande Dames
?” Abby whistled. She didn’t watch the shows— or at least, like so many, didn’t admit to it— and often mocked both Chanse and me for being addicted, saying, “Why don’t you just read a book instead? You know, something that won’t kill brain cells?”

“The murders? I was actually the one who found Chloe Valence.”

She perked up immediately. “Are you investigating? You need some help?”

“Well, I’m doing a piece for the magazine,” I said cautiously. “The murders, obviously, changed the direction of the piece some.”

“I would imagine so.” She laughed. “Look, I’ll help if you want me to. Once I close this open case file this morning, I’ve got nothing else going on right now— Jeph is in the midst of programming a new game, and I’m bored out of my skull. On the house.”

“Better not let Chanse hear you offering to work for free,” I replied, thinking about it. I hated the thought of not paying her, but she was offering— it’s not like I was asking her to work for me as a favor. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“Are you going to make me beg?”

I laughed. “All right— do this for me. See if you can find a connection between the victims— I mean besides the show, obviously. There’s a story— not confirmed— that they were both having an affair with the same man.”

“Billy Barron?” She snorted. “Yeah, right.”

“Why do you say that?”

“They weren’t his type.” She replied. “He’s a regular at the Catbox.” She still danced there from time to time, to ‘keep her hand in,’ as she put it. I think she actually liked dancing but just didn’t want to admit it. Plus, the other girls who worked there were good sources of information. Every straight man in New Orleans, it seemed, wound up there at one time or another. “Billy likes them exotic— Asians, Latinas, light-skinned black girls— and he likes them young. You can take that to the bank, Paige. If he was involved with Fidelis Vandiver and Chloe Valence, I’d be really surprised if it was sexual. Well, I can’t say that for 100%, of course— anything’s possible, I suppose— but I’d be very surprised.”

The young can be so cruel. I decided not to remind her that Chloe was actually a few years younger than me. “All right— see what you can find out. And I’ll see you at Hoshun at three.”

I disconnected the call and put down my phone on my desk. I frowned at Skittle, who was calmly grooming himself on top of my file cabinet. “If they weren’t having an affair with him, what was going on there?” He chirped at me and climbed into my lap, curling up into a ball and going to sleep almost instantly.

What had Rebecca Barron said?
Fidelis thought Steve was going to marry her, and he married me instead. She’s helping my stepsons try to take the company away from me.

I cursed at myself. It was possible, of course, that Fidelis had no qualms about sleeping with a father and son— but most people outside of a daytime soap would. Serena, Margery and Amanda Beth had all three agreed there was some animosity between the two dead women— and Billy Barron was the only link that had turned up so far. It was, come to think of it, rather weird that three of the women on the show were connected through Billy Barron. None of the other shows had these kinds of connections between the women— had Abe Golden known all this when he cast them? I found it hard to believe a network wouldn’t have done a thorough vetting of potential cast members. So, surely he had to know.

I rubbed my eyes and stood up. If Billy had already lawyered up, there was no point in my trying to talk to him. Loren McKeithen would have told him not to say a word to anyone about the case— and Loren would have a stroke if Billy talked to a reporter. I needed to go down and give them a statement about finding Chloe’s body. It was just past nine in the morning. I’d shower and drive down there, and maybe Venus or Blaine would be willing to share some information over beignets and coffee— there was a little café right next to the district station in the Quarter.

Venus was more than happy to join me for coffee and beignets after I signed my statement. I’d included Blaine in the invitation, but he blanched at the suggestion. “White flour deep fried in grease and covered in powdered sugar? Have you lost your mind?”

“It wouldn’t hurt you to eat something unhealthy once in a while,” Venus said as we walked past his desk. “Might make you a little less bitchy.”

“It’ll take a hell of a lot more than grease, flour and powdered sugar to pull that off,” I said as we went down the front steps to the precinct. I could smell the grease from the fryer at the Café Beignet right next door to the police building— the station and the little café actually shared a patio. Once we’d placed our orders, we sat down at a white wrought iron table on the brick patio. It was a beautiful morning, in the low seventies. An occasional wisp of white cloud was the only blemish on the porcelain blue sky. Café Beignet wasn’t crowded— the majority of tourists were at Café du Monde on Decatur Street, which was better known. I sighed. “So, how’s the investigation going?”

Venus sighed. Today she was wearing a dove gray silk blouse over navy blue slacks. A small gold cross on a thin gold chain hung at her throat. “You can imagine. All the higher-ups want this closed and the sooner the better. Abe Golden and the network are screaming, the Mayor’s got his panties in a wad, and when the Mayor’s not happy— well, it all trickles down, you know?” She made a face. “Like we can do anything about it? How were we supposed to keep Billy Barron from braining those two women with a baseball bat?”