G.T. Herren - Paige Tourneur 02 - Dead Housewives of New Orleans (6 page)

I’m afraid I stared.

“What?” Athalie said. “I said ‘human’, didn’t I?”

“Um, I hate to break it to you, but Fidelis Vandiver is dead.” I bit my lower lip and looked back and forth between the two of them. “I heard it on the radio this morning.”

“Dead?” Athalie’s hand went to her throat. “But she was so young!”

“The police suspect foul play,” I replied, watching Rebecca. Her face had gone pale, but other than that, she didn’t react. “Rebecca, you said you believe she was working with your stepsons?” I remembered again the little interaction between Billy and Fidelis at the party. “Billy was at the premiere last night, wasn’t he?”

She nodded. “We don’t speak except through lawyers, so we kept our distance.”

It couldn’t hurt to ask. “Who was the woman he was with?”

“I didn’t see him with anyone.” She swallowed. “Fidelis is dead. Wow.”

“I’m afraid so.” I got up and refilled my glass with brandy. “But I can tell you that
Crescent City
already planned on doing a feature story on the cast.” I took another sip of the brandy and sat back down. I pulled my phone out of my purse, and switched on the calendar function. “I can come to your offices on Monday morning if you like—” my entire morning was free, but there was a hideous staff meeting that afternoon “— or I can come to the house.”

She gave me her private cell phone number, which I plugged into my phone along with the address of her office. She gave me a quick air kiss, hugged Athalie, and exited in a cloud of Poison. I heard the front door close, and I turned back to Athalie. “No offense, Athalie, but this was what was so important that I had to come back to town? Ryan’s going to be furious.”

She stared at me for a moment before she burst out laughing. It took her a few moments to get hold of herself, even going so far as to dab at her eyes with a napkin. She took another drink of her Mimosa, and once she’d swallowed, she put it back down on the table and leaned forward. “No, that’s not why I called you. That was just a bizarre coincidence.” She started to laugh again, but managed to get control of herself in the nick of time. “I’d already called you when she showed up unannounced.” She pursed her lips. “A sign of bad breeding, you know.” She waved her hand. “Yes, I
am
trying to get a substantial donation from her for the symphony, and of course, I am not above using your position at the magazine to get Rebecca to open her checkbook.” She gave me a smile that would frighten someone who didn’t know her as well as I. “But when she came here with her absolutely
ridiculous
story, wanting my help to convince you to do a puff piece on her— and you were already on your way here, well, what could I see it as besides divine providence?”

“The Lord does work in mysterious ways,” I replied. I knew better than to rush Athalie. She’d get to the point eventually.

“Indeed.” She nodded her head. She chuckled again. “I have to say, the Barron civil war is going to be interesting to watch, don’t you think? It’s amazing how they’ve managed to keep this all so quiet. Of course, after the will was read, I’d heard something, you know, the sons were going to fight the will, all of that nonsense. But since it wasn’t really more than idle gossip, I just assumed everything was fine.”

As I might have mentioned, New Orleans is a very small town and Chanse swears there’s no more than one degree of separation among the entire population. Everyone in the city loves to gossip— I do include myself in that number. There must be something in the water here that makes us all storytellers. Athalie was right. If things behind the scenes at Barron Restaurant Group were indeed that fractious, it was strange no one had heard about it before.

Which meant I could break the story in the magazine— and that made me one very happy editor-in-chief.

And would make Rachel one happy publisher.

This
Grande Dames
story was really turning into something.

“The great irony, Paige, is that the favor I wanted to ask you has to do with another woman on that ridiculous show.” She went on, interrupting my reverie and dreams of issues flying off the shelves. She shook her head. “I’ve really been grande damed this morning.”

I typed that into my phone—
Grande Damed
would make a great title for the article, maybe even to put on the cover.

“I’m surprised they didn’t try to get you on the show,” I said, without thinking.

Athalie looked at me as if I had completely lost my mind. “I would
never
expose myself to public ridicule in such a fashion,” she said, her voice dripping icicles. “I cannot imagine what kind of character flaw one would have to have in order to do so.” She finished her Mimosa and mixed herself another. “Rebecca’s excuses are just that— excuses. She’s an exhibitionist, of course. I’ve no doubt that horrible husband of hers made her have her breasts enlarged to the point of caricature, but he’s been gone over a year— why doesn’t she have them removed? Because she
likes
being looked at, that’s why. She is doing a good job running that company, I’ll give her that, but how could she she honestly think she was going to be depicted as a smart, competent, successful businesswoman on that show— I mean, really. Had she never watched any of the other versions before? They hardly ever show those women in a positive manner, do they?”

“No, they really don’t.” I replied absently, and then the import of what she’d just said hit me. “You don’t
watch,
do you?”

For the first time in all the years I’d known her, Athalie Tujague actually blushed. She took an enormous drink of her Mimosa, and said, in a very small voice, “Don’t tell Ryan, please. But yes, yes I do, and I’m not proud of it.”

“Athalie, there’s nothing to be ashamed of,” I said, using every last bit of my will power to keep myself from laughing. She would never forgive me for laughing at her. But it
was
funny. Athalie was one of the most cultured women I’d ever known. “I watch, myself. You’d be surprised at how many people do.” I shrugged. “Just call it a guilty pleasure and stop worrying about it. Everyone watches movies or shows or reads books they’re ashamed of. It just means you’re human.” I couldn’t resist asking, though. “Which one of the shows is your favorite?”

She grinned, and there was a devilish glint in her eyes. “Manhattan, of course. Those women are
crazy.”

“Aren’t they?” I shook my head. “I just want to throttle that Dana sometimes.”

“Oh, I like Dana!” Athalie insisted. “She tells it like it is. She’s not a liar, like that horrible Laura. You can’t believe a word she says.”

We discussed the pros and cons of the Manhattan cast for a good few moments, before I reluctantly decided to change the subject. “So, if Rebecca wasn’t the favor…”

“Margery Lautenschlaeger.” Athalie seemed relieved not to be talking about her trashy television habits any more. “She really does need your help, and not for any such nonsense as Rebecca was spouting.” Her eyebrows furrowed together. “It has to do with that woman who used to work for the paper. You know her, don’t you? Didn’t you used to work with Chloe Valence? You were at the paper at the same time. She always loves to tell me what good friends you two are.” The corner of her mouth twitched again. “Now, I’d love to know why
she
went on the show, with her gay husband and all.”

“Friends?” I took a few deep breaths to keep from exploding. “I wouldn’t say Chloe and I are friends.” Of course Chloe would tell Athalie we were friends, the social climbing bitch. I could gladly ring her scrawny neck. I’d never really given Chloe much thought since I stopped working at the paper. If I had, I would have realized that as Mrs. Remy Valence she would come into contact with Athalie socially.

She sniffed. “I never thought you were. I really don’t much care for that woman. Something about her just rubs me the wrong way. Remy’s mother is spinning in her grave, undoubtedly.” She made a face. “Melanie had her problems, of course— for years that relationship with Roger was a little too
Suddenly Last Summer,
if you ask me.” She shuddered delicately. “You could have knocked me down with a feather when he got married. Terrible the way some mothers try to control their children’s lives.”

You mean like getting their son and his girl friend to cancel their plans for the weekend to do you a favor?

I would never dare say it out loud, of course.

“So what exactly is Margery’s problem with Chloe?”

“Chloe’s suing her.” Athalie held up her hands. “Don’t ask me anything— she didn’t tell me and I don’t want to know. I don’t know why she wants to talk to you about it, either. She just asked me to get you in touch with her.”

“And did she also promise to write a substantial check to the symphony?”

Her grin widened. “Oh, yes.
Very
substantial.”

The rain seemed to be subsiding as I drove home down St. Charles Avenue.

I got lucky, for once, too— the street I lived on was unusually empty of parked cars. There was even a spot in front of my house! I flipped an illegal U-turn (okay, maybe I had to go up on the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street to do it, but no cars, humans, property or animals were hurt) and parked right in front of my gate.

And even better, the rain stopped as I turned the engine off. It was clearly not going to last for more than a minute or two— New Orleans storms often do that, like they’re reloading for a fresh assault. No fool, I made a dash for the front gate, splashing through various deep puddles. My hair was still damp from the earlier soaking, though thanks to Manuela, my sweats were dry. The rain might have taken a coffee break, but the wind hadn’t. Cold and strong, it blasted my still damp hair into what undoubtedly looked like a rat’s nest. With shivering hands, I managed to unlock the gate, and slammed it shut behind me. My teeth were chattering as I hurried along the path around the house to my apartment door. The gay couple who lived in the front apartment on our side of the house were avid gardeners, so the path was made even narrower by the enormous plants, trees, and bushes towering alongside the fence. Of course, in the rain every one of them turned into enormous dripping beasts— so a steady stream of muttered profanities spilled from my mouth as heavy cold drops of water pelted me on my way. I swore, like I did every time it rained, that I was going to buy a machete and commit fern genocide.

I unlocked my door and switched on the ceiling lights. Skittle glared at me from the couch, where he was curled up on top of my thick blue wool blanket. It was cold inside the apartment— the primary drawback of eighteen-foot ceilings doesn’t become apparent until one is trying to heat the place. I dashed up the stairs and turned on the shower. What I really wanted to do was just curl up under my blankets, but I had work to do. I grabbed fresh sweats out of the laundry basket— making a mental note to put the laundry away— and went back into the now-steamy bathroom.

I climbed into the hot shower with a sigh of relief. Within seconds the strong hot spray had the chill in full retreat from my body.

As I stood there, I couldn’t help wondering why on earth Chloe Valence was suing Margery Lautenschlaeger. I’d been wondering that ever since Athalie told me. I was positive Athalie knew more than she was telling me, but she kept insisting Margery hadn’t told her anything about the case, or why she wanted to talk to me. Athalie did have the grace to apologize for ruining my weekend plans, which of course only made me more suspicious— Athalie rarely apologized for inconveniencing her family. All she would tell me was that she would give my cell phone number to Margery, who was going to call me sometime today or tomorrow. I still didn’t understand why it had been necessary for me to change my plans for the weekend and come back to town. It certainly seemed like it could have waited until Monday— and I also didn’t understand why Athalie couldn’t have simply asked me on the phone if it was okay to give Margery my number.

Why did it matter where I was, if Margery was just going to call me?

It was all really strange.

Margery could certainly afford the best lawyers in the country, so what was the big deal?

I was
dying
to know what it was all about. The more I thought about it, the weirder it all seemed. What on earth could Margery have done that would warrant a lawsuit from Chloe?

Twenty minutes later I was seated at my computer, warm and dry with my coffee maker brewing a fresh pot while I checked my email. There was an email from Rachel with an attachment; I downloaded it— it was the promotional package for the show— and the message:
Paige— got hold of Abe Golden. He’s supposed to fly back to New York on Monday— given Fidelis’ death, that might change— but he said he was willing to meet with you tomorrow. He’s staying at the Ritz Carlton on Canal Street.

She went on to give me his cell phone number and email address.

I made a note of both, deciding to deal with him later. I quickly disposed of important emails— there weren’t many— and checked through the rest— there wasn’t anything that couldn’t wait until I was back in the office on Monday morning. I got up and poured myself a cup of coffee. It had started pouring rain again while I was in the shower, and it was almost dark as night outside my kitchen windows. I was walking back to the computer when it pinged to let me know I had a new email. I sat down, glancing out at the gray downpour— the path alongside the house to the front gate was already under an inch or so of water— and turned my attention to the computer. I inhaled sharply.

There was an email with the subject line
I know who you are
. The return email address was all numbers.

I clicked it open.

I know who you are, I know where you’re from, I know everything there is to know about you.

I exhaled, trying to stay calm and not panic.

This wasn’t the first time I’d gotten an email like this, and it apparently wasn’t going to be the last. I’d gotten the first one the weekend Marigny Mercereau was murdered. I’d deleted that one, dismissing it as nonsense or the modern-day version of a prank phone call. I knew the numbers meant the emails were being sent from a cell phone’s mail program, and it was the same set of numbers every time. When I got the second one I’d started to delete it like I had the first— but stopped myself. Instead, I created a mail folder I named ‘weird emails’, and started saving them instead of deleting them. They were always a variation of the same thing—
I know who you really are, I know where you’re from—
so on and so forth.