G.T. Herren - Paige Tourneur 02 - Dead Housewives of New Orleans (7 page)

When I was a crime reporter, I saw far too many cases of women being harassed and stalked to just dismiss these emails outright. Too many women had lived to regret their initial dismissal of the behavior as not serious enough to involve the police. Almost every time I’d heard the story from a victim, I’d told myself if it ever happened to me I wasn’t waiting to be threatened or physically assaulted. I was going straight to the police.

I reminded myself of that as I stared at the strange words on my computer screen.

This was the fourth time I’d gotten one of these. After the third, I’d decided that if I got another I was going to have to do something about it. As I sat there staring at it, tapping my fingers on my desk, I swore at myself for being stupid.
You don’t know this isn’t some crazy, you don’t know that it’s not just some dumb kid playing a prank,
I scolded myself.
You’re probably made a lot of enemies you aren’t even aware of when you worked for the paper. You’re lucky this hasn’t already become something serious. Do you really want to take the chance? If it is just some dumb kid— well, they need to learn this kind of shit isn’t funny. A visit from the cops might just be what the little punks need.

I got my cell phone out of my purse, and hesitated.

Call the police, or call Chanse?

Two of my closest friends were police detectives, and my best friend was an honest to God private detective. I wouldn’t have to tell any of them the truth about my past— all I had to do was show them the emails and ask them to trace the number.

I bit my lower lip.

What are the odds it’s all just a coincidence and ISN’T your past catching up with you after all these years?

And if it is, why now? It’s been almost sixteen years!

It wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that it was just a coincidence.

Was I willing to take that chance?

But if you have Venus check into it, you’d have to tell her not to tell Blaine, who’s Ryan’s younger brother, after all, and then she’d want to know why you don’t want him to know. And if you tell her it’s because you don’t want him telling Ryan… then she’s going to want to know more before she does anything.

Seriously, sometimes the small town aspects of New Orleans were quite frustrating.

I glanced back at the computer screen.
Would Chanse trace the numbers without asking me why? Would he want to know more?
Chanse was incredibly curious. I’d have to come up with a major cover story for him.

He’d be so hurt if he found out I’d been lying to him all these years.

No, best not to ask any of them for help. I’ll figure out what to do about it later.

I pulled up my contacts app and touched Venus’s cell phone number.
I need to call Venus anyway,
I thought,
and see what she knows about Fidelis’ death.

She picked up on the second ring. “Casanova.”

“Hey Venus, it’s Paige.”

She exhaled. “Aren’t you on the north shore with Ryan? What are you calling me for?”

“Long story, but I didn’t make it over there,” I replied, moving the email to the folder marked WEIRD EMAILS. “Got called back into the city because of the Fidelis Vandiver murder.” It wasn’t true, but it was a good enough cover story. She certainly wouldn’t question it… and then I remembered Blaine. “Actually, I got called back into the city for something else— it’s a long story— but I am covering Fidelis’s death. What’s going on?”

She moaned softly. “I might have known. I had a bad feeling when I saw your name on the caller ID.” Venus likes to pretend I’m a major pain in her ass, but I’ve helped her out on her cases a lot more than she likes to admit. And she knows she can trust me. I’ve never betrayed her confidence and gone public with anything she’s told me without her okay. “Yeah, Blaine and I caught the case. And yes, it’s most definitely foul play. You home?”

“Yeah.” I glanced out the window. “I’m not going anywhere in this mess.”

“Tell you what— I’m starving. I haven’t had a chance to eat all day. Me and Blaine’ll pick something up and stop by, that cool with you? Are you hungry? We can pick something up for you, too.”

“Yeah, actually, I’m starved.” I replied, startled. Usually Venus was more cagey than this. Suspicious, I asked, “What’s going on?”

“Can’t a woman want something to eat without you getting all up in her business?” Venus snapped. “See you in a few.”

She hung up.

I sat there staring at the phone for a few moments. Something was up— Venus never gave in that easily. She always made me work a lot harder than this for information.

I’d known Venus for years— she was in charge of the investigation that actually made my reputation as a journalist and bounced me up from doing grunt work as the lowest of the low at the paper to actually reporting on crime in the city. I’d been running down a lead for a senior reporter at City Hall (when I said grunt work, I wasn’t kidding), which led me to the Central City neighborhood. I was still pretty new to New Orleans then, and I didn’t know a bad neighborhood from a good one. Thirsty, I’d parked on a side street and walked into a Mom and Pop grocery. I went to the cooler in the back to get a plastic bottle of Diet Coke, but it was a hot day and my hands were sweating. The damp bottle slid out of my hands, hit the floor, and rolled under a nearby shelf. I swore and got down on my hands and knees to pick it up. I had no sooner knelt down when the door opened and I looked up to see two teenagers enter the store in the big round mirror mounted in the corner. It happened so fast I didn’t have time to react. One of the teens pulled a gun and shot the man at the register three times in the chest. I froze, almost afraid to breathe, afraid to do anything that might let them know they weren’t alone in the store. It seemed like I was crouched there forever holding my breath, but I eventually found out— thanks to the security camera recording— that the whole thing took less than three minutes. The guy at the register was killed instantly.

I’m not proud to admit that I was barely coherent when the first police officers showed up, along with the crime lab and the EMTs and everyone else associated with a crime scene. But when Venus arrived, she was able to calm me down and get my story. I was much less impressed with her partner, a good old boy in his late fifties with a pack of Marlboro Reds in his shirt pocket, a tomato sauce stain on his tie, and a beer gut that looked like it needed a wheelbarrow. He was a pompous, condescending sexist asshole, and I had nothing but sympathy for the cool, competent, professional black woman stuck with him as a partner. She got a uniform to drive my car home, while I followed in a patrol car driven by another uniform.

Still shaking a bit when I got to my apartment, I sat down and wrote an op-ed I titled “What Price Life?” Venus called me later that night to let me know the two teens had been caught. They’d stolen only forty-seven dollars, it turned out, which made my piece even more tragic. When I was finished I emailed it to the city editor and the senior reporter so they would know why I didn’t do the assignment they’d given me.

Apparently, it impressed them, because it ran in the paper the next day. Later, it was even nominated for a Pulitzer Prize. I didn’t win— but while that would have been nice, more important was the fact that the piece got everyone talking and made City Hall— and the NOPD— stand up and take notice. There was a lot of talk about the city’s growing crime problem, and what needed to be done— and for once, things actually DID change for the better.

It also did wonders for me, completely changing how I was viewed at the paper. I was no longer a newbie fresh out of college who needed to prove herself by writing obituaries and puff write-ups of the endless festivals going on in the city every weekend. I was now seen, if not as a serious journalist, as someone who, with the proper training and grooming, could
become
a serious journalist. I was no longer given grunt work, but actually assigned to real stories.

And unlike Chloe Valence— well, she was Chloe Legendre then— I got moved up on my writing ability, not my back.

No sooner had I thought of Chloe when my phone rang. “Tourneur.”

“Paige? Margery Lautenschlaeger. Thank you for agreeing to talk to me.” She sounded agitated and nervous. “I’m not disturbing you, am I? Is this a bad time for you?”

“No, it’s fine, I’ve been waiting for your call. Athalie didn’t really tell me much,” I said carefully. Skittle jumped onto my desk and blinked at me. “Just that you’re being sued by Chloe Valence? I don’t know that—”

She interrupted me. “I can’t discuss this on the phone! I know I’ve
ruined
your plans for the weekend, but I hope you can forgive me. It’s very important, you have no idea how important. Could you possibly come to my home later this evening? Say around 8? I know the weather is bad. If you like I can send a car for you.”

“I can drive myself,” I replied, trying to keep my tone even and not show my annoyance. “But thanks for the offer.”

“You know where I live? It’s a big stone home on St. Charles Avenue.” She went on to give me the house number.

It took all of my self-control to not laugh out loud.
Everyone
in New Orleans knew the Schwartzberg castle. “Yes, thank you, I will see you at eight o’clock.”

I put my phone down and shook my head. I still had no idea what she wanted from me, but at least I could get some information for my article— namely, what on earth had possessed her to go on a reality television show?

The obvious answer was fame, I supposed. But she was already pretty famous in New Orleans. Everyone in New Orleans knew who Margery Lautenschlaeger was. Maybe she’d done it for kicks; who knew?

I’d find out when I asked her.

I pulled up the show’s website again and stared at her bio. She’d been the only heir to the Schwartzberg liquor empire, had gone to school at Vassar and the Sorbonne. She’d married another liquor heir— and he’d run both of their companies, amassing a staggering pile of money before he died ten years ago. Margery was one of the richest women in Louisiana, if not the richest. She gave money away in buckets to charities— over the years she’d given money to the symphony, museums, the opera, and various other non-profits ranging from the NO/AIDS Task Force to battered women’s shelters to halfway houses. Her oldest son Marvin now ran the distributorship, while her other son Ben ran the liquor company. There was a third son, who worked as an investment banker in New York. All three sons were married— Marvin lived in a gated community in English Turn on the west bank, Ben on the north shore— and had given her numerous grandchildren.

Maybe she was just bored, I reasoned.

My phone rang again, and Ryan’s handsome face appeared on the screen. “Hey, honey,” I answered, my heart sinking when I remembered we’d made tentative dinner plans I’d now have to cancel so I could go pay court to Margery.

He sounded contrite. “How mad are you going to be if we don’t come into the city?”

I grinned. “A burning fury hotter than a thousand white hot stars.”

He laughed. “They just closed the Causeway because of wind and visibility,” he replied when he got himself under control again, “and if the causeway’s bad I can’t imagine the other bridges are any better.” The Causeway was the fastest way, but there were longer routes— highway 59 through the swamp to connect to I-10, or the twin span from Slidell over the lake— that also included bridges. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to risk it, and then I’d have to just drive the boys back over here tomorrow anyway. They’re disappointed— both are pouting like three-year-olds. I had to promise the little heathens I’d order pizza for dinner to get them to even talk to me.”

I missed them all so much that I felt tears come up in my eyes. “I miss them, too.”

“I’ll be back in town tomorrow night,” Ryan replied. “Shall I just plan on coming by your place so you can make it up to me?”

“That would be delightful,” I purred back.

“Can’t wait.” I could almost see the lascivious grin on his handsome face. “And I’ll have to figure how to get Mom to make this up to us both. I sure hope what it was she wanted was worth it.”

“I still don’t know,” I confessed. “She wanted me to do a favor for a friend, and I won’t even know what that is until tonight.” I filled him on what had transpired since I got his mother’s phone call.

He whistled. “The old tyrant!” He laughed to take the sting out of his words. “We really should stand up to her and say no sometime, don’t you think? She takes terrible advantage of us. I mean, what could she do to us?”

“I for one don’t intend to ever find out,” I replied. “And if you’re smart, you won’t, either.”

“I don’t have to worry about it— I’m the only one who gave her grandchildren.”

My buzzer sounded, sending Skittle off my desk and up the stairs in a blur of white and orange. “That’s Venus and your brother.” I walked over to the intercom and buzzed them in. “They’re feeding me.”

He was silent for a moment. “Wait a minute— you’re sticking your nose into their investigation
and
they’re bringing you food?”

“I know— I’m suspicious, too.” I glanced out the kitchen windows to see the two of them maneuvering down the path with enormous umbrellas. “I’ll call you later, okay? I do miss you. And my love to the boys.” I hung up the phone and opened my front door.

“Hey, guys,” I said.

They both closed and shook out their umbrellas before coming inside my apartment. Blaine was carrying a greasy bag emitting delicious odors. He winked at me. “Shrimp po’boys and onion rings from Please U.”

I almost wept with joy as I got plates and napkins from the kitchen. I passed them out and sat down in my easy chair while they both sat on my couch. Blaine is only three years younger than Ryan, but they look enough alike to be twins if you don’t look closely. They both have the same blue eyes, dimples, strong chin, bluish-black curly hair, and thick eyebrows. But Ryan is about six inches taller— Blaine is only around five seven, maybe eight, depending on his shoes. And while Ryan is in good shape, Blaine’s muscles are thick and defined from hours spent in the gym. Blaine also tends to wear his clothes much tighter than Ryan does. He handed me a plate piled high with onion rings and a shrimp po’boy with fried shrimp tumbling onto the plate. I popped one in my mouth and moaned in pleasure.