Murder in the Rue Chartres (14 page)

I stubbed out my cigarette and grinned again. I could easily stop and see Jolene McConnell on my way up to see Catherine Hollis.

I lit another cigarette. Why had Iris never bothered to look up the rest of her father’s family, and why had the family never bothered with their Verlaine relatives? It seemed more than a little odd. Of course, the old man had made it pretty plain he thought his daughter had married beneath her, and it was possible after the marriage failed he and Margot had purposely kept the kids from their Lower Ninth Ward roots. The Mercereaus might have wanted to keep the family ties alive, but a working-class family wouldn’t have had a hell of a lot of recourse against a wealthy and powerful Garden District family—one of the wealthiest families in the city, for that matter.

Obviously, there was a lot more going on here than I could figure out by pure speculation.

I did a search on Iris Verlaine. The vast majority of the entries were links to www.nola.com, the
Times-Picayune
ʼs website. The first one was an engagement announcement from the social pages. I clicked on the link and found myself staring at a professional portrait of Iris and her fiancé, Phillip Shea. He was handsome, and looked a little younger than she. I scrutinized his face. He had thick lips, longish hair that curled at the ends, and clear eyes and skin. He was smiling at the camera, and his long lashes gave him a dewy-eyed look. He was so handsome he could almost be called pretty—a designation most straight men detested. His left arm circled Iris’s waist, and she too, smiled at the camera. But her smile, unlike his, seemed a little frozen and forced. It didn’t reach her eyes. Her eyes looked uncomfortable, as though there were a million other things she’d rather be doing than posing with her fiancé for a picture in the paper. I printed it out and tacked it up on my corkboard. I tacked the picture of Michael and Catherine Hollis next to it, and then put the wedding picture of Michael and Margot up beside them. I leaned back and took a good hard look at all of them. Iris had no resemblance to her father at all. I could see a resemblance between him and Joshua Verlaine—in fact, Joshua could almost be a facial clone of his father—but Iris looked liked neither one of her parents. Of course, that didn’t have to mean anything—I didn’t look like either of my parents, thank God, although my sister looked like our mother and my brother looked like our dad—but it made me curious. Maybe Michael had left Margot because he’d found out Iris wasn’t his child?

Stick to the facts as you know them and stop speculating.

I looked closer at Margot. At first glance, in her wedding photo, with the long lace veil framing her face, she looked like any other happy bride, aglow with excitement on her big day. But closer inspection showed that her teeth were clenched; there was tension in her jaw, and again, her eyes looked cold, as though posing for the picture with her new husband was an ordeal for her. His face was alight with excitement—and looking closer didn’t change that. But Margot…Margot was a different story.

My mother was, well, a rather formidable woman, I heard Iris saying again.

She sure looked the part. She didn’t look like she could ever be happy.

I was startled out of my reverie by my cell phone ringing. I flipped it open and saw a local number, the caller ID reading VERLAINE SHIPPING. “Hello?”

“Mr. MacLeod?” The voice was soft and feminine.

“Yes?”

“Josh Verlaine suggested that I get in touch with you. My name is Valerie Stratton; I worked—” She paused for a moment. “I worked for Iris Verlaine here at the company. I was her assistant. Although I can’t imagine why he thought I should. I mean, I don’t know what—” she broke off.

She sounded as if she was ready to start crying at any moment. “Thank you for calling. I’m sure this has all been rather difficult for you,” I said, trying to make my own voice as calm and soothing as possible.

She sniffed a little, and I heard the unmistakable sound of her blowing her nose. “Excuse me, I’m sorry. It’s just—well, I’ve been so overwhelmed. I didn’t even know about Iris until I got back to the city, and now I have to figure out all this—oh, you don’t care about any of this. When Josh suggested I call you, I thought, you know, I don’t know what help I could be to you, but what the hell, I’ll call and see, you know?” She gave a nervous giggle. “So, here I am.”

“There’s a couple of things you could help me with right now—but I’d really like to meet you in person.” She seemed almost on the verge of hysteria, so it made sense to me to give her something to focus on.

“Oh. Okay. What can I do?”

“I need to know how to reach Phillip Shea. I’d like to talk to him. Did you know him well?”

“Oh, yes, I have his information right here in the Rolodex.” I heard her flipping through it. “Here you go.” She read off an address in Uptown, as well as two phone numbers. “That second number is his cell. I don’t know if he’s back in New Orleans yet or not, but these days who knows? I mean, I don’t know if he left or…” Her voice trailed off.

“Did Phillip and Iris seem happy together?” I asked as I scribbled the information down.

She sucked in some air, and let it out with a slight whistle. “Well, that’s a good question, Mr. MacLeod. You know, I’ve been working with—oh, I guess I mean I worked with—Iris for almost five years. She didn’t really talk much about her personal life, but you know, when you’re an assistant you can’t help but know things. I came to work for her right after she moved out to Lakeview, and I gathered her mother was not too happy about it—moving out of the house, I mean, and neither was Mr. Percy.”

“Did you know her mother?”

“Not well, but you were asking about Phillip. Let me think, how can I put this?” She paused for a few moments, clicking her tongue. “The engagement came out of the blue. I had no idea she was even dating Phillip. He never called here, she never mentioned him once, and then all of a sudden one day she’s showing me a diamond ring.”

“Did she seem happy?”

“Hmmm.” She laughed. “I suppose I shouldn’t be saying this, respect for the deceased and all, but she never seemed happy about anything. She rarely smiled, she never laughed…it was like she’d had her sense of humor surgically removed.” She paused for a moment. “Her mother was like that too—you know, like she had a block of ice where her heart was supposed to be. I don’t think I ever saw Margot smile, but then I only dealt with her here in the office about business things. She was a very hard woman. Iris, at least, was easy enough to work for.”

“And what about Phillip Shea?”

“Such a nice man. Always sending her flowers and chocolates, he was always very sweet to me when he called…I’d say he definitely was in love with her.”

“Well, thank you, Valerie. I’m glad you called.” I got out my date book. “I’m going out of town for a day, maybe two, but can I call you and set up lunch or coffee when I get back?”

“Sure. Let me give you my cell number.” She recited it for me. “If I can be of any help to you, don’t hesitate to call.” She swallowed. “It’s all so awful…” She hung up the phone.

I looked at the address for Phillip Shea. It wasn’t a Garden District address; it was on the wrong side of Louisiana Avenue, but it was pretty darned close. I looked at the clock on the wall. I had time to drive by and take a look on my way to meet Allen. I put on a pair of jeans and a yellow polo shirt, and headed back outside.

*

The lights were on at the address Valerie had given me. It wasn’t a big house, but rather a Creole cottage. There was a white Lexus parked in the driveway. I slowed down as I drove past, but didn’t stop. At least I was reasonably sure Phillip was in town. Someone was staying at his house.

I debated stopping, but after looking at my watch, decided it could wait until the next morning.

Allen was just locking up when I pulled into the parking lot at Bodytech. He’d changed from his tank top and shorts into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. He smiled when I got out of the car. “Hey, bud.”

“Hey,” I said, and there was an awkward silence between us.

“You mind Louisiana Pizza Kitchen?” he asked finally. “The one in Riverbend is open.”

“Fine with me.”

We took his car. We didn’t talk much as we drove up St. Charles Avenue, so I just looked out the window. Other than a few trees down and the huge pickup trucks parked all over the neutral ground, you wouldn’t think anything had even happened. The Jewish Community Center at the corner of St. Charles and Jefferson had a huge FEMA RELIEF CENTER sign hanging on the front, but it was deserted, closed for the night. None of the stoplights uptown was working, either—apparently stoplights weren’t working anywhere in New Orleans. The campuses of both Loyola and Tulane Universities were dark, and Audubon Park was a mass of black velvety silence. But when we reached the curve where St. Charles ends at Carrollton, there were cars and trucks parked all over the neutral ground.

Allen gestured with his head. “That pisses me off. All these relief workers parking all over the streetcar tracks. Don’t they know they’re tearing up the tracks?” He shook his head. “I mean, I appreciate the workers coming to help clean up and work and all, but they don’t show any respect for the city at all. Every time I see that, I just want to take a baseball bat and bust out all their windows.”

I didn’t say anything as he parked, and we walked into the restaurant. I’d never eaten at this particular location but had enjoyed a couple of meals at the Louisiana Pizza Kitchen in the Quarter. Every table was taken, and people were three-deep at the bar. The hostess looked tired. “Two?” she asked.

We nodded, and Allen gave her his name, and we went back outside so I could have a cigarette. Allen just nodded okay when I made the request, which I appreciated. I kind of figured I’d get a lecture on the evils of smoking, him being a trainer and all, but he didn’t say anything. A huge pickup truck, the kind with a back seat, pulled into a spot in the back of the lot, and a tired-looking family got out. The entire back of the truck was filled with boxes and mattresses, as of they’d grabbed everything they could out of their house. The father was holding a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon. The two kids couldn’t have been older than six; the boy looked like he’d been crying. The girl looked dirty, had a thumb in her mouth, and was holding a baby doll by one arm. The father walked inside without even glancing at us. The mother got some wet wipes and started wiping the kids’ faces down.

“I wanna go home, Mommy,” the boy said, starting to sniffle again.

“I know, Joey,” she said, pulling out a comb and trying to straighten his hair. “I do, too. But we can’t. You saw what the house looked like. We have to stay with Grandma for a while.”

“I DON’T WANNA!” he started wailing.

The dad came back outside, again walking past us without a look. “Darla, it’s going to be about an hour wait. And why is he crying again?”

“Let’s just get back on the road.” She stood up. “Don’t cry, Joey.” She turned back to her husband. “Surely there will be something open on the road.” She patted Joey on the head. “Maybe we could find a McDonald’s. Would you like that, Joey?”

He sniffled. “Could I have a happy meal?”

“Of course you can, darlin’.”

They all got back into the truck, and he backed up. Just before they pulled out onto Carrollton Avenue, I got a good look at her face. She, like Joey, was crying, but she wiped at her eyes and with a monumental effort, pulled herself back together. She gave Allen and me a sad little wave, and then they were gone, two red taillights disappearing into the darkness down Carrollton.

I don’t think I will ever forget the look on her face.

“Breaks your heart, doesn’t it?” Allen said, sitting down on a bench as I lit another cigarette. “It’s the kids that get me the most, you know. I’m so glad I don’t have any. How do you explain to a child what’s happened? What about the teenagers? I mean, can you imagine being a senior in high school, and being all excited about finishing and getting out to college or whatever, and suddenly it’s all taken away from you, you don’t know when you’re going to get back in school or graduate or anything… Oh, hell, I don’t know what the hell I am saying. It’s bad for everyone.”

The hostess opened the door. “Table for two?”

I ordered a margarita on the rocks with salt as soon as we sat down. It seemed like a tequila evening. Allen ordered a vodka martini. I looked around the room. Every table had at least one bottle of wine, and there were cocktail glasses too. Everyone was drinking, and drinking heavily.

We made small talk throughout the dinner, Allen talking about his plans for the gym, and I managed to relax as the drinks kept coming. The menu was one page, a computer printout with just a few choices. The tablecloth was paper, as were the napkins, and the silverware was plastic and came packaged in cellophane. But the food was good, and before I knew it, we were finished.

When we got back to the parking lot at Bodytech, Allen asked, “Would you mind if I came over? I really don’t want to go back to that big empty house.”

I was going to say no, but then I saw the look in his eyes and changed my mind. He just needs a friend, I told myself, and these days, we all could use whatever friends we could get. “Sure, Allen. We can have a drink or something. Just let me get my car.”

Allen was gone when I woke up in the morning.