Murder in the Rue Chartres (15 page)

It was almost nine; I’d slept later than I usually did. I used to always sleep late before unless I had a reason to get up early; since the levees broke, I’d been getting up around seven every morning. I was kind of relieved that Allen was gone; the morning after—especially with a friend—can be really awkward, and I don’t think all that clearly, before I’ve put down a pot of coffee in my system. I washed my face and brushed my teeth before walking into the kitchen, the entire time wondering what the hell I’d been thinking. Had it been the drinks at the restaurant? No, that was too easy, and to be completely honest with myself, I hadn’t been drunk. In my new way of thinking—my new sense of personal responsibility—I couldn’t accept that, even if I had been drunk. I had to start owning up to my mistakes—and if liquor was the problem, maybe I’d have to think about giving that up. Maybe it was a mistake; then again, maybe it wasn’t—it was too early to tell. There’s nothing like a sexual encounter to ruin a perfectly good friendship, but I wasn’t about to let that happen. If Allen had a problem with it, I’d deal with it then. As far as I was concerned, giving comfort to someone in pain, even if it was a sexual experience, couldn’t be wrong. It would all work out all right in the end.

Everything always seemed to.

There was a note propped on the coffee maker. I had to move it to make the coffee, and once it was brewing, I opened and read it.

Chanse—

Thanks for being there for me last night. I really appreciate it, but I couldn’t sleep, and decided it was probably best if I went back home. I didn’t want to wake you…see you at the gym later?

Thanks,

Allen

It was nice of him to leave a note,
I thought as I waited for the coffee to finish brewing. He could have just left, but then again, it wasn’t like I wasn’t going to run into him at the gym sometime. In the past, I probably would have just ignored him when I saw him again, or pretended like last night had never happened. That had been my old method of dealing with people I’d slept with. No, that wasn’t fair. The truth was I never really knew how to act around someone I’d picked up in a bar when I saw them again, so I just always waited to see how they’d react to me. If they said “Hi,” I’d talk to them. If they ignored me, I’d ignore them. It was a stupid way to behave, and actually kind of mean, now that I thought about it. I shook my head and wondered how many feelings my behavior had hurt over the years.

I filled a big mug with coffee and walked into the living room to check my emails. There was nothing new there other than the usual junk bullshit, so I logged off and sat down on the couch, grabbing my file on the Verlaine case.

The next thing to do was plan a trip up to see Cathy Hollis and arrange a meeting with Jolene McConnell on the way. Jackson was about two and a half hours north of New Orleans and Cortez another two and a half hours from there. So, if I left New Orleans the next morning around seven, I could be in Jackson around nine-thirty—and even assuming I’d be speaking to Mrs. McConnell for about an hour, I could still be in Cortez before two in the afternoon. All in all, it could easily be accomplished in one day. I could be back in New Orleans before eight, given stops for gas, bathroom breaks, and dinner. Not bad.

I got my cell phone and dialed the number I had for Jolene. On the fourth ring, a machine picked up. I left my name and number, explaining that I was looking for her brother Michael, and hung up the phone.

I sat there for a moment thinking, and then thumbed through my speed-dial numbers, and called my landlady/employer, Barbara Castlemaine.

 When I’d resigned from the New Orleans Police Department and given up my apartment in the French Quarter, I’d found the apartment on Camp Street, which had been my home ever since, through a property management company. The rent had originally been six hundred dollars a month, but within a week of moving in, I’d gotten a call from the property owner, Barbara Castlemaine. She had a little problem she needed me to take care of for her—involving a pair of twin body builders from Thibodeaux, some rather explicit photographs, and a blackmailer—which I’d handled rather quickly for her. She’d been set up by her personal assistant, and not only did I manage to get all the prints and negatives back for her, but I’d convinced the assistant it was probably a good idea to get as far away from New Orleans as possible. In gratitude, she’d lowered my rent to $100 per month with a permanent lease, and also hired me as a corporate security consultant for Crown Oil, the company she’d inherited from her late husband. The gig with Crown Oil was quite lucrative, required very little work on my part, and not only paid my bills but enabled me to acquire a rather healthy savings account. Barbara is nothing if not a generous and grateful woman. In the years since, she and I had become friends. Barbara was also a great source of information. She knew where all the bodies were buried in New Orleans, from Jackson Avenue to Riverbend. I didn’t know how she did it, but she did seem to know everything.

 “Chanse!” she answered. “Darling, I am in New Orleans! What excellent timing!”

“Really?” I was a little startled. The last time I’d spoken to her, she was leaving to stay in Paris for a few months. “I thought you were in Paris.”

“I changed my mind—I know it’s the culture capital of the world and all, but sometimes Paris is just boring—and went to New York instead—shopped, saw some shows, and then decided to get back here and check on things. I got in late last night, and I wanted to give you a call this morning, but you beat me to the punch, as always. Why don’t you come by the house? I’m about to make mimosas.” Barbara’s weakness was champagne. She drank it morning, noon, and night, and never seemed the worse for her intake.

“Let me jump into the shower and I can be there in a little bit.”

“Well, don’t dawdle. The champagne will go flat. And you know there’s nothing I hate more than wasting perfectly good champagne—and I can’t drink this entire bottle by myself.” She laughed. “Well, of course I could, but I don’t want to. You know what they say about women who get drunk before noon…so hurry, darling.”

*

Half an hour later, I parked in the driveway of Barbara’s house on Chestnut Street, between Philip and First Streets. Known to the Garden District tours and the Historic Registry as the Palmer House, it was a huge Italianate monstrosity with black wrought-iron railings on its galleries and was painted a strange deep shade of red with black shutters at every window. Like the Verlaine place, her usually well-tended lawn looked a little unkempt. The first time I’d ever set foot in it, I’d been a little overawed. Barbara had completely redecorated the interior after the death of her second husband—the Palmer who’d left her the house—but now I was used to it. Rather than the traditional Garden District style of antiques, she’d done the entire place with modern stuff. “I like the contrast between the age of the house and the modern look,” she told me once, “and it drives the Garden District biddies insane that I did this.”

She opened the door before I could even ring the bell. She gave me a big hug and drew me into the house. She smelled, as always, of Chanel. Barbara is one of those women whose age you cannot determine by looking at her. She exercised to keep her figure, and her face showed telltale lines she refused to have surgically corrected. She told me once that she had no intention of looking like “one of those frightening old bags with a face pulled so tight her jaw pops open when she crosses her legs.” Her blond hair had traces of gray, and she was still very beautiful. She somehow managed to make fleece sweats look like they came from a designer show in Paris. To me, she was the epitome of elegance and class—although she could swear like a sailor and could, on occasion—usually when she was drinking and bored out of her mind at a party—be as vulgar and crass as a drag queen. Today, she was wearing a pair of blue jeans, sneakers, and a black cashmere sweater. Her only jewelry was diamonds at her ears, and she wasn’t wearing any makeup.

She led me to the drawing room and handed me a mimosa before I could sit. “Drink up, darling.” She gave me a big smile. “I’m already two ahead of you.” She sat down next to me on the couch and took a big swallow of her own drink. “Well, things certainly are different here, aren’t they?” She shook her head. “It breaks my heart to see the city like this.” She waved her hand. “And it simply sickens me that they’ve abandoned us.” Her face set grimly. “Don’t think Crown Oil won’t be throwing its money—and considerable clout—around to make sure some of those bastards in Congress don’t get re-elected.” She sighed. “And so many people are seriously considering leaving—or not coming back. Isn’t that insane?”

“To say the least.” I took a sip. Barbara’s idea of a mimosa was to add orange juice for color.

“After living here, how can anyone even consider living somewhere else? Houston? Atlanta? Dallas?” She went on as though I hadn’t spoken, shuddering at the mention of the other cities. Barbara was like that. Conversations with her were generally one-sided—you had to wait until she paused for breath to get a word, maybe two, if you were lucky—into the conversation. “I mean, really. How dreadful. We’ve got to do something, and if the bastards in Washington aren’t going to help us, well, goddamnit, we have to roll up our sleeves and get to work.”

“Yes.” When Barbara was on a roll, it was best to just listen.

“I have plans. Crown Oil is going to be doing a lot around here. I’ve set up a foundation to grant out money, and I’m going to strong-arm everyone I know to give money. Thank God, Crown Oil is not responsible for the disappearance of the wetlands. It’s criminal, simply criminal what we’ve all allowed those other bastard oil companies to do to Louisiana. Of course, I’ve done nothing for years, and look what happens when you just sit around and do nothing.” She set her drink down.

“So, what’s this I hear about you looking for Michael Mercereau? Are you sure it’s a good idea to get involved with that whacked-out family?”

I was in the midst of swallowing and almost choked on my mimosa. When I finally managed to get my coughing fit under control, I spluttered, “How did you know that?”

She waved a hand airily. “Darling, when will you learn I know everything? Nothing goes on in this city—and especially not in this neighborhood—without me knowing about it. I have eyes and ears everywhere. The CIA should have as effective a network as me.” She grinned at me, her eyes twinkling. “Joshua Verlaine called me to check you out—you know how that goes. Can this Chanse man be trusted?” She rolled her eyes. “Like most men, he gave away more information than I gave him. So, what do you think of the freak-show Verlaines?”

“Well, Joshua seems nice. I like him. He seems like a good guy.”

“Certainly not the sharpest knife in the drawer, by any means, but you’re right, he is a nice man, and considering that family—that’s saying something.” She got up to refill her glass, and refilled mine as well. “A shame about Iris, but that girl had some serious problems. But who wouldn’t, with a mother like Margot?”

“You didn’t like Margot Verlaine?” I asked.

“Honey.” She sat down and patted my leg. “No one liked Margot Verlaine. One merely tolerated her. Talk about having the personality of a dust mop! How that witch ever landed a man in the first place was always beyond me—and it certainly was no surprise she never remarried. What man would want her? What a cold bitch she was…we served on several committees together; I remember we did something for the Bridge House, what was it? A concert? A dinner?” She shrugged. “I don’t remember exactly what it was, but Verlaine Shipping was one of the bigger donors, so I had no choice but to take her on as a co-chair on whatever the hell it was. What an unpleasant experience that was.” She gave me a sharp glance. “She had to have her own way, that’s for sure—and she offended everyone.
Everyone
. I spent most of my time running around behind her apologizing for her sheer bitchery. My God, the sucking up I had to do! And how creepy was it that she never moved out of that house? There was certainly something sick and twisted there, believe you me. She was in her forties and still called him daddy.” She shuddered. “And the old man—Percy. Ugh, what a monster that one is! Mean as a snake, and about as warm as one…”

“Did you know Michael Mercereau?”

“Not well.” She looked off into the distance. “I was married to my second husband then.”

Barbara had never really talked about any of her past marriages to me, other than Charles Castlemaine, her third husband. Paige had done research on her for me, simply because I was curious about her. She’d originally been born in Algiers Point, on the West bank, to a nice lower-middle-class family. She’d married her first husband at eighteen—they’d apparently been high school sweethearts, but they were divorced before she was nineteen. Her second husband, Roger Palmer had been thirty years her senior. She was his second wife; his first marriage was childless. They married when she was in her early twenties, and he was the father of her only child, Brenda. I’d never met Brenda, and Barbara didn’t talk about her either. Brenda, I knew, lived in Los Angeles, where she’d moved after graduating from Newcomb. I thought it odd that Barbara never talked about her daughter—and that her daughter never seemed to ever set foot in New Orleans. That kind of thing always made me curious, but I knew better than to ask about it. Obviously, there had been a falling out. Roger had died when Barbara was around thirty, and shortly thereafter she’d married Charles Castlemaine, the heir to the Crown Oil empire out of Tulsa, Oklahoma. Charles had been killed about ten years ago when his private plane went down in the Gulf of Mexico. She narrowed her eyes. “You know I wasn’t always the glamorous queen of New Orleans high society I am today, right?”