Murder in the Rue Ursulines (6 page)

What the hell,
I thought, bending down and hefting it in my right hand, grasping the winged woman around the waist. It was surprisingly heavy. On a gold band around the base were engraved the words
Outstanding Achievement by A Lead Actress in a Comedy Series: Glynis Parrish in SPORTSDESK.
I set it back down. “Thank you.”

“Like I said, everyone wants to do that. The great aura of an award, I suppose. But then again, I take it with me everywhere.” The corners of her mouth lifted a little bit, her eyebrows arching up in self-mockery.  “I was nominated seven times, but only won once.” She shrugged.  “After winning, it didn’t seem quite as important as it did all the times I lost. Please, have a seat.”

I sat down in a green wingback chair, sinking several inches down into it. She gave me a smile. “I don’t really know why Freddy wanted me to meet you, or why he needs a private eye, but I can never say no to him.”

“Did you need anything else, Glynis?” Rosemary asked from the doorway.

“May I offer you something to drink, Chanse? I have practically everything.” Glynis asked me in a pleasant tone. “The bar is quite well-stocked.”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

“I’ll call you, Rosemary, if we need anything,” she said, dismissing her assistant without even looking at her. I heard the door shut behind me, and the sound of footsteps receding to the back of the house. She closed her eyes for a moment, her face expressionless, then opened them and smiled again. “I’m not having a good day, I must apologize to you in advance.” She sighed. “What can I help you with, Chanse? What’s going on with Freddy?”

I cleared my throat. “Well, Freddy and Jillian—“ it took a conscious effort not to say
Frillian—
“have hired me to look into something, and I’m hoping you can help me out.” I made my voice sound as sincere as I could. Granted, I wasn’t in her league as an actor, but I could play a part too.

“What’s this all about?” she asked, rubbing her eyes. “I have to admit, when Freddy called and was so mysterious about my talking to a private eye, I agreed to see you more about satisfying my own curiosity than anything else…” She shook her head, the ponytail flying. “We’ve been divorced for years now. And while we get along better than can be expected under the circumstances, I don’t mind admitting that I’m sick to death of talking about Freddy and his new wife.” Her voice dripped with scorn as she said the last three words. “I’m tired of being defined as the sad little wife he left for the glamorous superstar.”

I put the file folder containing the printouts on the coffee table. “Someone has been sending Freddy threatening e-mails.”

She looked me directly in the eyes. “And Freddy thinks I may have sent them?” She threw her head back and laughed the way she had on her show. “Oh, the arrogance! Some things never change. I guess he thinks I’m just sitting around pining away for him.” The catlike eyes rolled. “Trust me, Mr. MacLeod—Chanse—most days I don’t give Freddy and his wife a first thought, let alone a second. That was a hundred years ago, it seems. We’ve all moved on—even though the tabloids love the idea that I’m pining away. I can assure you that is most definitely not the case.” She scratched her chin again. “In fact, I’m seeing someone else now—I won’t say who, because we’re not ready to go public with our relationship. I’m sure you can understand why. I’m tired of being tabloid fodder. Was I upset when he left me for someone else? Of course I was! Who wouldn’t be? But I
have
moved on.”

Considering her reluctance to refer to Jillian by name, I found that a little hard to believe. I cleared my throat and plunged forward. “Well, unfortunately, I’ve traced the e-mails to the computer they were sent from.” I leaned forward and removed the receipt from the folder and handed it to her. “They were sent from a Mac you bought..” I gestured at the laptop. “Is that your only computer?”

“But that’s impossible.” She took the receipt and looked at it, then set it back down on top of the folder. Her eyes widened, her forehead creased. She shook her head.  “I mean, that’s a copy of my receipt, but I can assure you I haven’t been e-mailing Freddy threats—or e-mailing him about anything, frankly. If I want to talk to him, I call him.” She made a helpless gesture. “I mean, yes, I have a website and I have e-mail, but I don’t usually use the computer for much of anything.” She shrugged again. “Most of the e-mail comes from my website, and someone in my publicist’s office takes care of all of that for me, answering it, sending out autographed pictures, things like that.” She picked up the folder and opened it. She pulled out one of the printouts and squinted at it. “This isn’t my e-mail account.” She put the folder back down with distaste.

I hadn’t expected her to admit to sending the e-mails, so I went ahead with my game plan. “I didn’t think so, honestly. Who all has access to your computer?”

“Well, it’s always here in the house—I never take it on set with me. So, anyone who comes into the house could access it—but why would anyone do such a thing? That doesn’t make any sense. I mean, why my computer?” Her eyebrows came together and her face reddened a bit. “That’s simply intolerable.”

“Someone could be trying to make trouble for you.” I replied, injecting sympathy into my voice. “Who regularly comes into the house?”

“Well, Rosemary, obviously. She’s here every day, and sometimes stays over.” She rubbed her eyes, and leaned forward.  “My housekeeper Cindy comes in three times a week and is here all day—usually when I’m on the set. She does the grocery shopping and makes meals as well as cleaning. My trainer, Steve Marren, comes by here when I’m not working. I have a massage therapist—Tony— who comes in twice a week. And of course, my director and cast mates stop by every once in a while.” She shrugged. “I’m not much for entertaining, frankly, but I guess any one of them could get on my computer without my knowing it.  But why would they send…” she stopped, picking up the folder again and opening it. She paged through the e-mails.  “These e-mails are absolutely vile.” She tossed the folder back down on the table, her face showing her distaste. She narrowed her eyes. “I most certainly didn’t write or send them. If they came from my computer, someone else had to have sent them.” She stood up. “ROSEMARY!” she bellowed, making me jump. She smiled at me. “Sorry.”

The door opened and Rosemary stepped into the room. “Yes. Did you need something?”

Glynis stood up in a fluid motion. “Rosemary, you haven’t been using my computer for anything, have you?”

“Of course not!’ Rosemary’s face reddened.

“If you’re lying to me—“

“No, no, no!” Rosemary cowered, stepping back into the doorway.

I stared at her. She acted like she was
afraid
of Glynis. I looked over at Glynis. Her hands were on her hips and she was breathing hard, her face red. Her eyes narrowed as she took a few steps forward. Rosemary visibly shrank. Glynis’s voice continued to rise as she spoke. “Have you seen anyone—Darlene, Brett, Charity,
anyone
—using my computer?”

“No!”

“I’m going to need to speak to each of them.” I interrupted.

Glynis’s head whipped back around to me. Her entire face relaxed into a smile. “Of course. I want this matter cleared up just as much as Freddy does, I’m sure.” Without looking at her, she commanded, “Rosemary, get their phone numbers together for Chanse.” She sank back down on her sofa. She waved her right hand in a fluttery motion. “I’m getting a headache. Rosemary, after you get Chanse the numbers, would you mind showing him out?” It was an effective dismissal. I thanked her for her time and followed Rosemary into the hallway. Rosemary shut the door behind us. “Go wait in the front room, and I’ll join you shortly,” she whispered, and hurried off down the hall.

I walked back to the front room and sat down in one of the chairs. I opened the folder and started paging through the e-mails. The next step, I figured, was to make a calendar of the dates and times the e-mails were sent—and compare that with the household schedule. Granted, that was assuming Glynis hadn’t sent them herself. I closed my eyes and went over the entire interview again.

Was she telling me the truth?

I opened my eyes as Rosemary came back into the room. She handed me a piece of paper with the names and numbers of the rest of Glynis’s staff printed clearly on it. I smiled at her. “She seems like a rather difficult woman to work for.”

“Oh, no, she’s just having a bad day.” Rosemary smiled at me. “She gets these horrible migraines—suffers terribly from them. Today is one of her bad days. Most of the time, she’s an absolute doll—very kind and thoughtful. One of the best employers I’ve ever had.”

I stood up. “How long have you been with her?”

“Since she came to New Orleans.” Rosemary pushed an errant lock of hair back from her forehead.

“So, about two weeks?”

Her eyes widened. “Two weeks? Oh, no, she’s been here for about two months now. I was hired about a week or so before then—her former assistant had quit to have a baby—and I put the house together for her, found the housekeeper and everyone else.” She looked down. “It’s really an honor to work for her. I’ve been a fan for years.” She bridled a bit. “She says she wants me to come back to California with her when the movie wraps.”

“Wow.” I smiled at her. “Are you going to go?”

“I’ve always wanted to live in California,” she said wistfully. “And it’s a wonderful opportunity for me.” She took the piece of paper back from me and pulled a pen out of her pocket. “Let me give you my cell number. You can call me anytime. I’m at your disposal.” She wrote it down. “I’ll let everyone know you’re going to be getting in touch with them, and that it’s okay for them to talk to you.”

“I appreciate that.” I folded the paper and slid it into the folder. I walked over to the front door.

“It was nice meeting you.” She said, offering me her hand again. “And remember, call me if you need anything, okay?”

All the way back to my apartment, I replayed the whole interview in my head. Rosemary seemed okay, but I didn’t quite buy the ‘she’s a great employer’ routine. It seemed a little rehearsed—and the way Glynis had acted toward her made it seem like bullshit. Granted, maybe Glynis
was
having a bad day—she’d said she was—but something my landlady told me once about another woman in her social circle kept coming back to me.

Barbara Castlemaine moved in the stratosphere of New Orleans society—and had been one of my first clients. I’d handled something for her with discretion, and we’d become friends over the years. It had been at a party she’d given at her Garden District mansion, and after I ‘d been talking to this perfectly charming woman for nearly an hour, Barbara had peeled me away from her and in a low voice warned me away from her. “She’s a horrible woman,” she’d insisted over my protests. “You can always tell what kind of a person someone is by how they treat the help—and she treats hers like garbage.”

Glynis had certainly treated Rosemary that way. I wondered if she was that way with her other employees.

I called Loren to check in with him, see how he wanted me to proceed—or if he wanted me to. I got his voice-mail and left a rather detailed message about my progress so far—tracing the computer and so forth. I closed with, “Unless I hear otherwise, I’m going to proceed with checking out the people who had access to Glynis Parrish’s computer.”

I left messages for Glynis’s posse, then sat down at my desk and turned on my own computer. I opened a spreadsheet, and started logging in the dates and times the e-mails had been sent. It didn’t take long for the pattern to start to emerge. All of them had been sent in the early afternoons—and always on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays.

I started reading them again. Glynis had been right about one thing—the e-mails were all vile. They all alluded in some way to something Freddy had done—how his public persona was not who he really was.
You act like such a do-gooder,
one taunted,
but those of us who know what you’re really like know better. You might be able to fool the world with your St. Freddy act, but I know the real Freddy. How do you sleep at night?

What on earth did that mean?

I logged onto the Internet and did a search for Freddy Bliss— and was promptly rewarded with over a hundred thousand hits. I moaned. It would take me forever to wade my way through all of them—and Glynis and Jillian probably had just as many on-line mentions. I sighed, and started clicking on links. A lot of them I was able to dismiss out of hand—movie reviews, fan sites, etc. What I was interested in was gossip. But even that wasn’t much help. Outside of his pre-Glynis romances with any number of actresses, Freddy appeared to have lived a fairly blameless life. There were no drunk driving citations, no crazy or errant behaviors in public. He was in his early thirties—close to me in age, actually—and had been born and raised in Newton, Kansas. He’d gone to a small university, Emporia State, for a couple of years, taking courses in theater, before he dropped out and headed out to Los Angeles to try to make it as a movie star. He’d guested on some TV shows, but his big break came in a small role in a film called
Separate Vacations,
about a married couple who always took separate vacations. He played a beach bum who seduced the wife, and had all but stolen the movie. After that, he signed with a major agency and moved on to starring roles. His marriage to the reigning television queen of sitcoms had been a big story—although they hadn’t been called Frynis or Gleddy. Despite being called a ‘golden couple’ by the gossips, they hadn’t been big enough to become a one-word entity. That story, though, had been eclipsed by the affair with Jillian—and the messy divorce that followed.