G.T. Herren - Paige Tourneur 01 - Fashion Victim (3 page)

“What are you doing here?” Venus said.

I smiled back at her. “Believe it or not, I’m covering the story for
Crescent City
. I’m a crime reporter again— at least temporarily. Just like old times.”

This time Blaine scowled. “Great.” He drew the word out into about ten syllables and made a farting sound at me with his lips.

Venus took a deep breath. “You know we can’t comment on an ongoing investigation, and—”

I cut her off. “Hello, have we met before? This is Paige, remember me?” I took a sip from my coffee and smiled. “I’m not going to butt in, I’m not going to be a pain in your ass, okay? Besides, I
was
at the show last night. Don’t you want to ask me some questions?”

They glanced at each other. Blaine shrugged, and Venus rolled her eyes with a long-suffering sigh. “You see anything out of the ordinary?” Venus asked me, “Like someone threatening her, maybe?”

I bit my lower lip. Before I could admit the party had been boring and I’d gotten drunk, Blaine cut me off. “She didn’t see or hear anything— you got wasted, didn’t you, punkin?” He winked at me. “Don’t bother denying it, we’ve already talked to Jackson.”

I could feel my face reddening as Venus smothered a laugh. I gave her a dirty look.

Venus grinned at me. “Don’t bust her chops, Blaine.”

“Sorry, Paige, couldn’t resist that one.” He winked at me.

“Good boy,” Venus patted his arm, and turned back to me. “Coroner’s best estimate for now is Marigny was killed around one in the morning, give or take. She was shot in the chest, just once. Looks like she was at the top of the stairs leading down to the first floor. No signs of breaking and entering. No murder weapon anywhere. There are fingerprints everywhere— and I do mean everywhere.” She blew out a raspberry.

“That sucks,” I commiserated. Of course there were fingerprints everywhere— there’d been a party, not to mention the downstairs usually served as the showroom. It would take days, maybe even weeks, to sort out all the fingerprints. It sounded like this wasn’t a robbery gone wrong— so it wasn’t likely any of the prints would even be in the system. No wonder Blaine was being such a bitch. This was going to be high-profile— might even attract the attention of the national media. I didn’t know how big a name Marigny had in the fashion industry— for all I knew, she could be the American equivalent of Coco Chanel.

And the longer it took them to catch the killer, the less likely it would be they would.

Unless they got a lucky break, the magazine would be going to bed on Wednesday without the name of Marigny’s killer in the cover story.

“You’re sure you didn’t see or hear anything out of the ordinary?” There was a note of pleading in Venus’s voice I’d never heard before.

“I wish I could help,” I replied. I shook my head. “But no, it was the most boring party I’ve been to in a long time— and that’s saying something. There really wasn’t anyone there who was even in the least bit interesting to talk to.”

“So you got drunk.” This time Blaine sounded sympathetic.

I nodded. “Yeah.” I took another swallow of my coffee. “If I do remember anything, I’ll give you a call.”

“Do that,” Venus walked around to the driver’s side of the SUV. “And no snooping around the crime scene, understood? Don’t think I won’t arrest you for obstruction.” She pointed an index finger at me as she said it.

“I swear,” I replied as Blaine shut his door.

I glanced back over at the house as they drove off. I wasn’t a crime scene specialist— so it wouldn’t do me any good to look around anyway.

I drank the last of my coffee as I walked back to my car and formulated a plan.

The best way to handle this article, since it’s not likely they’ll make an arrest by Wednesday, is to do it as a retrospective. I need to know the dirt, the stuff you can’t find online
.

I smiled as I got into my car.

I knew exactly who to ask.

And the fact it would piss off Blaine was just gravy.

Chapter Four

If the biggest drawback of dating Ryan Tujague was enduring his younger brother’s teasing, well, that was nothing compared to the benefit of being considered family by his mother.

Athalie Bascomb Tujague might not be the crowned queen of New Orleans, but she was certainly a force of nature that had to be reckoned with. She was the last of a long line of New Orleans blue bloods that made their fortune, it was whispered, in the slave trade. Athalie dismissed the very idea with a wave of her elegant fingers whenever someone had the boorish bad taste to bring this up to her. “Nonsense,” she would say with a disdainful glance down her aristocratic nose, her eyes twinkling. “My ancestors weren’t slave traders. They were
pirates.”

“Paige darling!” She swept into the parlor of the big house on St. Charles Avenue with her arms spread wide to envelop me in a hug. She was a little taller than I was, and her figure, despite six children and about fourteen grandchildren, was still as trim as when she reigned as Queen of Rex. “What a delightful surprise!” She gestured for me to have a seat. “Do you want coffee? Tea? Is it too early for a cocktail?” She frowned and peered at the clock on the marble mantelpiece. One of the few concessions she made to vanity was a refusal to wear glasses, despite being terribly nearsighted.

My stomach roiled at the mention of alcohol. “I’m still recovering from last night,” I admitted, sitting down and leaning back in the wingback chair. “I went to Marigny Mercereau’s fashion show—”

“That detestable woman!” She interrupted me with an elegant shudder. Despite the early hour, she was wearing a pale blue cashmere sweater over dark blue slacks, and several ropes of pearls with matching earrings. “All of her taste was in her mouth— and even that was questionable.”

I smothered a grin. “I hate it when you beat around the bush, Athalie, and won’t say what you really mean.”

Her brows came together for a brief moment before she laughed. “Discretion is my middle name, after all.” She shook her head, the corners of her mouth twitching. “She’s an awful woman, just awful.”

“Was.” I corrected her. “Marigny was murdered this morning.”

Her right hand went to her throat. “Oh, dear. How dreadful for her boys— no matter what they thought of her, she was their mother.” She closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths. Apparently, that was how royalty took unpleasant news.

“She had trouble with her sons?” I asked after a few moments.

Athalie opened her eyes and focused them on me. “One doesn’t move to Memphis, Tennessee, because one
wants
to, dear.” She sighed. “Being murdered doesn’t make her any less detestable. That whole ‘don’t speak ill of the dead’ is just the kind of hypocrisy I despise. Someone dies, and everyone gets all sad and pretends the departed was a saint? No, I don’t subscribe to that notion. I wouldn’t wish death on anyone, of course, not even someone as perfectly awful as Marigny Mercereau, but I’m not going to pretend she was a lovely person. She most definitely was not.”
“I was doing a piece on her re-opening her business,” I went on, delighted she wasn’t going to censor herself. I should have known she wouldn’t, but you can never be sure. Hypocrisy or no, most people don’t feel comfortable dishing dirt on the dead. “But now of course I’m covering her murder— but I wanted to know…” I hesitated.

“The gossip?” She gave me a wicked smile. “Now who’s beating around the bush, dear?” She gave a little wave with her hand. “Didn’t you date Aramis for a while before he married?” I nodded. “Marigny wasn’t happy about that.” She clicked her tongue as she shook her head. “I always liked Aramis. He also dated Clarisse, you know.” Clarisse was her younger daughter, born between Ryan and Blaine, an enormously successful photojournalist for
National Geographic
. She was currently on assignment in Tanzania. “I can’t tell you how terrified I was Clarisse might actually marry him— she was crazy about him.” She gave a delicate shudder. “The thought of possibly sharing grandchildren with that horrible woman used to give me nightmares. Such a shame. Aramis was a lovely young man.”

“Yes.” Had Aramis dated me before or after Clarisse Tujague? I couldn’t remember— the years before Katrina were all foggy in my mind. I had liked Aramis— he was a good looking man, and made me laugh— but the chemistry just wasn’t there for me. He’d gotten married the spring before Katrina to a woman I didn’t know— I wasn’t invited to the wedding but saw the announcement in the paper. I wasn’t sure exactly when he moved to Memphis. “I always thought it was odd all her sons took her last name.” I’d asked Aramis about that, but he just shrugged and wouldn’t say anything more.

Athalie made a face. “I can’t even remember how many times she was married. Four? Five?” She gave a little
who knows
shrug. “She was pretty wild before she married the first time, too. Anything with pants in the Quarter was fair game to her.” She looked over at me. “Do you know Audrey Vidrine? The two of them were quite a pair back then.”

The name was familiar but I couldn’t place it. “Are they still friends?”

“I don’t know.” She sniffed delicately. “I’ve never really kept tabs on those kinds of women.” She said it with disdain, like she was talking about something she’d accidentally stepped in. “You know Marigny was writing a book, don’t you?”

“A book?” I replied. “No, I had no idea. What kind of book?”

“A memoir.” Athalie’s lip curled. She looked over to the painting of her husband hanging over the mantelpiece. Judge Thomas Tujague had been deceased about ten years, and she always referred to him at the Judge. He’d been serving on the state Supreme Court when he died. There were some nasty rumors about what exactly he’d been doing when he had the massive coronary. The public story was that he’d died in his judge’s chambers. The whispers were that he wasn’t alone. “She actually called me— when was it? Two days ago?” She frowned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Yes, yes, it was Wednesday. I’d just gotten home from that awful book club luncheon.” She gave a little mock shudder. “Terribly stupid women, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. Never again.”

“She called you?” I prompted.

“I hadn’t spoken to her in years,” Athalie’s voice was grim. “She called to tell me she was writing a book— her memoirs, and just wanted to
warn me
.” She made air quotes as she said the last two words, and her eyes were steely. “What she really wanted was money, of course, and I wasn’t having any of it. I laughed in her face. Well, on the phone, anyway.”

“Money?” I stared at her. “You mean blackmail?”

She sighed and got a look on her face that chilled me. “Marigny’s been over-extended for years, of course.” She pursed her lips contemptuously. “That’s no great secret, you know. Those dreadful designs she came up with? She should have been going for the drag queen market— because no woman with any refinement or elegance would wear those horrors she designed.” She made a face. “Sequins and feathers— just dreadful. She never had any taste, of course, and she tore through whatever money her father left her— which wasn’t much— and then there were all those marriages and young men…” Her voice trailed off as she looked off into the distance. I was about to prompt her when she shook her head slightly and looked back at me. “She thought I’d give her money if she promised to leave the Judge out of her stupid book.” She barked out a hoarse laugh. “You should have heard her voice! Of course she called. She knew if she dared show her face here with her little blackmail demands I would have slapped her silly.”

I found my voice. “The Judge?”

“I loved him, and he was a wonderful man, my dear, but above all else he was a
man.”
Her voice twisted into scorn on the last word. She shrugged. “When I was pregnant with Ryan, he strayed. It wasn’t the end of the world. And Marigny was pretty, then— if you like that common streetwalker look, and men always seem to.” She smiled. “She didn’t age well, poor dear. Then, the slutty ones never do. The hard living always shows on their faces in the end— just like their character.” She paused as her maid brought in a coffee service, setting it down on the coffee table. “We’ll pour for ourselves, Manuela. Would you mind closing the door behind you? Thank you, dear.” She poured herself a cup, and as soon as the door was closed, she went on, “I guess she thought I wouldn’t want the Judge’s name sullied in her nasty little book.” She barked out a laugh. “He’s
dead
. If anything, people would feel sorry for
me
.” She rolled her eyes theatrically. “Which is what I told her. Why would I give her money so she wouldn’t look like the whore she is? Was, I suppose I should say.”

My mind was racing in about fifty different directions.

She took a sip from her coffee. “Take some deep breaths, Paige dear. You look like you’re about to explode.”

“I, uh, do you think she was using her book to blackmail people?” I finally managed to get the words out. I realized I was avoiding looking at the painting of the Judge— now that I knew about his affair, I couldn’t look at him.

Which was stupid.

So I did, and immediately looked back at Athalie.

“It wouldn’t surprise me in the least,” Athalie replied with a little shrug of her shoulders. “She was like a cat in heat back in the day. We went to McGehee together, you know— she was a few years after me— but even then she had a reputation. She went to Tulane for a year before she took off for Paris, you know— there wasn’t a pair of pants in the French Quarter she didn’t have that last year before she took off. It was really disgraceful. But her father never could control her— he drank, you know, and gambled away most of their money. She came back for his funeral. Her mother died when she was a little girl. I always felt a little sorry for Marigny. It couldn’t have been easy growing up the way she did.” She smiled slightly. “Then she slept with my husband, actually thought he would leave me for her.” She emitted a nasty little laugh. “Like that was going to happen while I was still breathing.”

The way she said it made me shift uncomfortably in my seat.