G.T. Herren - Paige Tourneur 02 - Dead Housewives of New Orleans (8 page)

“So, Paige, tell me— what’s your interest in Fidelis Vandiver?” Venus asked, dipping an onion ring into the puddle of ketchup she’d made on her plate. She didn’t look at me, and her offhand tone made me curious.

Venus is a beautiful woman of indeterminate age. I know she has two daughters that have graduated from college and are married— so she’s at least old enough to be a grandmother. But her smooth dark skin is free of wrinkles, and she buzzes her hair close to her majestic scalp. She has strong cheekbones, round, wide-set eyes, and she’s tall. She always wears heels to increase her height to well over six feet. She went to LSU on a basketball scholarship, and I also know she won a gold medal as a member of the US Olympic women’s basketball team— but I don’t know what year, and had never cared to look it up. She’s been divorced for almost fifteen years, and her ex-husband, a lawyer, has a much younger second wife. She never talks about her ex much; she spilled that one night when we’d both had too much tequila in the months after Katrina.

It never came up again.

“Well, I went to the premiere of
Grande Dames of New Orleans
last night,” I said after swallowing a bite of my po’boy. “And I’m doing a story on the show. Lo and behold, one of the cast members winds up dead. And you said it was foul play?”

Blaine shot a glance at his partner, which she completely ignored. “Unless she figured out a way to hit herself in the back of the head with a baseball bat, I’d say it’s definitely foul play.” Venus held up a well-manicured index finger. “Looks like it happened last night, after she got home from the premiere. She was wearing a black dress with one sleeve— House of Mercereau, according to the label.”

“That’s what she had on at the premiere,” I confirmed. I took another bite and swallowed. “A baseball bat?” I shuddered, then something occurred to me. “What was she doing with a baseball bat in her house?”

“It was a memento,” Blaine replied before Venus could say anything. “Signed to her with love from none other than Billy Barron.”

“Billy Barron?” I shook my head. Once again in my head I saw him grab Fidelis by the arm, the terse exchange as she jerked away from him. “Why would he sign a baseball bat for her? I don’t understand.”

“Apparently, it’s the very bat he used to hit the home run that won the national championship for LSU in the college world series.” Venus raised her eyebrows. “He’s also been having an affair with her for quite some time.”

I almost choked on an onion ring. “Say what?”

“Billy Barron and Fidelis Vandiver were having an affair.” Blaine opened another ketchup packet and squirted it out onto his plate. “And apparently, Fidelis was quite open about it on camera. For the show.”

“Wait, wait. I thought Fidelis had an affair with Steve Barron. You’re saying she also was sleeping with his son?” My head was starting to hurt.

Venus and Blaine exchanged a look. “Who told you she had an affair with Steve Barron?”

“His widow.” I rubbed my temples. “I talked to her this morning. The two of them— Fidelis and Rebecca, I mean— had issues working on the show together. Rebecca believed Fidelis was helping her stepsons sue her for control of the company.” Apparently, Rebecca had been wrong about that. “So she was actually with Billy? I—”

“He claims to have an alibi.” Venus interrupted me. “He was apparently with his
other
mistress.”

“Other mistress?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “He had
another
mistress? Who?”

Venus’ face was completely without expression as she replied, “Chloe Valence.”

I stared at Blaine, trying to pick my chin up from the floor.

Chloe Valence?

“Seriously— Chloe is giving him an alibi?” I couldn’t be hearing that right— I wanted to laugh out loud. What a hypocrite! How many times had she talked about her happy marriage on the show last night? She’d almost convinced me that at the very least Remy was a bisexual. “She’s willing to get up in court and admit that she’s cheating on her husband?” I shook my head to clear it. That wasn’t the Chloe I’d come to know and loathe. There had to be something in it for Chloe if she was willing to risk getting off the Valence gravy train. But if Rebecca had inherited the entire Barron estate— then what did Billy have to offer her?

Then again, it was entirely possible Remy didn’t care where Chloe got her kicks— but I couldn’t imagine him being okay with her exposing the secret of their Uptown marriage to the general public.

And bitchy as it felt, I kind of liked the idea of Chloe being exposed as the phony she always had been.

“Yeah, I thought you’d like to hear that,” Venus raised an eyebrow, the corners of her mouth slightly twitching. “But we haven’t been able to reach her to see if she’ll confirm his story. No one at the Best Western on St. Charles saw her. Billy was alone when he checked in last night— but why else would he check into a hotel unless he was meeting someone?”

“Why wouldn’t they just go to his house?” I asked. “Why pay for a hotel when you live here? That doesn’t make any sense— unless he was trying to establish an alibi.”

Blaine shrugged. “Yeah, that’s kind of what we were thinking. Of course, as soon as we asked him that, he asked for a lawyer.” He made a face. “Loren McKeithen.”

“Well, he is the best,” I replied. It was true. When the rich and famous of New Orleans— anywhere in Louisiana, for that matter— ran afoul of the law, Loren McKeithen was the lawyer they called. I knew Loren fairly well. He was a great lawyer, and I thought he was a pretty nice guy. He did a lot of pro bono work for abused women— getting them restraining orders and representing them in divorce court and custody struggles with their exes. That goes a long way with me. I knew Chanse despised him— Loren had hired him once on behalf of one of his clients and thrown him under the bus without a qualm. It wasn’t cool, so I totally understood where Chanse was coming from— but I also kind of understood why Loren had done it. It was in the best interests of his client.

Naturally, I never said that to Chanse— I may not the smartest person in the world, but I’m not crazy.

“Couldn’t Chloe have just gone over to his house?” I scratched my head. “Why would
she
run the risk of being seen at a hotel?”

“I would imagine,” Venus said, her voice completely deadpan, “that Chloe didn’t want to drive to English Turn.”

English Turn really wasn’t that far from New Orleans— at most, around eight or nine miles from the Garden District. It was a gated community, with big homes that could best be described as McMansions. Snobbish New Orleanians would never deign to live there, despite the enormous lots, the access to a private country club and golf course. For one thing, it was
new
by New Orleans standards, and for another, it was on the West Bank. It was nestled in a curve of the Mississippi River, just across from the Marigny/Bywater neighborhoods downtown. It was called English Turn because at some point when the French were settling what is now the French Quarter, an English ship sailed up the river. French scouts spotted it and supposedly sent a crew down to meet the English and warn them about cannibalistic Indian tribes. Apparently, it never occurred to the English that the French might be lying, or why the cannibals hadn’t eaten the French, because they turned their ship around and sailed back out of the river.

And, I reflected, Venus was probably right. New Orleanians are horrible snobs about crossing the river or even driving out to Metairie. I myself hated it so much that I avoided it as much as I possibly could, and bitched when I had to go to the DMV.

“And no one is answering the phone at the Valence house?” That
was
odd. The last time I’d seen her— at a fundraiser for a battered women’s shelter— she’d delighted in telling me about her team of servants, especially the live-in housekeeper. “Where’s Chloe’s husband, Remy?”

Blaine shrugged. “He’s not answering his cell phone just like she isn’t answering hers. We swung by on the way here but there aren’t any lights on.”

“That’s so weird,” I commented, finishing the last bit of my po-boy.

“You saw her last night at the premiere, didn’t you?” This from Venus as she crumpled up her sandwich wrapper and closed it up in the Styrofoam box her onion rings had come in. “How did she seem?”

“I didn’t see her up close,” I said, remembering when Abe Golden called her up onstage. She’d been wearing that hideous emerald green dress with full sleeves and an Empire waist— a bad choice for her figure, as it just made her look pregnant— and of course who could forget the hideous braids? “Chanse and I were sitting in the balcony. She was grinning from ear to ear, very proud of herself.” Skittle yowled and leaped into my lap. “Come to think of it, I didn’t see Remy, but I wasn’t looking for him, either. He may have been there; I can’t say.”

I thought about telling them that Chloe was suing Margery Lautenschlaeger, but decided it could wait until I spoke to Margery herself.

“Do you have any suspects besides Billy Barron?”

“Fidelis wasn’t a popular woman,” Blaine said carefully. “She’d managed to make an awful lot of enemies.”

Venus stood. “If you think of anything, please give us a call.” She frowned. “I hate to have you walk us to the gate in this storm.”

I smiled and walked into the kitchen, getting the spare keys out of my junk drawer. “Here you go— it’s the square one. Just drop them through the mail slot once you’re out.”

Venus took the keys and opened my front door. “Don’t be getting yourself mixed up in any trouble, you hear?” She warned came with a smile. “We’ll let you know as soon as we make an arrest.”

I nodded, and shut the door behind them. I walked back into the kitchen and sat down at my desk. I had three hours before my meeting at Margery’s. I opened my address book in the computer, and scrolled through the names until I found Chloe’s. It was old, from when I still worked at the paper, but maybe her home phone number was still the same. I dialed it and after a few rings, it went to voicemail. I didn’t like that— sure, maybe she’d given the servants the day off and had left the house— but it just didn’t sit right with me. I couldn’t imagine the Chloe
I
knew giving all the servants the same day off. The more I thought about it, the less I liked it.

I tried her cell phone, and it went straight to voicemail.

Her phone was still off? That’s really not like Chloe. Something MUST be wrong.

I got up and made myself another cup of green tea, chastising myself for obsessing about it.

But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong at the Valence place.

Maybe I could drive over and just take a look around?

I sat back down at my desk and sipped my tea.

It wasn’t a
bad
idea. And if something
was
wrong over there…

Venus and Blaine, of course, were prohibited from looking around on the Valence property, but I wasn’t held to the same standards they were. As long as I didn’t get caught, a little trespassing never hurt anyone.

“But what could be wrong?” I said to Skittle after he jumped into my lap. He blinked at me. “She gave the servants the day off and went shopping or something, that’s all.”

I looked out the window at the downpour and sighed. Now that I was thinking about it, I wasn’t going to stop wondering and worrying until I went over there and looked around for myself. “I’m an idiot,” I said to Skittle as I climbed the stairs and got my long raincoat out of the closet, along with my rubber boots and my big umbrella.

The Valence family was what is considered ‘old money’ in New Orleans, and their mansion in the Garden District had been their ‘home in town’ when they still had the indigo plantation in St. John the Baptist Parish. The plantation was long gone, of course, and the big Greek Revival mansion on Third Street had been their primary residence since before the Spanish-American War. I knew the Valences had made money importing coffee and bananas, and I think they’d even found oil on one of their properties somewhere in the early twentieth century. But the Valence family businesses were long gone, and the family had simply lived off the pile of money more ambitious ancestors had earned for decades. I know Remy, for example, had an accounting degree from Loyola, but had never worked a day in his life and may not have ever even taken the CPA exam. He was what used to be called an idle gentleman, filling his days with bourbon and lunches at Galatoire’s. He’d been an only child and his father had died when he was very young, so he was raised by his mother. What had Athalie said? Oh, yes— they’d had a very
Suddenly Last Summer
type relationship. But the mother had eventually put her foot down and demanded he take a wife. Why he had chosen Chloe of all people was a mystery to me.

Then again, maybe there aren’t that many women who’d marry a gay man so she could get entrée into New Orleans society as well as access to a fortune.

Prytania Street was under several inches of water as I headed Uptown, and it didn’t seem like the rain was ever going to stop. There wasn’t hardly any traffic, and I didn’t see any pedestrians as my Forester crawled along, its wheels throwing up an almost steady stream of water. WWOZ was doing some sort of show about traditional Cajun zydeco music, which kept my nerves from jangling. When I turned left at Third Street, a big truck suddenly loomed up out of nowhere and I floored the accelerator as it blew its horn at me, its headlights lighting up the interior of my car. It barely missed the back end of the Forester, throwing up a huge wave of water that splashed over my back windows, and I pulled over to the side of the road to let my heartbeat get back to normal.

Pay attention to what you’re doing,
I chided myself, though I would have been willing to swear in court nothing had been coming from the other direction when I turned.

After a few moments, I felt calm enough to drive the remaining two blocks, and pulled over in front of the Valence house, peering through the window at it. It was a huge place, built in a time when you had to have living space for a passel of children, relatives, and guests. There was also a huge separate building which was now called a ‘dower house’ but had been slave quarters before the Civil War. There was an enormous live oak directly in front of it, between the sidewalk and the curb, and its roots had upended and cracked not only the sidewalk and the curb, but the tall wrought iron fence that ran the length of the property. On the side of the house that was bordered by Coliseum Street, the house sat right on the sidewalk and went back for what seemed like forever. There was a light on in one of the front upstairs windows. I’d never been inside the Valence house, and had never wanted to— but Venus and Blaine had said the house looked deserted.