G.T. Herren - Paige Tourneur 02 - Dead Housewives of New Orleans (13 page)

“So, Chloe was killed the same way?”

Venus nodded. “When you look at the pictures of their injuries, they’re almost identical. Definitely the same killer, I’d say— if not, then the killers were the exact same height and used the exact same weapon, or at least similar ones.” She scratched her head. “Listen to me. Obviously it was two different weapons— the killer left the murder weapon behind at Fidelis Vandiver’s. But definitely two baseball bats.” She put her hands together like she was gripping a baseball bat, and swung them, making a noise eerily similar to a bat connecting with a baseball. “Killer swung for the bleachers, too.”

I made a face. “Nice analogy.”

They called our number, and Venus winked at me as she got up. “I’ll get it— sorry if I made you a little squeamish.” While she walked in to get our tray, I pulled out my phone and checked my email. I smiled to myself— Rachel had emailed me with a time for my meeting with Abe Golden. I glanced at my watch— he was staying at a suite at the Ritz-Carlton on Canal Street. It wouldn’t take more than five minutes or so to walk there— and I had an hour. I could relax and see what else Venus was willing to share.

She placed an orange plastic tray on the table. I picked up my cup of coffee, added Sweet-n-Low, and took a bite from one of my beignets. It was heavenly, worth every calorie— tomorrow all I’d be able to eat would be salad but I didn’t care. That was tomorrow, and for now I was going to enjoy every bite.

Venus took a bite and wiped powdered sugar off her chin. “Loren McKeithen, as you can imagine, is beside himself about losing Billy’s alibi witness this way— but as you might guess, he’s already spinning theories that Billy giving Chloe’s name as his alibi proves his innocence. Why would he then turn around and kill his alibi witness?” She took another bite and chewed thoughtfully. “Billy Barron’s not that bright, to be honest— he certainly didn’t impress me with his intelligence. He also claims his championship bats are all missing. Of course, he never reported them stolen and never reported a break-in to his house, so who knows?” She shrugged slightly and took another swig of her coffee.

“Yeah, but would he really kill his own alibi witness?” I dusted powdered sugar off my fingers before picking up another beignet. “Although I suppose it would be a really clever defense— ‘ladies and gentlemen of the jury, why would the defendant kill the only person who could clear him of the original murder?’ Yeah, I can see that.”

“You need to stop watching
Law and Order
reruns,” Venus laughed, putting her coffee down.

“It’s possible,” I said in a defensive tone. “It would be a very clever way of diverting suspicion, don’t you think?”

“Most murderers aren’t that smart, as you well know.”

“The ones who get caught,” I pointed out. “How many unsolved murders are there on the books?”

“Touché.” Venus picked up her last beignet and examined it. She sighed. “I don’t need to eat this, but I can’t stop myself. These things are more addictive than crack.” She gobbled it down in three bites, washing it down with another swig of coffee.

“I don’t suppose Billy would be willing to talk to me.” I picked up my third beignet, and put it back down. I wasn’t going to eat it, I decided. My appetite had been satisfied, and it was just excess.

Venus stood up. “Call Loren and ask him.” She raised her eyebrows. “You never know— he might want to use you to get some public sympathy for him.” She looked at me and whistled. “Not going to eat that last beignet? Damn, Paige, I’m impressed.”

I waited until she was back inside the precinct before scarfing it.

I disliked Abe Golden almost instantly.

He was staying on the concierge floor of the Ritz-Carlton, of course, so I had to wait while they called up to announce me and make sure I wasn’t some crazed stalker-fan. While I waited, I got my phone out and looked up some more information on him— I’d started searching the web the moment I left Café Beignet and walked over. All I’d found was the typical puff-piece garbage publicists spoon-fed to “entertainment journalists”— a term I had always found annoying— and an interview he’d done with the
New York Times Sunday Magazine.
Again, there was nothing in-depth there. The text was really just filler to accompany photos of a cavernous apartment in downtown Manhattan. I was frankly disappointed with the way the apartment was decorated. It looked neither stylish nor comfortable. I suppose I expected more from the man who’d dreamed up and produced the most successful reality shows in television history. The furniture was garish and modern and looked out of place in the older-style apartment. Art deco would have been a much better choice, given the views from his windows and given the dark-painted wooden floors.

Carpeting would look better with his furniture.

I was rather surprised, though, to learn he was actually five years older than me— he seemed so much younger on television. He’d gone to work for the cable network when he graduated from NYU’s film school, working his way up from glorified gopher to assistant producer to finally launching his own reality series.
The Grande Dames of Marin County
had originally been conceptualized as a documentary-type show, following the lives of upper middle class women and how they balanced family with business. But it was the relationships between the women that caught viewer interest. Soon the ‘reality’ aspects faded away, and the show became more soap opera than documentary. The show, and the other franchises, had put the cable network on the map and established it as a player in the world of cable television. The fortunes of the women, particularly the ones who managed to control their image on the shows and gain a devoted fan base, also rose. Some spun off their original shows into their own solo reality shows; others saw their personal fortunes grow as they basically used their appearances on their shows as subtle marketing campaigns.

Cynically, I wondered how much of a stake Abe Golden had in the women’s businesses. There had to be some kind of payoff involved. Over the years, women he’d fired from their shows had gone public, claiming he played favorites, deliberately editing the shows to make some women sympathetic and popular and ones he didn’t like hated by the viewers. The network’s public relations people, of course dismissed the accusations as sour grapes.

Finally, the concierge used his key to let me into the elevators to the concierge floor. I smiled my thanks and got into the elevator— he’d already pressed the button for me.

Apparently, the rich and famous can’t be bothered pressing their own buttons.

The Ritz-Carlton was in the old Maison Blanche building. Maison Blanche was an old department store, like a local Macy’s or Dillard’s. This building was over one hundred years old, but like so many other department stores, Maison Blanche fell on hard times in the latter half of the Twentieth Century and eventually closed. The entire building was completely done over and re-opened as a Ritz-Carlton a few years before Katrina. Maison Blanche and its famous Christmas mascot, Mr. Bingle, were sorely missed— people still talked about Mr. Bingle every year when Christmas season rolled around. Maison Blanche was a part of the lost New Orleans, like K&B Drugstores and the Coliseum Theater. The elevator came to a stop and when the doors opened, I stepped out into the plush hallway. I’d only been in the hotel once before, interviewing a fading screen legend when she was in town. I’d been excited to meet her— I was a huge fan of hers.

Let’s just say meeting her was a disappointment and leave it at that.

I walked down the hallway and knocked on the appropriate suite door.

“Ms. Tourneur?” A very good-looking man smiled at me. He was tall, maybe six feet, and his teeth were even and almost blindingly white. He was wearing a peach-colored sleeved dress shirt that fit tightly across his muscular chest and his big shoulders. Veins corded his well-muscled arms, and it probably wouldn’t have really hurt had he bought his tight gray jeans a size larger. He had large, wide set grayish-green eyes, a thick brow ridge over them, and a strong nose. His lips were a little too thin, but there were deep dimples in both cheeks and in his square chin. His brown hair was gelled to a shellacked stiffness, but at least he hadn’t combed it all to the middle in one of those ridiculous faux hawks that make my palms itch to slap their owners a good one. “Abe’s expecting you. Do come in.”

He stood aside and I walked into a hotel suite that was bigger than my apartment— which isn’t exactly small. There was an enormous living room with big windows displaying a gorgeous view of the Quarter and Marigny as well as the river off to the right. There was a small kitchen, and a full wet bar nestled in one corner. A massive plasma TV screen was mounted on one wall, and the furniture stank of expensive. I could hear a loud voice behind one of the doors leading off the main room. I assumed it was Abe Golden, and he seemed very agitated.

“I’m Brandon,” the good-looking man who’d let me in said, the smile never wavering. “I’m Abe’s assistant— he’s on a call right now, but will be joining you shortly. Is there anything I can get for you? Something to drink? We have a full wet bar.” He gestured with his hand towards the wet bar. I glanced over, and was impressed to see that every bottle was top-notch liquor— the really good stuff.

Cynically I wondered if Black Mountain Liquors stocked it.

I sighed— it was only eleven. “Some soda water, I suppose, with a slice of lemon? It’s too early in the day to start drinking.” I hadn’t meant to sound so wistful, but the longing in my voice must have been apparent, because his smile broadened.

“But it’s a Sunday,” he said, walking over and filling a tall glass with ice. “Not even some wine, perhaps?” His smile widened, and he winked at me. “I thought people in New Orleans drank all the time?”

“Get thee behind me, Satan,” I replied, waving my index finger at him.

He laughed again and filled my glass with soda water, garnishing it with a slice of lemon. He poured himself a glass of soda as well, and sat down next to me on the overstuffed leather sofa. We clinked glasses and took a sip.

“How long have you been with Abe?” I asked, getting out my digital recorder.

“You’re not going to tape me?” He recoiled back from me in horror. “I can never go on the record. It would violate my employment contract.”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes and set the recorder down on the glass coffee table. “Relax, Brandon.” I held up both of my hands in mock surrender. “I was just getting it out, don’t worry. Just between us.” I almost said
us girls,
but stopped myself in time. I shouldn’t automatically assume he was gay, even if my gaydar was going crazy.

He expelled his breath in relief. “Abe takes that sort of thing very seriously.” He put his glass down on a coaster and frowned. Abe’s voice in the other room was getting louder. “As you can imagine, it’s been crazy around here all morning. The network isn’t happy, and the tabloids and the media— well, it’s like being under siege. A feeding frenzy, and someone threw blood in the water.”

I decided not to mention his mixed metaphors— one thing I learned early in my career is ‘never get on the wrong side of the assistant.’ The assistant controlled access— and in many cases that was the only power the assistant actually had. People who have very little power can turn into fascists when it comes to that power, and take out their frustrations when they can. So I’ve found it always enormously helpful to treat assistants with respect and friendliness. “I can imagine,” I said, in as sympathetic a voice as I could manage. I ran a hand through my hair and hoped it looked okay— it had been rather windy on the walk over. “This must be a public relations nightmare.”

He looked surprised. He rebuked me gently. “Well, it’s a tragedy for the friends and families of both ladies. And for the show, of course. I didn’t know either woman very well, but obviously, it’s very upsetting.” He took a big drink of his soda water. “Some people think we should cancel the show, or at least postpone airing the season, out of respect.” His face twisted. “I think it’s pretty safe to assume that isn’t going to happen.”

Before I could say anything, the door to the room where the loud voice had been coming from burst open, slamming into the wall with such force that the art on the walls vibrated. “Those FUCKING idiots don’t know SHIT about how to run a network!” Abe screamed, spittle flying out of his mouth.

Brandon rose and nodded in my direction. “Abe, the journalist from
Crescent City
magazine is here.”

“Hello,” Abe Golden said to me. He didn’t offer me his hand, or even ask my name. I bit my lower lip and remained seated as he crossed to the wet bar and poured himself a very stiff whiskey, which he tossed down in one gulp. He rinsed the glass out, and refilled it with ice and Evian.

He was a short man, something I’d noticed at the premiere Friday night— maybe about five five, and that’s a generous estimate. He wasn’t wearing shoes, and his feet were hairy, like a hobbit’s. His skinny jeans were too small for him, and rode so low on his hips I could see his butt crack when he had his back to me. He was wearing a white T-shirt with the logo for
Grande Dames of Palm Beach
across the chest, and there was a grease spot just below and to the right of the logo. His hair needed a touch-up— I could see about a quarter inch of gray roots in the part. His left eye was bigger than his right, and the two eyes didn’t move completely together— the right one moved faster. His nose was crooked, but his teeth were startlingly white. Gray stubble covered his chin and cheeks. He gave me a surly grin as he sat down on the couch opposite mine, and put his feet up on the glass table. He had an odd underbite. The bottoms of his feet were dirty.

Up close, he looked even older than he had last night.

I tried to look away from his dirty feet. “Thank you for agreeing to see me.”

“I want to ask you.” He had a thick accent— one of the boroughs or Jersey, I wasn’t sure which. “Do
you
think we should postpone the season? Out of respect?” He spoke fast, his ‘s’ sounds were more like ‘z’s.