G.T. Herren - Paige Tourneur 02 - Dead Housewives of New Orleans (16 page)

I’ve always joked about New Orleans being a small town— which it really is. Shows like
Grande Dames
usually cast women who at least knew each other slightly if they weren’t actually friends off-camera. The problem with New Orleans, though, is that there really wasn’t any way they could have cast women whose lives hadn’t intersected many times over— and the producers couldn’t have known about long-standing feuds when interviewing prospective cast members if the women themselves didn’t bring it up. And would they, if it meant they might not make it onto the show? I certainly would have, but I didn’t have the narcissism requisite to wanting to be on a reality television show.

But this show’s cast? How strange was it they had cast Rebecca Barron, who was fighting with her stepsons over control of her company, and two women who were reportedly sleeping with one of those very stepsons. And Margery, who herself was having her own legal issues with one of the women sleeping with the stepson.

No wonder my head ached.

I’d spoken to every single one of the women— the ones still alive, at any rate— except for Megan Dreher. What was it Abe had said about her? Oh yes— she’d interviewed well but seemed to freeze up on camera, and he was considering replacing her for the next season.

What a miserable little troll he was! I’d always thought he was smarmy on his little talk show that aired after each episode, but I’d had no idea just how bad he really was.

I put him out of my mind as I flipped through the pages until I got to what Abby had dug up on Megan Dreher.

Megan’s husband had a really bad reputation around town. A real estate developer and building contractor before Katrina, he had been sued a ridiculous number of times but always either managed to settle or win the case somehow. After Katrina, his reputation got even worse. He’d been one of the contractors for Poydras Tower— a lawsuit ensued. He’d built some houses in the lower Ninth ward that failed inspections, and another contractor had been brought in to fix the problems. Yes, Sam Dreher was bad news.

But his wife Megan— she was another story entirely.

As I read about her, I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why she married a crook (well, an alleged crook) like Sam Dreher. She had been raised very middle class in New Orleans, gone to public schools, and after getting her degree in English from LSU, she worked as a teacher in the New Orleans public school system until she got married. That was it. I looked through the rest of the file and while there were pages and pages about the other
Grande Dames
, there were just a few short paragraphs about Megan. I got my recorder out, and fast-forwarded through my interview with Abe until I got to the part about how he’d found his cast.

Abe said,
I don’t remember if Fidelis or Amanda Beth found Megan Dreher.
Megan didn’t work out as well as we would have liked. She of course agreed to do the show, but once we started filming she really didn’t open up much on camera. Unless she was drinking… and unfortunately we couldn’t have her drinking 24/7.

I flipped back through to the dossier on Fidelis. I scanned through it— but there was nothing there connecting Fidelis to Megan. That was strange, to say the least, but then again, if someone compiled a dossier on me based on what they could find in databases, there might not be anything linking me to Chanse, for example. I thought back to Friday evening, when Megan had come up onstage after Abe Golden called out her name, and I really couldn’t remember much about her. She’d seemed slight of build, and maybe had worn a blue dress? She hadn’t had much screen time during the episode, either.

But one thing Abby had managed to dig up on her was a home address, and it was actually in my neighborhood— the Drehers lived on Camp Place.

That figured. Camp Place was one of those New Orleans peculiarities, like how Magazine Street turned from a one-way street into a two-way street heading Uptown at St. Andrew Street. Camp Place was a block-long street that ran alongside Camp Street for one block between Race and Orange Streets. It was separated from Camp Street by a neutral ground, and the expensive homes that lined the short street were
incredibly
expensive. Incredibly expensive cars were always parked there.

I heard the kid’s voice in my head again.
It was one of those cars rich white ladies drive.

I couldn’t help but wonder what Megan Dreher drove.

Skittle meowed at me, and I scratched his head. “Yeah, I should probably just hang out here all day and get some rest, but it won’t hurt to walk over there and see if Megan’s home, now will it?” He blinked at me as I popped a couple of aspirin for the slight headache. I stood up, and grabbed my keys. The slight buzz was subsiding, so I tossed my recorder into my purse and walked out the front door.

Dark clouds were on the horizon, which didn’t bode well for the weather later. I checked both ways before walking out of the gate, and made sure I walked as far away from the street as I could. I still couldn’t believe someone had tried to run me over. How could they have known where I was? Had the driver just been parked on the street, waiting for me to come out? If I hadn’t been meeting Abby, they could have been sitting there for the rest of the day.

It didn’t make sense. Maybe it had just been some kind of crazy accident.

I was very careful, though, to check both ways before I dashed across Prytania Street.

The temperature was dropping again, and the wind felt chilly and damp— which definitely meant more rain was on its way. I sighed as I reached the end of the block and Coliseum Street. The park was filled with people playing with their dogs. The fountain was going, and the live oaks were rustling in the wind. I looked across the park to Chanse’s house. The big shutters on his living room window were closed. Megan’s address was on Race Street, which bordered the park on its uptown side. I walked along the sidewalk in that direction. I headed towards Race Street. I could see where Camp Place opened out onto Race.

It was amazing how much Coliseum Square had changed over the years— the entire neighborhood, for that matter. When Chanse and I first moved to New Orleans after college, we would have never considered living in this neighborhood. I could remember driving through here when the houses all looked derelict and blighted. Now they had all been renovated and the park area looked genteel.

I passed the house where Blaine and his partner lived. Blaine’s car was in the driveway— he must have taken the rest of the day off. I crossed the street and walked through the park. I was almost to Race Street when I heard sirens approaching. I frowned just as a patrol car came screaming around the corner onto Race from Camp Street, and another shot past on Coliseum. They both turned onto Camp Place.

I crossed Race Street, and headed down the sidewalk as quickly as I could, without running, to the corner at Camp Place. Both patrol cars had pulled up in front of a coral Greek Revival house. Officers with weapons drawn were heading up the walk to the front door, while two others were going around to the back. I crossed Camp Place and walked along the neutral ground until I could see the house number.

It was the Dreher house.

And there was a black Mercedes in the driveway.

It was black. I don’t know cars, but it was one of those that rich white ladies drive.

“Paige?”

I turned to see Blaine frowning at me. He was wearing a pair of jeans and an LSU sweatshirt. He had his shoulder holster strapped on, the butt of his revolver clearly showing. He had both hands on his hips as he glanced over to the patrol cars before looking back at me, his thick eyebrows knit together.

“What are you doing?” he went on.

“I was actually coming over here when the police cars showed up,” I replied. “That’s the Dreher house, isn’t it?”

He licked his lower lip. “Yeah.”

“Is it Megan Dreher?”

He didn’t answer for a moment. Finally, he said, “Sam Dreher called 9-1-1.” He nodded. “It’s Megan. He found her in the back yard.” He shook his head. “At this rate, we’re going to have to give the rest of the goddamned
Grande Dames
24/7 police protection.” He peered at me. “You’re awful pale. Are you okay? And what happened to your elbows?”

I reached out and grabbed the black wrought iron fence to keep myself from falling. I pointed to the car. “Blaine— that car— someone tried to run me down a couple of hours ago.” I swallowed. “This kid pushed me out of the way— tackled me, really,” I held up my bandaged elbows to show him, “and all he said about the car was it was a black one— the kind rich ladies drive.”

“That doesn’t make sense, Paige. Why would Megan Dreher try to run you down? Do you even know her?” Blaine looked at the car and looked back at me. “I don’t know, Paige— yeah, it could have been a black Mercedes, but it could have been a Lexus or a Porsche or…” He let his voice trail off.

I shook my head. He was right— it didn’t make any sense.

The crime lab van came around the corner at Polymnia onto Coliseum. Before he walked over to where it parked, Blaine said over his shoulder, “Just look both ways when you’re crossing the street, okay?”

I watched as he talked with the crime scene techs, and walked into the house with them. I thought about waiting around but there was no telling how long they’d be in there. Venus was bound to show up at some point, but— no, better to just head back home.

I crossed the street and started walking home, lost in thought.

Maybe I was going about this whole thing the wrong way. Maybe it has nothing to do with the show, and everything to do with their own private lives. Fidelis Vandiver had an ugly divorce and custody battle with her ex-husband— but that was years ago. Think, Paige, think. When you were a crime reporter, what was the standard rule of thumb when someone was killed? It’s almost always someone close to the victim, a spouse or a relative or a lover. Billy Barron admitted he was having an affair with Fidelis. He claimed he was with Chloe when Fidelis was killed. They’re both dead— and now Megan Dreher probably is, too. Was she having an affair with Billy Barron?

My phone vibrated in my pocket. “Tourneur.”

“Paige Tourneur?” It was a man’s deep voice, one I didn’t recognize. “You don’t know me, but my name is Billy Barron. I was wondering if it would be possible to have a moment of your time?”

I stopped at the corner. “Should you even be talking to a reporter?”

He laughed smoothly. “My attorney has assured me that I have nothing to hide, and that you’re a reporter I can trust. You know him, I believe— Loren McKeithen?”

“Yes, I’ve known him for years.” I couldn’t believe Loren had okayed him to talk to me— but on the other hand, that really wasn’t MY problem, was it? If he was talking to the press without his lawyer’s approval, who was I to stop him?

“I really want to talk to you. I’m even in your neighborhood.”

“How— how do you know where I live?” I didn’t like the sound of that one bit.

“Loren told me you live in the lower Garden District. I’m at Mojo Café. Won’t you join me for a cup of coffee? It won’t take more than ten minutes, I swear.”

I turned and started walking back down towards the park, still talking. Mojo Café was at the corner of Race and Magazine— maybe about two blocks from the Dreher house.

“What exactly is this about, Mr. Barron?” I could feel my heart started to pound faster. So he was in the vicinity of the Dreher house, and there was a dead body there. But why would he want to meet me in a coffee shop if he had bad intentions? It was a public place— surely I’d be safe there.

“Someone is setting me up, Paige. And I think I know who it is. I’m willing to give you the entire story before I give it to the police.”

“But—” I worked for a monthly magazine; if he wanted to get his story out there before he gave it to the police, he needed to speak to someone at the paper.

Something was definitely not right here.

But it
was
a public place— and nothing had made much sense this entire weekend. I was annoyed with Margery— maybe it was about time she learned I didn’t jump when she snapped her fingers.

And he had me curious.

“Were you really sleeping with both Fidelis and Chloe?” I asked as I crossed Coliseum Street and entered the park. Venus’ dark SUV was now parked in front of the Dreher house.

“It’s complicated. I’ll explain it all to you when I see you.”

“All right. Ten minutes, that’s all I can give you.” I hung up and dropped my phone back into my pocket.

I crossed the park to Race Street and stared at the Dreher house. I could see flashes going off inside as the crime scene techs photographed everything. The front door was open, but there was a uniform out there guarding the front of the house

I started walking down Race Street.

Mojo’s was deserted except for the hipster chick behind the counter with the face tattoos and facial piercings, and a man sitting at the table furthest away from the door. As soon as I walked inside, he rose with a smile and waved at me.

I smiled, waved back, before I walked to the counter to order an iced mocha from the surly girl, who acted like she was doing me a favor. I was digging for my wallet when someone came up right behind me, invading my personal space.

“I’ll get that,” a male voice said softly.

“Please back away from me,” I said in a controlled voice, as every nerve ending in my body went on high alert. Nausea churned my stomach and I could feel the panic attack coming on. My vision was beginning to go dark around the edges the way it always does right before I turn into a babbling fool. The smell of his cologne— Davidoff’s Cool Water— was the same cologne…
don’t go there, Paige, don’t, you can resist.

Deep, calming breaths.

Yes.

I felt him step back away from me. I took another deep breath before I spun around and snarled, “I don’t care how good-looking and irresistible to women you think you are,
never
come up behind a woman you don’t know like that!” I took great pleasure in the look of fear that passed over Billy Barron’s face. “You’re lucky I’m not carrying mace.”