G.T. Herren - Paige Tourneur 02 - Dead Housewives of New Orleans (3 page)

The story I’d heard was she’d joined the cast to try to jumpstart her writing career.

Yeah, good luck with that,
I thought, as the next grande dame appeared on the screen,
actually writing might work even better.

I didn’t really catch anything about the next two women, since I was so caught up in reliving my utter hatred of all things Chloe Valence. I knew Megan Dreher was a former Miss Louisiana and married to a real estate developer with a rather bad reputation in town, and Serena Castlemaine was a many-times married oil heiress from Texas who’d moved to New Orleans after Katrina and bought a penthouse at 1 River Place. The story was she was trying to buy her way into New Orleans society— which wasn’t as easy as one might think, and had broken many women before her. She was somehow related to Chanse’s landlady and biggest client, Barbara.

The final grande dame actually
was
a grande dame, and I still couldn’t believe Margery Lautenschlaeger had agreed to be on this show. She’d been the sole heir to the Schwartzberg liquor fortune. The Schwartzbergs had been selling liquor in southeastern Louisiana for well over a hundred years, and it was hard to imagine a business more lucrative than hawking booze in New Orleans. She’d also married into a liquor family— Lautenschlaeger Schnapps was one of the more popular brands of the German liquor in the world. Margery threw money around lavishly— she was a huge supporter of museums, the ballet association, the Tennessee Williams Festival, anything that could remotely be considered the arts. She lived in an enormous mansion on St. Charles Avenue, and her picture frequently appeared on the social pages of the
Times-Picayune
. In fact, she appeared in the paper so often that less kind people joked that she must have a press agent. She was also a bit of a local character— she said what she thought and didn’t give a damn what anyone thought of her. She always had a coterie of adoring gay men around her. She used a long marble cigarette holder, wore turbans with diamond brooches, loved large brimmed hats with veils, and was purported to single-handedly keep the Saks at Canal Place open. Her husband had died in a tragic yachting accident, and all three of her sons— who now ran the companies— were married with kids. There was a daughter, too, but I didn’t know anything about her.

In the opening montage, Margery was wearing a gorgeous gold turban with a diamond brooch on the front. She took a long drag on the cigarette holder and expelled an enormous plume of smoke skyward as she smiled at the camera.

“God, she’s fabulous,” Chanse said.

I rolled my eyes and the show began.

I was about halfway across the Causeway the next morning when I heard the news on the radio.

I was listening to an absolutely lovely jazz program on WWNO when there was an interruption for some local news. I was a little tired and somewhat cranky; I’d meant to be on the road a lot earlier, but we’d stayed at that damned party too long last night. I’d wanted to get out of there once the closing credits rolled, but Chanse wanted to say hello to Serena Castlemaine, which I understood even if it was annoying. He got me another glass of pinot grigio and left me standing in what I hoped was a secluded corner while he went in search of his biggest client’s relative. He was gone so long I wound up standing at the bar being flirted with by the bartender, who was much too good-looking for his own good and couldn’t have been older than twenty-three. I also wound up drinking way too much pinot grigio by the time Chanse came and found me. It was starting to rain when we finally escaped the party (I was very pleased that I managed to successfully avoid Chloe the entire night). The traffic was snarled on Canal Street and too many other people were trying to flag cabs, so we walked a couple of blocks to the Roosevelt Hotel, where the doorman flagged one down for us. After the cab dropped us at my place, Chanse came in with me, and we smoked too much pot and drank too much wine while rehashing everything that happened both in the episode and at the party. I think he staggered out around two in the morning. It wouldn’t matter to Ryan that I was late— our Saturdays on the north shore were always calm and peaceful. The boys did their homework and Ryan cooked— there’s nothing more heaven-sent than a man who loves cooking— and all I had to do was just relax and read.

I have this reputation as a terrible driver— I don’t know where this horribly insulting and offensive rumor started (although my money would be on Chanse), but have long since given up trying to fight it. It used to offend me that people would rather take a cab than get in my car, but after awhile I began to see it as an advantage— no one ever asks me for a ride to the airport, for example. If there’s ever a carpool involved, we never take my car. All I will say in my own defense is this: I started driving when I was sixteen, and have yet to have an accident that was my fault or get any kind of ticket. Not that I’m going to be signing up for NASCAR any time soon, but still. I stand on my driving record proudly.

It was raining pretty steadily so I was white-knuckling my steering wheel. The rain was heavy enough that visibility was poor, so I was driving a cautious forty miles per hour. There was a strong wind blowing— I could occasionally see whitecaps on the lake surface— and I couldn’t help but wonder, over and over again, if I should have just taken the long way around the lake. But I reassured myself that if the bridge was too dangerous the state police would have closed it.

That was why I was listening to WWOZ— jazz is relaxing and soothing, and my nerves were pretty jangled as I crawled along in the downpour.

The newsbreak was a bit jarring, and I wasn’t paying attention to it when I heard the broadcaster say, “Local television personality Fidelis Vandiver was found dead this morning. Vandiver, probably best known for her show,
Fitness with Fidelis,
recently wrapped taping on the cable reality series
Grande Dames of New Orleans.
The cause of death is not known, but a police spokesperson said foul play is suspected.”

I was so startled I accidentally jerked the steering wheel to the left and my green Subaru Forrester swerved, the back end fishtailing a little bit on the slick pavement. It took me a moment or two to get the car back under control, my vivid imagination flashing images of it crashing through the rail and plunging into the lake as I remembered to take my foot off the brake and to shift into neutral. When the eternity passed and I had the car back under control, I was breathing hard and my heart was pounding. My hands were shaking as I shifted back into drive, grateful no other cars had been around, and drove the quarter mile or so to the next turnaround, pulling over and parking.

Okay, maybe there was
some
truth to my reputation as a bad driver.

Once I got myself back under control, I grabbed my cell phone and dialed my boss.

“Paige, aren’t you on the north shore this weekend?” Rachel Delesdernier Sheehan said by way of greeting. “Why are you calling me?”

“I’m actually pulled over on the causeway. I just heard on the radio that Fidelis Vandiver is dead, foul play suspected.” I chose not to mention what just happened— no need to further confirm my reputation as a lousy driver.

Rachel whistled. “Seriously?” She paused for a moment. “I was planning on talking to you Monday morning about doing a cover story on the show— I can’t help it, I just find the entire cultural phenomenon of these shows fascinating. Every tabloid and celebrity magazine at the grocery store this morning had a Grande Dame on the cover
.
It just astounds me that people can become stars these days without having any discernible talent.” She laughed. “I mean at least Britney Spears can entertain an audience.”

“I’ve actually been thinking about doing a story myself,” I replied, as an eighteen- wheeler rumbled past on its way to New Orleans. “But are you sure about the cover? All those awful gossip rags put them on their covers all the time. I don’t want anyone to think we’re going that route, do you?”

“Yes, I’m well aware you have an aversion to fluff.” Rachel laughed. “It’s very weird, isn’t it? You objected to putting Marigny Mercereau on the cover and then she was murdered… and Fidelis’ death gives us an angle so we can do a
Grande Dames
story as a hard news piece instead of fluff. Of course, that’s assuming she was actually murdered.” She started making
Twilight Zone
theme noises.

“I just talked to her last night.” I shivered a little. “I wonder… there was a weird exchange I saw at the theater last night.”

“What do you mean, weird?”

“She had a bit of a run-in with Billy Barron. He grabbed her by the arm and she yanked away from him… and it looked like they had a bit of spat.” I scratched my head. “I’ve never heard anything about them being involved, have you?”

“No, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t.” Rachel replied. “I’ll call the grapes.”

‘The grapes’ was what she called her gossip sources. Hers were far superior to mine. Of course, her father had been mayor of New Orleans and her husband’s uncle had been governor of Louisiana. I wracked my brain. “Didn’t Billy get reamed in a divorce a couple of years ago? Wasn’t he married to a Saints cheerleader or something, and she caught him with his pants down?”

“Yeah, her name was Alex something. She took him to the cleaners. Daddy Steve was not happy about that. I think that was why he got cut out of the will?” I could hear keys clicking as she typed notes.

“He was with another woman last night, a brunette, but I didn’t see her face. I’ll give Venus a call, pick her brain a bit.” My mind was racing. Venus Casanova was a good friend and one of the most decorated police detectives in town. “Since it’s high profile I’m betting she and Blaine caught the case.” Blaine was her partner, and he also happened to be my guy Ryan’s younger brother.

New Orleans— we’re all about one degree of separation from everyone else in town.

“Ah, irony.” Rachel laughed. “You left the paper because you were tired of reporting on crime and were ready for a change.”

“And now when I start writing again, every piece you assign me ends up being about a crime.” I shook my head. “Maybe I’m just meant to be a crime reporter.”

“Maybe I should start assigning you to write about people I don’t like— want to do a piece on the state legislature?”

“Har har.” I replied. “No way, but I’d be more than happy to write a cover story on the governor, if you want.”

“It’s a thought.” Rachel paused. I could almost hear the gears in her brain whirring. “But for this, I think it would be a lot more interesting if you went more in depth than the rags do— try to figure out what makes these women want to expose themselves this way on television… and why people watch.” She laughed. “Last night, I watched an episode of the
Marin County
show online, and all I could think was ‘this is just a train wreck.’ But there has to be more to it than that, don’t you think?”

“There’s definitely a camp value to them,” I replied, thinking. “I know Chanse is addicted to them— he watches all of them, I think. And your brother does, too.”

“That’s not a definitive enough sample.” I could hear her tapping her fingernails on a surface. “But we can start with Fidelis’ death— you said foul play was suspected?”

“Yes.”

“That’s an interesting hook for the story, a good starting point.” Rachel went on. “I’d wanted it to be more an in-depth about the cultural relevance— why these shows and the women on them are so popular, blah blah blah, and use the New Orleans show obviously as the anchor of the story. I know those publicity-whores would love to be on the cover, so I’ll start making some calls… I’ll email you later on. You just do some background if you have time— and I mean that—
if you have time.
You’re off the clock this weekend, understand? Have some fun already— you’ve been working way too hard lately.”

“Yup,” I replied, biting my lower lip as she disconnected the call.

I took a deep breath, tossed my phone into the passenger seat, and rested my forehead against the steering wheel. I’d actually been kind of hoping she’d want me to get to work immediately. That way I’d have to turn around and head back to New Orleans.

There really wasn’t any avoiding this weekend.

I sighed and backed out of the spot. A car passed me as I got the car back up to forty miles per hour. The storm hadn’t let up— if anything, it seemed to be getting worse. But at least I had jazz on the radio to listen to.

Three weeks had passed since Ryan brought up the m word. He hadn’t asked me to marry him, though— he just asked me if it was something I’d thought about or if it was something we
should
be talking about. We’d been seeing each other for quite a while now, and things couldn’t be better. We had a great routine— we saw each other several nights a week, and we spent the weekends together whenever we could at his place in Rouen, a small town on the north shore. He had his sons every other weekend, and I adored them. They were great kids. It was actually the younger one who’d broached the subject to him. Once that genie was out of the bottle, there was no putting it back in.

Part of me had always known it was inevitable; the longer I continued seeing Ryan, the more likely it was the subject of marriage was going to come up. I’d kept hoping the wonderful long-running honeymoon period we’d been enjoying would just keep going— why mess with a good thing? Ryan’s first marriage hadn’t worked out, after all— although he and his ex were the poster couple for amicable divorce. Maybe we could have gone on indefinitely the way we had been if Brad hadn’t asked Ryan about it, I don’t know.

But I’d pretty much made up my mind to come clean with Ryan this weekend. He deserved the truth. I couldn’t keep avoiding the subject any longer, and if I were going to be completely honest, I liked the idea of being the second Mrs. Ryan Tujague. He was so damned perfect he should be against the law. He liked to cook and clean. He was a great dad. He worked out and kept himself in top shape. He was drop dead gorgeous and smart. He’d served on the board for our local Planned Parenthood and still served as a legal adviser to them. His politics were perfectly aligned with mine, and believe me, it’s not easy finding someone else who makes Jane Fonda look like a fascist. He was successful and from an old, socially prominent New Orleans family. I would be crazy to let him go.