Murder in the Garden District (Chanse MacLeod Mysteries) (6 page)

“Her Majesty never shows her face around the office,” Paige said, grinning. “Get her oh-so-correct white gloves dirty? Really, Chanse, what are you thinking?”

She took another healthy bite of the poʼboy, washing it down with another swig of beer. She hiccupped, and covered her mouth with her hand.

“Excuse me, sorry. Actually, Cordelia’s not so bad. I covered a couple of the events for her foundation when I was at the paper. She’s very passionate about helping abused women, which makes me wonder about what her marriage was like. You know she didn’t start all of that up until after her husband died. She’s a horrible snob, of course, but she’s been in or around politics her entire life and knows how to put on a good face for the hoi polloi—especially when she wants you to write a check. Then again, she could be much, much worse. She could do nothing for charity and just have lunch. I’m glad she does what she does—who’d do it if she didn’t? Her shelters and foundation have done a lot of women a lot of good. What was your impression?”

She popped an errant shrimp into her mouth.

“I didn’t like her. She has about as much charm as a rattlesnake. But then, I’m just the help.”

Paige sipped her beer and frowned.

“And she wants you to look into Wendell’s murder? It’s a mess, you can be sure of that. Cordelia’s fingerprints were the only ones on the gun, and she tested positive for powder blowback. If it were anyone else, she’d have been arrested already. But I can’t imagine her killing her own son without a damned good reason. I guess it’s just a matter of finding it. My sources in the police department—”

“Venus and Blaine?”

“You know I can’t name my sources.” She winked, crumpling up the greasy paper her sandwich had been wrapped in.

Venus Casanova and Blaine Tujague were friends of ours, and probably the two best detectives in the NOPD. I’d met Venus during my time on the force. After I left, she took a dim view of my “interference” when our professional paths crossed. But over the years, our relationship had passed from dislike to grudging respect, and finally to friendship. I’d never been sure of her age, but she had two grown daughters who had married and settled in Memphis. She was tall, had been an athlete in college, and had kept her body fit. Her partner, Blaine, was in his early thirties, a Creole from a prominent society family that had no problem with his being gay but disapproved of his being a cop. He was a good-looking guy, about five-nine with bluish-black, curly hair, blue eyes and thick muscles from hours spent at the gym. We’d become friends after joining the NOPD and for a time were fuck buddies. But that was ancient history. He lived with an older man now. Venus had stayed in their carriage house for a while after her house in New Orleans East had been destroyed by Katrina. A few months ago, she’d bought a house on General Pershing Street in Uptown. Paige and I had helped her move. Blaine and Venus became partners after her original partner retired and Blaine made detective grade. Surprisingly, their different styles meshed. They worked seamlessly together. Blaine also just happened to be the younger brother of Paige’s boyfriend, Ryan.

“It was Janna’s gun all right,” Paige continued, “but her fingerprints weren’t on it even though she admitted using it at a firing range just a few days before the murder. Apparently, Cordelia is claiming that Janna killed Wendell.
Someone
wiped Janna’s fingerprints off that gun—Cordelia says it wasn’t her. But why use Janna’s gun if the killer wasn’t planning to frame Janna? There are at least eight registered firearms in the Sheehan house. She had to know Janna wouldn’t test positive for powder residue. It just doesn’t make sense to me. My sources in the district attorney’s office told me they aren’t going to make an arrest until they’re absolutely positive. A wrong move could be political suicide. The Sheehans are just too powerful.”

Her mop of blonde-streaked red hair bounced as she shook her head.

“It’s a juicy case, though. I almost wish I was back at the paper, so I could cover it.”

“Did Venus and Blaine—er,
sources
—fill you in on the statements the Sheehans gave?”

“Both Cordelia and Janna went downstairs after hearing a gunshot? They’re either brave or really stupid. I would have called the police and waited upstairs until they arrived.”

“Are you familiar with the layout of the house?”

Paige shook her head.

“This is
not
for publication,” I warned.

She laughed. “Do you really think
Crescent City
is going to cover this story? I promise I won’t say anything to anyone.”

Paige always kept her word, so I continued.

“Janna’s room is at the top of the stairs. The drawing room is at the bottom of the same staircase. I don’t know where Cordelia’s room is, but her story is, she heard the shot and checked on the kids, then went downstairs and saw Wendell’s body. She said she went into shock, picked up the gun and it went off a second time.”

“With you so far.”

“Janna’s story is, she heard the shot, called 911, and was on the stairs when she heard the second shot. Cordelia is in her seventies, at the very least. I’ll give you that she is pretty spry, but how did she hear the shot, check in on both her grandchildren, and still manage to get downstairs before Janna when all Janna did was call 911? And why didn’t Cordelia check on Janna before she went downstairs? Even if she hates her daughter-in-law, and I’ll stipulate to that, don’t you think she would have checked on her?”

“The plot thickens. What did they have to say when you pointed that out?”

“That’s just it. I didn’t know the layout of the house until I was leaving there this morning. And now neither one of them will take my calls, or call me back. I think I’m being played. I just can’t figure out why. Cordelia made it quite clear that I’m not to focus on her family.”

I took a swig of my own beer.

“Isn’t Loren McKeithen representing Cordelia? Why don’t you call him? I know you think he fucked you over the last time you dealt with him, but you are working for Cordelia too—and if he hasn’t caught this discrepancy yet, telling him is one way to earn your pay.”

That was something, I admitted. “Did you ever meet Janna?”

“I know Janna. Not well, but I’ve met her a few times at company parties and things like that. She was perfectly nice to me. I liked her and felt sorry for her. Wendell was horrible to her. If I were Janna, I’d have capped his ass years ago. Before he stepped down as publisher to run for the Senate, he used to come back from lunch tanked. Fridays he’d go to Galatoire’s and not return. I often wondered how he thought he could get elected. Then again, it’s not like we Louisianans look down on drinking. And he did okay in the state legislature, and on the City Council. I guess the Sheehan name still carries a lot of weight.”

“How was he horrible to her? Do you think there was abuse?”

“That would be weird, given Cordelia’s work. He was very abrupt to her, but I didn’t see any evidence of physical abuse. I remember at the Christmas party last year—he just ignored her and never introduced her to anyone, either. The first time I met her was right after I was hired; they had a party so everyone could meet the new editor. You know, one of those things I hate going to and avoid like the plague if I can. He introduced me to everyone except Janna. I about fell through the floor when I introduced myself at the bar and she told me her name.” She tapped her index finger on her chin. “Wendell was kind of a pig. Always saying inappropriate things to women, touching us—never anything that truly crossed the line, I’d have knocked a few of his teeth loose if he had—but you know what I mean. Putting his arm around our shoulders, touching on the arms. That sort of thing. He thought he was God’s gift to women.”

“What about Monica Davis? Did you know her?”

“You’ve already heard that story? Take it from me, it’s just that—a story. Monica
hated
Wendell.”

“I heard she was—”

“That was ancient history, Chanse. Trust me, there was no way in hell Monica would have started it up again. Was it Janna who said—?”

I cut her off. “No, it wasn’t. Was Wendell well-liked around the company?”

“Not really. I mean, he was the boss, and could—and did—fire people at will.”

“Anyone who might hold a grudge?”

“Who likes to be fired? But Wendell stepped down from the company months ago. I doubt anyone would have harbored a grudge all this time and waited. You get fired, you want payback right then and there.”

“Who took over when Wendell stepped down?”

“Rachel Sheehan. She’s married to Wendell’s cousin Quentin. Rachel was assistant publisher and moved right into his office. She’s a lot easier to deal with than Wendell—she’s tough, but she’s fair and doesn’t expect the impossible. Wendell did at times. Her maiden name was Delesdernier. Sound familiar?”

Paige watched my blank face and laughed.

“For God’s sake, Chanse, you are so fucking oblivious at times. Rachel’s father was mayor when Wendell’s father was governor. They fought almost constantly. They were bitter enemies.”

“And his daughter married Governor Sheehan’s nephew?” That was interesting.

“I always figured it was a political marriage—you know, the Delesdernier machine marrying the Sheehan machine. As much as we like to think marriages aren’t mergers nowadays, it still happens. Cordelia’s marriage was a merger, after all. Bobby Sheehan’s father was mayor, he built up a pretty strong machine here in New Orleans, but they were upstarts. The Spencer machine had been around since before the Civil War. Cordelia was the last Spencer. When they married the two machines merged.”

“I was under the impression that Rachel and Wendell didn’t get along. Janna said that she and Quentin moved out because of it. How did they work together?”

“The friction wasn’t between Rachel and Wendell—it was between Quentin and Wendell.
They
couldn’t stand each other. Rachel was really happy when Quentin decided to leave the Sheehan compound. I think they got a place in the Marigny.”

I made a mental note to bump Quentin up on my interview list.

“What does Quentin do?”

“He lives off the trust.” Paige held up her hand. “Don’t ask me to explain it, because I can’t. Everything—the house, the company, all of it—belongs to the trust, and Cordelia is the trustee. All the Sheehans have an income from the trust, but for anything more than that they have to get Cordelia’s permission—and I don’t think she gives it very often. Apparently, she likes controlling them.”

I smirked. “It seems so out of character for her.”

Paige laughed. “I believe the terms of the trust were part of the problem. Quentin didn’t think he should have to ask Cordelia for his money—and I can’t say that I blame him. Wendell couldn’t have liked it, either. Can you imagine having to go to your mother for everything?”

Her face froze for a moment.

“I’m sorry, Chanse. How is your mother doing? I should have asked when I got here.”

“It’s all right, really.” What was there to say? “She’s in good hands. She seems to be responding to the treatments she’s getting, and it looks pretty good right now. The doctors are cautiously optimistic, but there are no guarantees. You know.”

I changed the subject.

“You don’t think any of Wendell’s political enemies might be behind this, do you?” I finally said before we both started to squirm in our seats.

“I don’t see how.” Paige said tentatively, taking her cue from me. “It was Janna’s gun. Cordelia fired it. Besides the kids, they were the only people in the house that night. That’s all there is to it, Chanse. But check with his campaign manager, Stephen Robideaux. He’d know. He came down from Lafayette to run the campaign. The office is actually only a few blocks from here, on St. Charles between Euterpe and Melpomene. You know which one I mean? I think it used to be a dress shop before the flood.”

“I think I do.” I wrote his name down in my pad. “Thanks, Paige.”

“Just be careful, Chanse. The Sheehans aren’t people you want to mess around with. Talk to Loren about the discrepancy in their statements—don’t go sticking your nose in where they don’t want it, if you know what I mean.”

She glanced at her watch.

“I am out of here. Ryan’s on his way back from the North Shore.”

She gave me a hug. “I’m sorry I’m not around as much, and sorry again about having to cancel last night. I really miss you.”

“I miss you, too.”

I walked her to her car and stood on the curb until she drove away.

*

I was just about to go back into the house when I turned to watch Paige’s retreat and noticed a car on the Coliseum Square side of the street. That was odd. Most people parked on the opposite side, in front of the houses. Paige’s headlights hit the parked car, revealing two people sitting inside it. I got a brief glimpse before she drove past them.

I stood there for a moment, squinting through the gloom, trying to get a better look. It was a midsize car, maybe a Toyota Corolla or a Honda Accord. There was not enough light to get an idea of the color, other than it was something dark, maybe green or blue or black. It was parked just outside the pyramid of light cascading down from a streetlamp, and not quite obscured from my line of vision by one of the massive live oaks in the park. I felt a rush of adrenaline.