Murder in the Rue Ursulines (18 page)

“That was something.” Paige started to laugh “It was kind of sad, actually. I really felt sorry for the old woman. She was, shall we say, definitely in her cups when I got there. She looks
terrible,
poor thing. And she was so pathetically grateful to see me. She offered me a drink—I declined—and then poured herself a huge tumbler of vodka.”

“You said she had all kinds of dirt on them?”

“Oh, yeah.” Paige said down on the couch and crossed her legs. “Did you know that Jillian, Miss Adopt-every-Third-World Orphan in the world, had an abortion when she was sixteen? And then had her tubes tied when she was twenty because she was afraid of what having a baby would do to her figure?”

I shrugged. “I don’t really see how that’s relevant.” I paused, then added, “That’s just embarrassing stuff—nothing for them to get worked up over.”

“It isn’t—but it is good dirt, and stuff I doubt very much that Jillian would want to be public knowledge.” Paige replied with a sigh. “And it’s certainly nothing I would ever use in a story without confirmation of some kind.”

“Did she have anything on Freddy?”

“Get this.” Paige leaned forward. “When they started seeing each other, Shirley hired a private investigator to check him out. Apparently, Shirley did that with every guy her daughter got involved with. And there was something unsavory in his past. When Shirley brought this report from the detective to Jillian,
that
was when they had their big blow-up.” She shook her head. “Shirley started crying at this point, about how her daughter had turned on her, how all she wanted was what was best for her, on and on and on.” She made a face. Paige’s mother was a drunk, so she had little patience with them. “It was sickening.”

“She didn’t tell you what the unsavory thing was?”

“This is where it gets good.” Paige leaned forward. “I was just about to ask her to get specific—and she was just soused enough I think to spill the big secret, when the door bursts open, and guess who is there? None other than Jillian herself! And some of her hulking bodyguards. She ordered me out—and when I said I was Shirley’s guest—well, Shirley was no help whatsoever. She was so glad to see Jillian—if Jillian told her to jump out of the window she would have. The thugs escorted me, not only to the elevator, but all the way out of the hotel.” Paige laughed. “Talk about a bum’s rush! I’d always wondered what that was like. Now I know.”

“It’s weird that they showed up like that in the nick of time.” I struggled to keep my mind focused. It wasn’t easy. Nicky started kneading my chest with his front paws. He was purring, and he started head butting my chin.  I scratched him under his chin, and his purring got even louder. Such a sweet cat…I smiled at him.

“Well, if I had to hazard a guess…I think Shirley let Jillian know she’d be talking to a reporter.” Paige shrugged. “From everything Shirley said, she’s been trying to reconcile with her since the blow-up.” She shrugged. “I guess threatening to spill the big secret to a reporter finally did the trick. Now, what did Rosemary have to say for herself?”

“Apparently, she was the last person to see Glynis alive, other than her killer—and she found the body.” I replied. “I’m not sure if I believe her or not, to be honest. She said that Glynis wanted her out of the house, gave her the night off. She left around five, and went to have dinner at Angeli. She forgot her own keys and went back and found the body shortly after six.” I frowned. “I’m not sure I buy the forgotten key story.”

Paige reached into her purse and pulled out her notebook. “And you saw Freddy leaving Glynis’s just before six? Right before you met me at Port of Call, right?”

“Rosemary thinks Glynis and Freddy were meeting secretly—because there was someone coming to see her that Glynis didn’t want Rosemary to know about. She doesn’t know for a fact it was Freddy, but she knew about the trainer Glynis was sleeping with. I booked a training session with him tomorrow.” Nicky jumped down to the floor and sat down, staring at me.  “Now, I’m not so sure it was Freddy I saw.” I shrugged. “I go back and forth. At the time, I would have sworn it was Freddy—but now? The guy I saw was built like Freddy, but I didn’t see his whole face. It could have been someone who looked like him.”

“Well, what Rosemary said goes with your identification. And come on, Chanse.  I mean, how many guys are there that look like Freddy Bliss? It’s not like they’re a dime a dozen, unfortunately.” She sighed. “And after the way I was thrown out of the Ritz-Carlton today by Jillian’s thugs, I don’t know if I’m convinced they’re so innocent in all of this.” She lit another cigarette. “They definitely have something to hide.”

“We need to figure out how to find out whatever it was he did they don’t want us—or anyone—to know.” I said slowly. My mind was clouded by the Xanax. I was having a hard time focusing.

“Are you hungry? Let’s order some food.” She closed her notebook and shoved it back into her purse. “Enough of this for now…we can eat and get back to work. I’m starved.” She grinned. “Getting thrown out of places seems to make me hungry. What are you in the mood for? Bar burgers from the corner?”

“Yeah, that’s fine.” Pretty much anything sounded good at that point. I didn’t care one way or the other.

She placed the order and hung up the phone.   “Are you up for some television?” She picked up the remote. She looked at me. “See what they’re saying? You’re going to have to hear it at some point—might as well get it over with.”

I nodded. She clicked the television on, and switched to a twenty-four hour news network. I groaned. It was Veronica Vance’s show.

“Can you believe it?” she shrilled in her overdone drawl. “The witness—who claims to have seen FREDDY BLISS coming out of Glynis Parrish’s house the night of the murder, is a MURDERER himself!” She shook her head dramatically. A picture of me flashed onto a split screen. It was so ridiculous I almost laughed. It was my picture from the LSU football program my senior year. Across the bottom of the picture ran a graphic: CHANSE MACLEOD, WITNESS IN PARRISH MURDER, HAS KILLED TWICE.

I was vaguely aware that Veronica was droning on in an outraged voice. The entire thing didn’t seem real. She was talking about
me
, and she was making me sound like a dangerous maniac. She wasn’t really lying—that was the thing. I had killed two men. But she didn’t mention the first one I killed was trying to kill me. She didn’t say the second one was holding a gun on a room full of people. My picture disappeared, and on the split screen another woman’s face appeared. She was standing just off the curb on Ursulines, and in the background I could see Glynis’s house. The crime scene tape hung across the front door. Flowers were piled on the sidewalk, along with candles and what looked like pictures of Glynis propped up against the railing. The sidewalks were full of people. The woman on Ursulines—her name appeared as a caption below her face: KATE JUDSON, NEW ORLEANS—was talking to Veronica.

“MacLeod is a former New Orleans police officer, Veronica, and left the force to go into business for himself as a private eye. According to a source very close to the investigation, MacLeod has a very close relationship with the two detectives assigned to the Parrish murder, Venus Casanova and Blaine Tujague.”

Oh, shit,
I thought.

“Is this another example of that old time Louisiana justice, Kate?” Veronica went on. “A good ole boy network closing ranks to protect one of their own—even if he’s not on the force anymore?”

“Is she out of her mind?” Paige’s face was turning red.

“No one is saying that, Veronica.”

“Well, you have to admit it’s an awfully big coincidence. And one thing I learned as a prosecutor—coincidences in a murder case are few and far between. I can’t tell you how many times in one of my cases what looked like a coincidence turned out to be nothing of the sort. And now we’re going to take a break. When we come back, we’ll have more breaking news from New Orleans on the Glynis Parrish murder. I’m Veronica Vance.”

A tooth-paste commercial started hawking the plaque fighting power of a new, improved version of an old brand.

Paige muted the television. “Are you okay?” Her face was still red, and she was shaking.

“Yeah.” I replied. I was fine. It was probably the Xanax.

“I’m not.” Her voice shook with controlled rage. “I knew it would be bad—but I didn’t think it would be
that
bad. It never occurred to me that she’d drag Venus and Blaine into the mud, too.” She lit a cigarette. “That lousy bitch! And those so-called sources aren’t in the police department.”

“It doesn’t matter.” I replied. “It doesn’t matter where it’s coming from.”

“It’s coming from Frillian, is where it’s coming from.” Paige puffed on the cigarette so hard I thought she might snap it in two. “
You
saw Freddy—so they’re trying to discredit you, divert attention away from them by making it look like you’re guilty—and Venus and Blaine are covering up for you.” She got up and started pacing. “The police don’t think you’re a suspect because there was no reason for you to kill her, not because you’re friends with the investigating officers.” She walked into the little alcove and fired up her computer. “I know exactly what my next article is going to be about.” She gave me a wicked smile.

“Paige—don’t do something crazy. Think about it and calm down before you write anything you might regret later.”

“Don’t worry.” She waved her hand unconcernedly. “I know what I’m doing.”

I felt warm. I took another swallow of the wine. My palms were damp. I felt a bit nauseous. I stood up. “I’m going to go pick up the food.” I stretched. “I think I need some air.”

“You sure you’re okay?” Paige slid into her desk chair. The cigarette dangled from her mouth. When I nodded, she said “The spare keys are on the nail by the door.”

I took the keys and locked the door behind as I stepped out. It had gotten dark while I was there. The temperature had dropped about twenty degrees, and the air felt damp and cold. I shivered, and wished I’d brought a jacket with me. I walked alongside the house and unlocked the front gate. I stepped out onto the sidewalk and pulled the gate shut behind me. Once I was out in the open, I caught the full blast of the cold wind. I shivered.
You can make it to the corner, it’s not that cold,
I told myself.

What I really wanted was a cigarette.

I can buy a pack at the bar,
I thought, and started walking towards St. Charles. I walked fast, my shoes making scrunchy noises on the wet pavement. The bar was just on the corner—just a short walk. I shivered again as a blast of cold wind pierced through my shirt and my jeans. Ahead of me, a practically empty streetcar went by. There was very little traffic on St. Charles. Behind me, I heard a car door shut. I stuck my hands in my pockets to keep them warm. The mist had come back. The windows of the cars on Polymnia Street were covered in condensation. The lights on St. Charles were haloed with yellow and blue light. I walked past the house next door to Paige’s and was almost past the vacant lot when I heard running footsteps behind me.

I turned around to look just in time to take a blow right across my face.

My head jerked back hard and I was suddenly looking at the cloudy sky. My weight was driven backwards and my feet rolled back. And then I was falling. It seemed to be happening in slow motion. My thoughts slowed down and I could hear, over the spreading pain from the blow to my face, someone breathing really heavy. My shoulders hit the hard sidewalk first, and all of my weight jolted onto my upper spine. My head fell back. It hit the sidewalk with a loud cracking sound that echoed through my mind. Then all I felt was a sudden dull pain in the back of my head. My eyes crossed and I couldn’t see anything else. All I was aware of was pain and darkness.

Then all the breath was knocked out of me as a foot drove into my side with enough force to roll me over. I tumbled over and over again until coming to a stop on my back.

I wasn’t on the sidewalk any longer. My back was on soft, wet mud. My legs were in a shallow puddle.

My clothes started to soak through.

I tried to get to my hands and knees. I started coughing, deep racking coughs that felt like a lung was going to come up. My entire body was tingling from shock. My breath was ragged, harsh, not doing me any good. My head was clouding, my scalp tingling. My eyes couldn’t focus.
I have—to get—away,
I thought somehow through the grayness engulfing my consciousness.

Then I was being kicked again. I didn’t know if there was more than one of them, and I didn’t want to see. There was nothing I could do except curl up into a fetal position for safety. It was pure instinct, training from a long-ago self-defense class at the police academy. The blows kept coming, one after the other. I didn’t have time to register pain before the next one came. I started shivering. I wanted to scream, to beg them to stop, but I couldn’t catch my breath. And still the blows came.

One after another without a break, without any kind of respite.

I was conscious of nothing other than hurting.

This can’t be happening. I can’t be kicked to death only fifty yards from the door to a bar.

It went on.

I don’t know if I just laid there or if I rolled to try to get away.

More kicks. In the back. On my head, my arms, my stomach, my legs.

Pain screamed from every part of my body.