Murder in the Rue Ursulines Read online

  Synopsis

  When Chanse MacLeod is hired to find out who is blackmailing a high profile movie star couple living in the French Quarter, he soon realizes it isn't just on a movie-set where things are make believe. Against the backdrop of a rebuilding New Orleans, Chanse races to find out the truth about his treacherous clients and to clear his own name.

  Murder in the Rue Ursulines

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  Murder in the Rue Ursulines

  eBook Copyright © 2012 By Greg Herren.

  All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-60282-845-2

  This Electronic Book is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, New York 12185

  First Print Edition: October 2008

  First eBook Edition: Bold Strokes Books May 2012

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Cover Design By Sheri ([email protected])

  By The Author

  The Chanse MacLeod Mysteries

  Murder in the Rue Dauphine

  Murder in the Rue St. Ann

  Murder in the Rue Chartres

  Murder in the Rue Ursulines

  Murder in the Garden District

  Murder in the Irish Channel

  “We are two monsters, but with this difference between us. Out of the passion and torment of my existence I have created a thing that I can unveil, a sculpture, almost heroic, that I can unveil, which is true. But you?”

  --from Sweet Bird of Youth by Tennessee Williams

  Chapter One

  “Chanse MacLeod to see Loren McKeithen,” I said to the pretty woman at the reception table. She looked to be in her late thirties, and of mixed racial heritage, her skin the color of a delicately mixed café-au-lait, her hair copper-colored. She gave me a wide smile. There was a wedding ring on her left hand, and a diamond tennis bracelet on her right wrist. Her nails were done in a French manicure. On her forehead was a smudged cross made of gray ash. I was tempted to ask what she’d given up for Lent, but decided against it.

  “Have a seat, and I’ll let him know you’re here.” She gave me a smile, picking up her phone. “It shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.”

  I nodded and took a seat in an overstuffed leather chair, picking up an issue of Crescent City magazine and idly paging through it. I was tired, probably way too tired to be taking on a new job. The aspirin I’d taken hadn’t kicked in yet, either. Every muscle in my body ached. I’d planned on spending my entire Ash Wednesday in bed, or lazing around my apartment, recovering from the overindulgence of the last five days. But Loren was a good guy, and threw me some work every now and then. So, I’d roused myself out of my post-Mardi Gras stupor and come to his office.

  Besides, it never hurts to have a prominent attorney in your debt. You never know when you’re going to need one.

  “Mr. McKeithen is waiting for you in his office,” The receptionist said, nodding her head to the left. “Just down that hallway, the last door on the right.” She set her phone back down into its cradle and turned to her computer screen.

  I thanked her and walked down the hallway. Loren was sitting behind his desk, leaning back in his chair, a phone cradled between his shoulder and ear. He waved me in, motioning for me to shut the door. “All right, well, my eleven o’clock is here, so let me review the paperwork and I will call you first thing in the morning…..okay. You, too.” He slid the phone back into its receiver, and walked around his desk to shake my hand.

  Loren was short, about five-seven and thickly built, his stomach protruding over the waistband of his slacks. His shiny skin was the color of toffee, his face round, and his cheeks chubby. His gray silk suit screamed expensive at the top of its lungs. His tie was black with golden fleur-de-lis scattered over it. Like the receptionist, he had the ashy smudge of a cross on his forehead. “How have you been?” he asked, giving me a broad smile.

  “Good.” I took the seat he offered me, and declined coffee or anything else to drink. He went back around his desk and sat down. “I can’t complain.” I laughed. “Well, I can always complain about something, but overall, things are good. And you?”

  “The usual.” He shook his head. “You look good, Chanse. You’re taking care of yourself, that’s great.” He looked down and pondered the expanse of his stomach. “One of these days I need to get my fat ass back into the gym.” He patted it and rolled his eyes. “I’m giving up liquor for Lent.”

  “That’s good,” I replied, and couldn’t resist adding, “I think.”

  “Well, we’ll see how it goes.” He barked out a short laugh. “But you’re supposed to give up something you’ll miss, right? What are you giving up?”

  I grinned at him. “Catholicism.” It was my standard answer.

  He rewarded me with another laugh. and chattered on, the usual small talk about Mardi Gras and the usual complaints about the slow recovery of the city and the requisite bitching about the uselessness of the federal government. Loren was a self-described ‘yellow dog Democrat.’ I knew he was very active politically, and often went up to Baton Rouge to lobby for gay rights at the capital. I waited for him to get to the point, nodding or politely responding when it was called for. Finally, he looked at me over the top of his glasses. “Chanse, is your time your own right now?”

  I crossed my legs, keeping my face impassive. “In three weeks, I have to take a business trip, and then I’ll be out of town for several weeks. For now, though, I am free and clear.”

  “Excellent.” He beamed at me again. He cleared his throat. “I represent someone who has some work for you, but you have to be completely at their disposal. It shouldn’t take more than three or four days, if that, and they’re willing to pay you five thousand dollars a day for your time, plus a substantial bonus when the work is done.”

  I whistled. That was a lot of money. My usual rate was five hundred a day, plus expenses. Fifteen or twenty thousand dollars was an awful lot of money for three or four days work. Always beware the lawyer dangling a large sum of cash in front of your nose. “I won’t do anything illegal, Loren.” That wasn’t an absolute; I’d danced over that line several times in my career—but it’s not wise to advertise a willingness to bend the law up front. Apparently, these clients, whoever they were, had money to burn—so maybe they’d be willing to pay a little more to bend my sense of ethics.

  Loren laughed. “I’m not about to lose my license, Chanse. Everything will be legal and aboveboard, I can assure you.” He slid a file folder across the desk to me. “Are you interested?”

  “It depends on what the job entails.” I leaned back in the chair.

  “Would you be willing to sign a confidentiality agreement?”

  “I don’t make a habit of breaking my client’s confidences,” I shot back, getting annoyed. “I wouldn’t be in business long if I did.”

  “All right, that’s fair enough.” He leaned back in his chair. “I’m going to tell you more than I should without your signing the confidentiality agreement, all right? My clients are Jillian Long and Freddy Bliss. You have heard of them, haven’t you?” />
  I whistled. “Last I checked, I wasn’t living in a cave, Loren.” I laughed. “Of course I’ve heard of them.” And now, of course, the confidentiality agreement made sense.

  Jillian Long and Freddy Bliss were two of the biggest movie stars on the planet. Everything they did, everywhere they went, everything they wore and said was reported breathlessly by the news media. They’d even gotten one of those nauseatingly cutesy names, like Brangelina and Bennifer; they were known collectively as Frillian. They’d been married for three years, and had bought a huge mansion in the French Quarter on the first anniversary of the levee failure—a fact they played up in the huge press conference they held to announce their move, and the reason behind it. Freddy, had co-founded a non-profit organization called Operation Rebuild, dedicated to rebuilding the

  Lower Ninth Ward.

  After the press conference, Frillian had become the major topic of discussion in town. I saw them riding their bikes in the Marigny…I ran into Jillian at the CC’s on Royal Street, she just drinks regular coffee…have you seen them yet? Overall, most residents felt it was a great thing that they were lending their celebrity and fame to bring world-wide attention to the continuing plight of New Orleans. But, like everything else, after a few weeks, the local hubbub had died down, and no one really paid much attention to them locally, despite the fact their every move was still national news.

  Naturally, they’d want anyone who worked for them in any way, shape or form to sign a confidentiality agreement.

  “If I take the job, I’ll be more than happy to sign a confidentiality agreement. But you know as well as I do that won’t survive a subpoena, if it ever came to that.”

  Loren gave me a faint smile. Of course he’d thought of that, the smile told me. “You will be paid by me, so you are acting as my agent, and are bound by client privilege.”

  I nodded. “All right. What do they want me to do, Loren?”

  He stood up. “Why don’t we let them tell you themselves? They’re waiting in one of the conference rooms.”

  Jillian Long was a great beauty, with long thick beautiful red hair, porcelain skin, and the hugest, most amazing gray eyes—hauntingly beautiful eyes impossible not to notice and admire. But she was more than just another beautiful actress—her talent as an actress surpassed even her flawless beauty. She’d won an Oscar for one of her first films, Indecent, playing a low income mother who’d murdered her no-good boyfriend when she found out he’d been molesting her four-year-old son. She’d been major news ever since.

  I’d lost track of her marriages, divorces, and lovers—it really wasn’t any of my business. But it was hard not to be aware of her personal life when headlines scream at you in line at the grocery store. When she’d hooked up with Freddy Bliss, a major new male star twenty-odd years younger than she was, it was as though entertainment journalists had died and gone straight to heaven—especially since Freddy had left his wife to be with Jillian. Freddy’s wife, Glynis Parrish, had been on the cover of every magazine telling her story of ‘heartbreak’ and moving forward. I think she may have even written a book, but I could be wrong. I don’t really pay that much attention to that kind of thing.

  But one thing I liked about them was that ‘Frillian’ seemed dedicated to using their fame for charities and to help underprivileged people; not only in this country but around the world. Jillian had long earned a well-deserved reputation as an activist—and traveled the world on good will missions for the United Nations. Even before they met, Freddy was doing the same—but for inner-city neighborhoods and schools. Individually, they’d accomplished a lot. Together, they were accomplishing more. I’d been one of the people who’d been pleased when New Orleans recovery became one of their issues. The country had moved on from the disaster as though it had never happened—and they were working to make sure New Orleans wasn’t forgotten.

  Even though I knew they were just two normal people, like me or anyone else, I felt more than a little nervous about meeting them in person.

  When Loren led me into the conference room that opened just off his office, the first thing that struck me about them was that they were both rather, well, small. Granted, I’m six-feet-four and weigh 230 pounds, so I’m usually one of the bigger people around. But when Freddy Bliss rose from his chair and stepped toward me, flashing that big toothy smile that lit up movie screens and inspired the kind of passions in teenaged girls that frightened their parents, my first thought was, but he’s so short. That can’t be. I felt like a huge clumsy ogre as my hand closed around his. His grip, though, was firm and the big smile seemed genuine. His brown hair was artfully unkempt, and he hadn’t shaved in a few days. The smile—and the light in the big brown eyes—were infectious and I found myself smiling back at him. He was wearing an LSU football jersey—the white home one with the gold and purple stripes at the shoulders—and loose-fitting, worn jeans over dirty-looking white sneakers. “Freddy Bliss,” he said, as he shook my hand firmly three times before letting go. I detected a slight trace of a Midwestern accent in his voice, something I’d never noticed on screen. “I understand you played ball for LSU, Mr. MacLeod.”

  I felt like I was grinning like an idiot, but couldn’t seem to stop. “Yes, sir, I did. I played four years, lettered three. And it’s Chanse.”

  “Freddy’s become a big fan.” I turned and watched as Jillian Long rose from her chair in a steady languid motion, her face going from impassive mask to friendly warmth. Jillian Long was always picked for those ‘most beautiful women in the world’ lists, but I’d always assumed her great beauty was assisted by make-up, lighting and camera work. However, in person, with little or no make-up, she was even more beautiful than on film. Her skin was pale white, but had a strange shimmer and sheen to it that reminded me of mother of pearl. Her long, thick, reddish hair hung loosely past her shoulders, contrasting with her black cashmere sweater. Her thick lips were a pale pink, and I could see tiny blue veins in her neck.

  Her large gray eyes looked as though they had a thin sheen of ice over them. She was shorter than Freddy, perhaps not even five feet tall. She was also wearing dirty white sneakers and worn-looking jeans. She was wearing very little make-up, and her voice was deep and throaty, which seemed strange given her slender frame. There were slight wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, but she showed none of the tell-tale signs of having corrective work done. She looked very delicate, but her small hand gripped mine tightly.

  “Every Saturday during football season, we live and die with the Tigers. I’m Jillian Long. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Chanse.”

  “The pleasure’s mine.” I somehow managed to pry the stupid grin off my face, and assumed what I hoped was a confident, professional smile.

  “But you’re so young.” She frowned, and turned to Loren. “You didn’t mention he was—“ she waved one of the delicate hands in a graceful, fluttery move, “—so young.”

  “I’m thirty-one.” I replied. What did my age have to do with anything? “And my record speaks for itself.”

  Her eyes widened for just a moment, the pupils expanding and retracting as the hand she’d waved went to her throat. She swallowed and nodded. “Yes, of course. My apologies.” Her face relaxed into a charming smile. “I was just startled—I was expecting someone older. Do forgive me.”

  “Not a problem,” I said, my face filling with blood.

  I may have been only thirty-one years old, but I felt much older. I’ve killed two men in the course of my career—both times in self-defense, but it had taken a toll on me emotionally. My partner Paul’s death, the hurricane…in my thirty-one years I’d already seen a lifetime’s worth of tragedy and death and destruction. Calm down, Chanse, take some deep breaths, you’re overreacting, I said to myself.

  “Let’s be seated. Does anyone need anything?” Loren asked, moving over to the end of the table where they’d been seated. He sat down at the head of the table. Freddy and Jillian went back to their seats, and I sat directly across the ta
ble from them, with Loren to my left. The chair was expensive, made of black leather, and so comfortable it seemed to wrap itself around my body.

  “Are you willing to sign the confidentiality agreement?” Freddy asked, taking Jillian’s hand.

  “It’s really very important to us.” She opened her eyes wider. She turned first to Freddy, then Loren, and finally looked me directly in the eyes. Her eyes were amazing, mesmerizing. The gray was flecked with gold, and they did seem to be sheathed in ice. It was impossible to gauge them, to get a sense of what she was thinking. “This is an incredibly sensitive matter. This cannot get into the press under any circumstances.”

  A part of me wanted to say yes— which surprised me. “I’m sorry.” I swallowed, forcing down the unusual desire to please. “But you’re not willing to tell me anything until I sign it—and I’m not willing to sign something without knowing why I’m signing it. Or letting my own lawyer look at it first.” I smiled. “But in these four walls, it’s just us. Anything you tell me—well, all you’d have to do would be to deny it, right? And Loren can go along with you. My word against yours—and who am I?” I didn’t expect her to buy it, and I wasn’t disappointed.

  “You’d be surprised.” Jillian said. Her voice was tired. “Everyone has their price, Chanse. And you’d be surprised what they’ll print—and what they’re willing to pay for it.” She closed her eyes. She fluttered her hand again. “You have no idea what it’s like.”

  “No, you’re right, I don’t. I can’t even imagine what it’s like, and I don’t expect you to trust me right off the bat, either. So, we’re kind of at an impasse. I can’t help you unless…“ I pushed my chair back, and paused.

  It worked.

  “I’m getting threatening e-mails.” Freddy cut me off. Jillian spun her head quickly to stare at him, while Loren started to clear his throat. He held up his hand as Loren started to speak. “We want you to find out who it is.”