best. Being what is sometimes called a “fruit fly,” I ran into him at fundraisers for gay charities frequently. I liked Jackson— he had a bitchy wit and wasn’t afraid to say anything — which made him lots of fun to stand next to at boring parties. I wasn’t sure which one of Marigny’s ex-husbands was his father; at some point he’d taken her last name.
I hoped Jackson wasn’t the one who found her body, but unless Aramis had come down from Memphis or Bonaparte (whom I’d never met) was here from Paris, odds are he had.
I closed the file on my laptop and sighed.
One of the many reasons I’d left the Times-Picayune was because I was their go-to girl for reporting on crime, and it had started taking a heavy toll on me emotionally. How many times can you report on the shooting of an innocent kid who wasn’t even ten yet? I’d already started burning out before Katrina came rolling ashore and the levees failed, and had pretty much spent the next two years reporting on unimaginable misery while living on Scotch, wine, mood stabilizers, Xanax, and pot. I’d needed pills to sleep, pills to wake up, on and on and on.
I was well on my way to becoming Judy Garland when the opportunity at Crescent City came open, and I never looked back. I’d weaned myself off everything— well, except the pot and liquor, I do live in New Orleans, after all— but there were times when I missed being a beat reporter. Assigning stories, editing, going to meetings, and taking Crescent City from being a lightweight piece of fluff to an actual monthly newsmagazine had all been fun at first, but if I was going to be completely honest, it was starting to bore me just a little bit.
Much as I hated to admit it, I could feel the familiar old adrenaline rush I always used to get when I was assigned a juicy story.
Skittle jumped up into my lap, purring. I scratched his head. “How about that, Skittle? Mama’s a reporter again!”
I just hoped this wouldn’t bring back some bad memories.
Chapter Three
A little less than an hour later, I parked my ancient Toyota Corolla in the shade of a massive live oak on Nashville Avenue, about a block away from Magazine Street on the river side. I locked the car and started walking.
Before I left my apartment, I’d tried calling Venus Casanova, a NOPD detective who also happened to be a friend of mine. When my call went straight to voicemail, I called her partner, Blaine Tujague. I’ve also known Blaine a long time— and he also happened to be my man-friend’s younger brother. I got his voicemail, too— which hopefully meant they’d caught the case. This was really good— having police detectives that were friends assigned to the Mercereau murder would sure as hell make my life a lot easier— but I was preparing myself for the worst, just in case.
I breathed a sigh of relief as I turned the corner at Magazine Street. Venus’s black SUV was parked in front of the House of Mercereau, and I could see the guys packing up the lab van— so the crime scene investigators were finished. I doubted seriously Venus would let me inside the house— friendship has its limits— but I could just lean against her SUV and wait for her to come outside when she was finished.
The House of Mercereau was a turn of the century Victorian style house, painted fuchsia. There was a driveway that led around to a parking lot in the back, and I knew there was a huge yard back there as well. Marigny Mercereau’s grandfather had built the place after he made his fortune importing bananas from Central America, and she’d converted the entire first floor into a showroom and store. Her fashion shows weren’t the traditional kind that you’d see in New York. Instead, she set up folding chairs in the big front room. The models came down the staircase in her designs and walked down makeshift aisles set up between the rows of chairs. She lived on the two upper floors of the house. I’d never been upstairs myself, but
I hoped Jackson wasn’t the one who found her body, but unless Aramis had come down from Memphis or Bonaparte (whom I’d never met) was here from Paris, odds are he had.
I closed the file on my laptop and sighed.
One of the many reasons I’d left the Times-Picayune was because I was their go-to girl for reporting on crime, and it had started taking a heavy toll on me emotionally. How many times can you report on the shooting of an innocent kid who wasn’t even ten yet? I’d already started burning out before Katrina came rolling ashore and the levees failed, and had pretty much spent the next two years reporting on unimaginable misery while living on Scotch, wine, mood stabilizers, Xanax, and pot. I’d needed pills to sleep, pills to wake up, on and on and on.
I was well on my way to becoming Judy Garland when the opportunity at Crescent City came open, and I never looked back. I’d weaned myself off everything— well, except the pot and liquor, I do live in New Orleans, after all— but there were times when I missed being a beat reporter. Assigning stories, editing, going to meetings, and taking Crescent City from being a lightweight piece of fluff to an actual monthly newsmagazine had all been fun at first, but if I was going to be completely honest, it was starting to bore me just a little bit.
Much as I hated to admit it, I could feel the familiar old adrenaline rush I always used to get when I was assigned a juicy story.
Skittle jumped up into my lap, purring. I scratched his head. “How about that, Skittle? Mama’s a reporter again!”
I just hoped this wouldn’t bring back some bad memories.
Chapter Three
A little less than an hour later, I parked my ancient Toyota Corolla in the shade of a massive live oak on Nashville Avenue, about a block away from Magazine Street on the river side. I locked the car and started walking.
Before I left my apartment, I’d tried calling Venus Casanova, a NOPD detective who also happened to be a friend of mine. When my call went straight to voicemail, I called her partner, Blaine Tujague. I’ve also known Blaine a long time— and he also happened to be my man-friend’s younger brother. I got his voicemail, too— which hopefully meant they’d caught the case. This was really good— having police detectives that were friends assigned to the Mercereau murder would sure as hell make my life a lot easier— but I was preparing myself for the worst, just in case.
I breathed a sigh of relief as I turned the corner at Magazine Street. Venus’s black SUV was parked in front of the House of Mercereau, and I could see the guys packing up the lab van— so the crime scene investigators were finished. I doubted seriously Venus would let me inside the house— friendship has its limits— but I could just lean against her SUV and wait for her to come outside when she was finished.
The House of Mercereau was a turn of the century Victorian style house, painted fuchsia. There was a driveway that led around to a parking lot in the back, and I knew there was a huge yard back there as well. Marigny Mercereau’s grandfather had built the place after he made his fortune importing bananas from Central America, and she’d converted the entire first floor into a showroom and store. Her fashion shows weren’t the traditional kind that you’d see in New York. Instead, she set up folding chairs in the big front room. The models came down the staircase in her designs and walked down makeshift aisles set up between the rows of chairs. She lived on the two upper floors of the house. I’d never been upstairs myself, but
Similar Books
Lucky Break
Liliana Rhodes
Water's Edge
Robert Whitlow
Pretty Persuasion
Olivia Kingsley
Full Circle
Danielle Steel
A Vision in Velvet: A Witchcraft Mystery
Juliet Blackwell
America's Bravest
Kathryn Shay
Through the Cracks
Honey Brown
The Summer Hideaway
Susan Wiggs
The Annihilators
Donald Hamilton
Loving Sofia
Alina Man