Murder in the Rue Chartres (6 page)

I tried to imagine what it would be like. I speak to my sister about once or twice a year. We exchange half-hearted Christmas cards and call each other on our birthdays—awkward phone calls out of obligation, with a lot of silence while we try to think of things to say. We didn’t have much in common when we were kids; we have even less now. We’d both put Cottonwood Wells and the trailer park firmly in the past, and we never spoke about our parents. I don’t know if she ever talks to them or not, but if she does, she never says anything about it to me. I’ve never even told her that I’m gay, but I’m pretty sure she’s figured it out. She’s one of those Super Moms now, driving all over Houston in her SUV, taking her kids to this practice and that class and running errands, a cup of latte in the cup-holder and a cell phone in one hand. But even so, it would be a shock to find out she was dead, murdered, from the police, and before you even got a chance to grieve, a massive hurricane was heading for your home. “I’m sorry,” I said, and I meant it.

“And of course, the days after when the city was being looted and we didn’t have power, all we could do was sit around and drink everything in the wine cellar and think about Iris, wonder what happened to her, where her body wound up—they were keeping her for the coroner, whenever that was going to happen, and by then we’d have the Bultman Funeral Home take care of everything…but then the fucking storm came.” He got up and poured himself another glass of bourbon. “And now all we get is a runaround. I know damned well they don’t know where she is. I think the morgue flooded, and her body sat around in that fucking water for weeks, that’s what I think happened, and no one has the goddamned balls to tell us.” He sat back down. “What the fuck do they think, we’re going to sue them? Like they were going to evacuate bodies out when they couldn’t evacuate people out of the city? Jesus fucking Christ.”

I didn’t have the slightest idea how to answer that and was wishing I’d just left when I’d had the chance. Over the years, I’ve noticed that sometimes a private eye winds up being a bit of a therapist, which made me wish I’d paid more attention in my Psych class back at LSU. But sometimes people don’t want you to say anything—they just want you to listen, no matter how uncomfortable you are with what they are saying. They’re not looking for an answer to what’s eating them alive, they just want to get it all out of their system. And Joshua Verlaine didn’t seem to have anyone he could talk to about any of this. I wondered what the younger brother, Darrin, was like.

Sounded to me like the whole family was fucked up.

“You know something?” He finished the second glass in a single gulp. “You stay right here.” He weaved a little bit as he walked out of the room, and I heard his footsteps going up the stairs.

Get out of here, I told myself, and glanced out the doorway. I saw the maid standing there, her lips pursed. When our eyes met, she shook her head and moved down the hallway out of sight. I looked around the room again, and started studying the portrait over the fireplace. It was from the mid-1800s, judging by the style of the clothes and the stern look on the subject’s face. There was absolutely no resemblance between the man and Joshua Verlaine, but then the bloodline had undoubtedly been diluted enough over the years. He looked tough, the kind of man who would shake your hand and then fuck you over at the first opportunity if it benefited him in the slightest way. I stared at him and wondered how he would have handled the storm and its aftermath. With piss and vinegar, and an eye to turning a profit out of it. Those, I thought, were the men who built this country. It couldn’t have easy being either married to him or one of his children.

Joshua came back in clutching a checkbook, and gave me a half-smile. “Mean-looking bastard, isn’t he? That’s the great Henri Verlaine, to whom we owe everything.”

He sat down on the divan again, leaning forward to make out a check. He tore it out and handed it to me. “There. Take this.”

It was for ten thousand dollars. “Um—” I stared down at it.

“I want you to find Daddy.” He waved his hand. “Iris wanted him found, for whatever the hell reason she did, and you know something? I’d kind of like to see the bastard myself. I’ve got a few questions for dear old Dad.”

“You’re hiring me.” It’s really never a good idea to make a business deal with someone a little the worse for alcohol. “You’re sure you want to do this?”

He sat up straighter. “Mr. MacLeod,” he said in an almost regal tone, one he undoubtedly used with the house’s staff, “I may not be able to legally operate an automobile in my current state, but I am certainly not intoxicated enough to have my mental faculties impaired. Yes. I am hiring you.”

I wasn’t sure I wanted to work for Joshua Verlaine. He’d probably sober up and stop payment on the check, and regret spilling the family secrets to me. But then again, what else did I have to do? And I was starting to like him—well, at least feel sorry for him. “You realize that it’s highly likely that he’s not alive,” I said, realizing I was telling him the same thing I told Iris. “And the trail, even if he is alive, is pretty cold.”

But it was what she wanted. She hired you. He just wants you to finish the job—for a lot more money, that wretched little voice inside my head whispered. And it’s not like you have anything else to do anyway. Stop trying to talk him out of hiring you. You could stand to have something to keep you occupied, or you could end up on pills and drinking a lot. He’s just trying to honor his sister’s last wish—he can’t bury her or do any of the things you do when someone you love dies. How would you feel if it was Paul? If you had no idea what happened to his body and you couldn’t get an answer from anyone as to what happened to it?

That was all it took for me to make up my mind. If nothing else, it would make him feel better. Maybe he’d sober up and change his mind. He was entitled to that, and it wouldn’t be the first—or the last—time a client fired me.

I reached over and shook his hand. “Mr. Verlaine, you’ve got a deal.” I rose. “I’ll report back to you weekly, if that’s okay with you.”

He waved his hand. “That’s fine, whatever you think is best.” He reached into his wallet and handed me a business card. “Call me on my cell phone.” He grinned at me. “You probably think I’m going to sober up and change my mind, right?”

“The thought has crossed my mind.”

“Well, that’s not something you have to worry about.” He walked me to the front door of the house.

“You changing your mind?”

He laughed. “No, you don’t have to worry about me sobering up. That’s not going to happen any time soon. Not as long as there’s liquor in this house—and that’s one thing we always have in supply.”

The front door closed behind me.

I decided to drive up Magazine Street a little farther after leaving the Verlaine mausoleum and see if my gym had opened back up.

Bodytech was located on the corner of Magazine and Louisiana. I’d been working out there ever since it opened four years earlier. I’d known the owner, Allen Johnson, for years before he’d opened up the place. He’d been a trainer at my old gym before he went out on his own. Bodytech was a great space. It was a lot bigger than the old gym in Canal Place where I’d used to work out, brighter and airier and not as cramped. I’d fallen in love with the place when Allen had his grand opening and had switched almost immediately. I also liked that it was the only gay-owned and -operated gym in the city. The clientele was an interesting mix of Uptown gay men and straight women, with some straight men showing up every now and then. The place was always packed in the mornings, at lunchtime, and after five. I prefer to work out in the off times because I hate to wait for a machine I want to use; plus it’s not quite as distracting when the place is emptied out. Allen always played the latest glitterball dance remixes over the gym’s state-of-the-art sound system, which got you pumped up and energized to hit the weights a little bit harder than listening to Billy Idol’s “Mony Mony” for the ten-thousandth time or some heavy metal thrash garbage like other gyms played. Besides, I’d always had a bit of a crush on Allen. Joining his gym gave me the chance to get to know him better. It seemed like he was always there when I came in for my mid-morning workouts, and we’d always shoot the shit for a little while before I hit the weights.

Allen lived with his longtime partner, Greg Buchmaier, in the old Buchmaier mansion on St. Charles Avenue further uptown, closer to the campuses of Tulane and Loyola Universities and Audubon Park. Allen was a good guy, if not the brightest, and he always knew all the local gay gossip. I could always count on Allen to give me the scoop on any gay man or gay couple in town—I guess running a gym makes you privy to all kinds of information. He still worked as a trainer, and he told me once over a protein shake that being a trainer was kind of like being a therapist. “You wouldn’t believe the shit people tell me,” he said, rolling his eyes and grinning at me, “and it’s not like we have any kind of client-trainer confidentiality thing. I’m always afraid I’m going to be subpoenaed to testify in a divorce case or something. Could you imagine?”

I don’t know what I was expecting, but I didn’t expect to see Allen’s white Lexus in the parking lot and the neon OPEN sign in the big front window lit up. It was such an unexpected moment, a slight semblance of normality in a crazy world where normal no longer existed, that I just slammed on the brakes and swung the car into the parking lot. Fortunately, there was absolutely no traffic on Magazine Street. Before, such a sudden move would have caused a massive accident and backed traffic up in both directions for miles. I put the car in the spot next to the Lexus and walked through the front door.

Even though the air conditioning was on and it was cool inside, there was a faint musty smell to the place. Other than that, it was like stepping into a time machine and going back to the last time I’d worked out. All the machines sparkled and shone in the lights, the mirrors that lined the walls were spotless, and Allen himself was behind the front counter, resting his thick arms on it. A huge grin spread across his face when he saw me. He’s only about five-nine, with dark blond hair he’d recently started buzzing off to hide the fact it was thinning—which was a really hot look for him. I knew he was in his early forties, but he could easily pass for his late twenties. There were no bags under his eyes and no telltale lines emanating from his eyes or the corners of his mouth. His chipmunk-like cheeks were deeply dimpled, his gray eyes almond-shaped but wide open and cheery, and his body showed the years of hard work he’d put into it. Veins bulged in his forearms and his biceps. His tight black tank top with BODYTECH in red lettering across his chest fit like a glove. His thickly muscled legs were hidden beneath a pair of black sweatpants with a white stripe running up each side.

“Chanse!” He came out from behind the counter and gave me a big hug, squeezing long and hard. “When did you get back?” He stepped away from me, still smiling.

“Yesterday, actually,” I replied, finding myself grinning back at him.

“I got back last week—I wanted to get the place back open as soon as possible.” He scratched his head. “How’d you come out? The house okay?”

I nodded. “Yeah, I was lucky. I guess the floodwaters stopped a couple of blocks away from Camp Street, and the roof held on. Paige got back to town right after and emptied my refrigerator. How’d you do?”

“Yeah, we did okay, besides the refrigerator.” He made a face. “I got a new one on the way down from Baton Rouge. But we did lose one of the oak trees in the yard. Went down right through the gazebo. Lucky—if it went the other way, it would have gone right through the living room.” He shuddered. “That would have been a disaster—I don’t even like to think about that.” He went back around the counter and opened the glass-fronted cool case. “You want a protein drink? On the house, as my first post-Katrina customer.” He smiled at me again. “Damn, it’s good to see you.”

I took it from him with a grin. Strawberry, my favorite. Allen knew his customers well. “Thanks. Greg back too?” I opened it and took a swig.

He shook his head. “He’s in Atlanta, running the company from the store there.” Buchmaier Jewels was one of the oldest jewelry stores in New Orleans, with a flagship store on Canal Street and branches scattered all over the city. Greg had expanded the company and opened stores in Dallas, Houston, and Atlanta. The new stores had required Greg to travel a lot more than Allen would have liked.

“When’s he coming back?” I finished the drink and tossed it into the trash.

A dark look crossed Allen’s face. “Good question.” His eyes narrowed. “He thinks we should move to Atlanta.” His face reddened and his jaw clenched. His hands balled into fists. “Yeah, easy for him. Everything I own is tied up in this place, you know? And he says, ‘Let’s just move to Atlanta.’ He wants to sell the house, close the stores here, just move on. I know everyone thinks he gave me the money to open this place, but I didn’t take a goddamned dime from him, thank you very much, and I’m not about to start being the rich Mrs. Buchmaier because a fucking hurricane came through New Orleans.” He spread his hands. “He’s never kept me, and he’s never going to. If I have to live in this fucking gym, I will.”

“Wow,” I said. Not exactly the most profound thing, but I couldn’t think of what else to say. The Buchmaiers had been in New Orleans since the early 1800s, when they’d left what was then Bavaria and opened their first store. The family had been one of the backbones of the New Orleans Jewish community ever since. “What about Ruth?” Ruth was Greg’s sister. She worked for the Vieux Carre Commission. “Is she going to leave too?”