Greg Herren - Murder in the Rue Ursulines

“Thanks.” I stood up, and she rose as well. She startled me by coming around the table and hugging me.

“Thanks.” She wiped at her eyes. “I don’t really have any friends here.”

“Well, you can call me anytime.” I replied. “What are you going to do now? For work?”

“Go back to the agency I worked for and hope they can find something for me.” She replied.

“What agency?”

“Girl Friday.” She wiped at her face. “Maybe the person I worked with before I took the job with Glynis will take me back.” She shook her head. “I wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t, though. Mrs. Clifford was really good to me-she didn’t deserve my leaving her the way I did.” She sighed. “It was wrong of me, but I really wanted to work for Glynis.”

“Not Sophia Clifford?” New Orleans was truly a small town. I’d done some work for Girl Friday when the agency first opened, doing background checks on prospective temp workers. I also knew Sophia Clifford slightly. A widow, she’d moved to New Orleans after her husband died with a lot of money to burn, and had gotten involved in the arts scene as a patroness. Originally from Greece, she had a thick accent and was prone to always wearing incredibly elaborate hats and gloves. The first time I’d run into her after the hurricane she’d rushed up to me and exclaimed, “Chanse darling! My house was looted by drag queens! All they took were my gloves and my hats!”

“You know her?” Rosemary was peering at me. “Maybe you could put in a good word with her for me?”

“Sure.” I smiled at her. “I’d be glad to. And call me anytime.”

“Thanks.” She wiped at her face again. “It means a lot.” She smiled.

I watched her walk up Barracks Street. I sat back down and got my little notebook out of my back pocket. I wrote down some of what she had told me, and then wrote the name Joey and circled it.

What she’d told me was interesting, but none of it was verifiable. If Freddy had been having an affair with Glynis, he certainly wouldn’t admit to it now. And she had no proof; it was all just conclusions she’d drawn from what she’d observed. It also didn’t make a lot of sense-why would Glynis be sending Freddy those threatening e-mails if they’d rekindled their romance? Unless, of course, she was using her knowledge of Freddy’s past to blackmail him back into her bed. That didn’t make sense, either. There was no need for Glynis to send him threats if she were seeing him in person. And if Freddy knew Glynis was the threat, he wouldn’t have hired me-and he certainly wouldn’t have told Jillian about it. She would be the last person he’d want to know about the e-mails.

Talking to Rosemary had just made the mess even messier. She only suspected that Glynis was involved with Freddy again-and the only evidence she had was a cell phone she’d found in the house one morning. It could, actually, have been Jillian’s phone rather than Freddy’s.

If Jillian knew Freddy and Glynis were reconciling, that would give her a motive-but then, that didn’t wash with me either. Freddy was Jillian’s fourth or fifth husband. It’s not like she was a stranger to failed marriages. I doubted very seriously she would be so enraged she’d kill Glynis. She’d just get a lawyer and divorce him.

I glanced at my watch. It was now after three. I flipped open my phone and dialed Bodytech. Allen would most likely be gone.

After the hurricane, I’d started seeing Allen Johnson, who owned Bodytech. I’d known Allen for years. He and his long-time partner had separated after the flood. We were both lonely, and I hadn’t been surprised when Allen and his partner had gotten back together again. Things between us had been uncomfortable for a while, but they were getting better. Still, these days I chose to work out in the evenings when I knew he wouldn’t be there.

My therapist called it avoidance. I called it working out in peace.

“Bodytech Fitness.” Mallory answered, the nice young woman who worked the afternoon and evening shift at the front desk. I liked her a lot.

“Hi Mallory, this is Chanse MacLeod. I was wondering if I could make an appointment with Brett for training?”

“Seriously?” She laughed. “I’m sorry-you caught me offguard. You want a training session?”

“Well, I feel like my workouts are getting a little stale, and I thought maybe a few sessions with a trainer would motivate me,” I lied. “And Brett was recommended to me.”

“Let me check the book.” There was a clunk as she set the phone down. “Okay, he has an opening tomorrow morning at ten. Does that work for you?”

“Nothing tonight?”

“Sorry, no, he’s booked solid. Should I put you down for ten tomorrow morning?” Her voice became business-like as she went into her spiel. “There’s no charge for the first session, but after that it’s fifty dollars a session, in advance, unless you buy a package, and that’s $200 for five, or $375 for ten-both of which are deeply discounted on paying one at a time. Ten, of course, is the best deal. It works out to $37.50 per session.”

“Thanks, Mallory, put me down for tomorrow morning…”

I called a cab from Café Envie to go home.

The day was beautiful. The sun was out and there was a nice breeze blowing in from the river. I crossed the street to wait for my cab. I leaned against the black wrought iron fence in front of the old U. S. Mint building. There were a surprising number of pedestrians out-and from the looks of them, mostly tourists. My lungs ached for a cigarette. I thought about walking over to a little shop I knew about midway down the block that sold cigarettes, but fought off the urge. Quitting had been an incredibly terrible experience. Now that I was off of them for good, I wasn’t going to put myself through that again. I felt better now that I wasn’t smoking. I didn’t get out of breath as quickly as I used to when I was doing my cardio at the gym, my lungs felt better, and I seemed to have more energy than I did when I smoked. Besides, the price kept going up, and it was ridiculous to spend that kind of money on something intangible that gave such little pleasure. I wondered if the desire to have a butt would ever go away once and for all.

Somehow, I doubted it. An addiction is an addiction. From what I heard, alcoholics never stopped wanting a drink, so why would nicotine be any different?

I just wanted to get home and be by myself, smoke some pot, open a bottle of wine, and decompress. I’d already had a couple of close calls with anxiety attacks, and I was in no mood to tempt fate. There’s nothing more horrible than those things, and I’d had enough of them to know that I was dangerously close to having one that no amount of calming exercises would head off. I’d much prefer to be in my house if it happened-and my Xanax stash was in the medicine cabinet. My heart rate had been getting steadily faster since I set foot in the precinct building, and the exercises my therapist had taught me to ward off the attacks were losing their effectiveness. I just stood there, leaning against the Mint’s fence, my eyes narrowed to slits, and tried to regulate my breathing. In and out, nice and slow and steady-I knew that as long as I had my breathing under control, my heart rate would gradually slow down and I’d be safe. The cab pulled up and honked, and I climbed into the back, giving the cabbie my address. As soon as I settled into the backseat and the cab pulled back out onto Decatur Street, I closed my eyes and imagined a quiet beach, with palm trees and white sand, gentle green waves lapping at the shore. I pulled out my phone. I’d turned the ringer off before meeting with Rosemary.