Greg Herren - Murder in the Rue Ursulines

“Great. I could really use a Port of Call burger.” She let out a sigh. “I am having the shittiest day; you have no idea. I am about ready to kill someone-I’ll tell you all about it at dinner.” She moaned. “And I don’t mean Ryan.” She hung up.

I found the list of phone numbers Frillian had given me. I dialed Glynis Parrish’s number. I stopped before pushing the ‘send’ button.

They’d only hired me to find out who was sending the e-mails. They’d said nothing about confronting the person. Technically, my work was done. All I had to do was call Loren, let him know that the e-mails had been sent from Glynis’ computer, and the job was over. Five thousand dollars for taking a meeting and spending about twenty minutes playing Tourist Season was really a pretty decent payday. I’d have to return the rest of the retainer they’d given me, but I could just drop a check to Loren in the mail.

But this had been way too easy, and that didn’t sit right with me.

I couldn’t get rid of the feeling there was more going on here than just these e-mails.

Just because Glynis’ computer had been used to send the e-mails didn’t mean that she had sent them. And they’d hired me to find out who had.

I might as well get her side of the story before turning everything over to Frillian. They had said everything was fine between them and Glynis. It hadn’t quite rung true to me.

I hope I don’t live to regret this, I thought to myself.

I hit the send button on my cell phone and it started dialing.

Maybe some day I’ll learn.

As I maneuvered my car into a parking spot on Burgundy Street in the Quarter, I couldn’t help but think, Paul would have been so thrilled to meet Glynis Parrish. When he was alive, we used to watch her television comedy series together every Thursday night. It was one of our favorite shows-even the episodes that weren’t quite up to its usual standard of excellence were better than every other show on the air. She’d played a young woman just out of college who’d gotten a job at a sports magazine (obviously based on Sports Illustrated) and found herself in ridiculous situations almost every week.

The show had run almost seven years before Glynis pulled the plug, deciding to try to make it on the big screen. It was odd that she’d gotten a role in a movie being filmed in New Orleans after her ex-husband and his new wife had been so public about moving here. It could, of course, just be a coincidence. After all, before the failure of the levees, New Orleans had been actively courting film and television series. With our economy in such a shambles since the disaster, the return of ‘Hollywood South’ had been a triumph for the city. I turned the car off and took a deep breath.

Paul.

It had been four years since he was killed, and while the passage of time had helped some, I wasn’t completely over it yet. I sometimes wondered if I ever would get over it. My therapist thought I was making progress, but I wasn’t quite so sure Since his death, I’d dated a couple of guys, trying to move on with my life, but one after another, the relationships fizzled out. My therapist suggested that they failed because I kept myself emotionally unavailable to anyone new. It sounded like pseudo-psycho bullshit to me, and whenever he brought that up, it never failed to piss me off. I’d made myself emotionally available to my last boyfriend, hadn’t I? And look how that had turned out. I’d started dating Allen, the guy who owned Bodytech, my gym, after the hurricane. It had gone well for a few months, but he’d eventually gotten back together with his ex. Things had been awkward at the gym for a while, but we’d somehow managed to get past it. My therapist thought that was a positive thing. I just figured it was easier to do than find a new gym.

As I locked my car, I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, willing the sadness away by focusing on the job at hand. Maybe someday I’ll be able to remember without getting sad, I thought, as I firmly closed and locked that door in my mind.

Ah, progress.

I started walking towards the corner at Ursulines. The house Glynis was renting was between Burgundy and Dauphine, in the lower Quarter. This part of the Quarter was mostly residential and quiet. You’d never know that the madness of Bourbon Street was just a short walk away. I didn’t expect Glynis to confess to sending the e-mails-that would be too much to hope for-and I decided to approach the entire subject in a non-threatening way. Frillian had claimed there was no animosity there, but I wanted to see how Glynis reacted to my questions. I wasn’t even sure how my clients wanted this whole thing handled, but I needed to find out who else had access to Glynis’s computer. As I rounded the corner, I decided the best way to play this was to be on her side, to act as if I believed she hadn’t sent them.

The house she was renting was nice, but looked like nothing spectacular from the street. It was a one-story Creole cottage, painted a deep purple, with yellow shutters. There was no front yard; the house, like most in the French Quarter, was right on the sidewalk. It was a four-bay, with two sets of french doors and two sets of double-hung windows between them, their yellow shutters closed. Two large pots of trailing flowers hung on chains from the roof overhang.

I climbed up the short flight of stairs to the set of doors on the right-where the doorbell was- and stood a moment before ringing. Glynis had answered my call, and when I’d identified myself, she’d interrupted me, “Yes, yes, Freddy told me you might call. You might as well come over and let’s get this over with.” She hadn’t sounded pleased, but I could hardly blame her.

I took a deep breath and knocked. I heard footsteps moving toward the front door.

It swung open and I found myself looking down at a small, rotund woman with reddish-blonde hair. She was wearing a gray T-shirt with the Make levees not war slogan on the front, and a pair of black jeans. Her pale round face was covered with freckles, and she smiled, revealing slightly crooked teeth. Her greenish-gray eyes lit up, taking her from slightly plain to pretty. “Yes?”

“I’m Chanse MacLeod,” I replied. “Here to see Ms. Parrish?”

“Yes, yes, we’re expecting you.” She held out a small hand for me to shake. Her hand was soft, warm, and a little damp. “I’m Rosemary Shannon, Glynis’s personal assistant. Won’t you come in?” She stood aside to let me pass, and I walked into the sparsely furnished front room. A couple of wingback chairs faced a fireplace on the far wall, with a table in between them. There was a faded Oriental rug on the floor, and the walls were bare except for some Audubon reproductions. She closed the french doors and turned the key in the lock. “I’ve never met a private investigator before,” she said, looking me up and down, still smiling. “Your work must be terribly exciting.” She giggled- a surprisingly girlish sound for a woman I judged to be in her early to mid-thirties. Her voice also sounded younger than I would have expected, almost like that of a thirteen-year-old. She stared at me expectantly.

“Not really,” I replied, giving her a little smile in return. “It’s not like it is on television.Usually, it’s quite boring.”

“I don’t believe you,” she replied, the smile never wavering for a moment. “I used to want to be a private eye when I was young.” She laughed. “If you can imagine that. I wanted to be one of Charlie’s Angels.” She shrugged, a tiny movement. “Glynis is in her study. Come this way.”

I followed her down a hallway that ran the length of the house, and she knocked lightly on the second door before opening it. “Glynis? Mr. MacLeod is here.”