Greg Herren - Murder in the Rue Ursulines

A Chanse MacLeod Mystery

“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.