Read Online Murder in the Garden District (Chanse MacLeod Mysteries) by Greg Herren - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Greg Herren
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chair across from me.
“This wig is driving me crazy,” she said. “It’s too fucking hot for wigs. Besides, you haven’t even seen the new color I just changed it to. Reddish with blond streaks.” She winked. “Like Paige.”
“So why cover it up with a wig?” I had to ask.
She had a lot of them. She’d explained to me once that wearing wigs was easier than dying her hair. She’d added with a lascivious grin, “It gives the spenders at the Catbox Club the illusion of a different girl, to spice things up a bit and loosen their wallets.” She made a lot of money dancing there.
“I was interviewing a retired police detective, and I didn’t think he’d take me seriously if I showed up looking like a stripper,” she explained. “I was torn between professional lady detective and innocent young girl, but I decided to go with professional woman. After all, I don’t get too many chances to wear this outfit. And this brown hair goes well with it, don’t you think? More so than the red.”
She blotted her forehead with her napkin as our waitress materialized. Abby ordered a Coke and two slices of pepperoni pizza. I ordered the same, figuring I could work off the trans fat at the gym, and waited until the waitress left before speaking again.
“A retired police detective? What are you on to?”
She placed her elbows on the table and rested her chin on her fists, beaming at me.
“Ah, Chanse. I am so good at my job. You should give me a raise.”
She always asked for a raise when she’d gotten her hands on something good—and it was amazing how Abby always came up with good stuff.
“I’ll take it under advisement.”
The waitress placed Abby’s Coke in front of her. She took a big swallow, and waited until we were alone.
“I’ll start at the beginning. First of all, there wasn’t anything interesting in Barbara’s background before she married Roger Palmer. Born and raised on the West Bank, went to UNO and dropped out. She met Roger at an opening at the art gallery where she worked. They had a rather whirlwind courtship. Did you know Roger Palmer was significantly older than Barbara?”
“I knew there was an age difference, but not how much.”
Barbara had mentioned it a few times, on the rare occasions when she talked about her first husband. I’d never given it much thought. Young women marry rich old men all the time. It was practically a cliché. For that matter, Wendell Sheehan had about twenty years on Janna.
“Barbara was all of twenty-five when she married him. He was in his mid-fifties, what was politely called a ‘confirmed bachelor.’ What does that tell you?”
Confirmed bachelor was old New Orleans society code for homosexual. It wasn’t always true, but it was the way polite society acknowledged it without actually saying so.
“Barbara married a gay man. Interesting.”
It certainly explained why she’d never had any problems with my sexuality.
“That’s what I thought, too.” She took another sip of her Coke. “Different strokes and all that. Whatever the reasons were—which we’ll never know—they got married. Roger had never been linked to another woman, at least none that I could find. And four years later, Roger died and left Barbara everything. The house, his money, everything.”
“What’s so unusual about that? Under Louisiana’s Napoleonic Code she would have gotten half of everything, whether he wanted her to have it or not.”
“Roger didn’t die peacefully in his bed, Chanse.”
“How did he die?”
“He broke his neck falling down a flight of stairs in his house. The story Barbara gave out was that she was at a big fundraising party and came home to find him dead. There were only two problems: no one at the fundraiser remembered seeing Barbara there, and she was having an affair on the side. The cops never could find any hard evidence that she was unfaithful, but tongues were wagging in the Garden District.”
“And who was she supposed
“This wig is driving me crazy,” she said. “It’s too fucking hot for wigs. Besides, you haven’t even seen the new color I just changed it to. Reddish with blond streaks.” She winked. “Like Paige.”
“So why cover it up with a wig?” I had to ask.
She had a lot of them. She’d explained to me once that wearing wigs was easier than dying her hair. She’d added with a lascivious grin, “It gives the spenders at the Catbox Club the illusion of a different girl, to spice things up a bit and loosen their wallets.” She made a lot of money dancing there.
“I was interviewing a retired police detective, and I didn’t think he’d take me seriously if I showed up looking like a stripper,” she explained. “I was torn between professional lady detective and innocent young girl, but I decided to go with professional woman. After all, I don’t get too many chances to wear this outfit. And this brown hair goes well with it, don’t you think? More so than the red.”
She blotted her forehead with her napkin as our waitress materialized. Abby ordered a Coke and two slices of pepperoni pizza. I ordered the same, figuring I could work off the trans fat at the gym, and waited until the waitress left before speaking again.
“A retired police detective? What are you on to?”
She placed her elbows on the table and rested her chin on her fists, beaming at me.
“Ah, Chanse. I am so good at my job. You should give me a raise.”
She always asked for a raise when she’d gotten her hands on something good—and it was amazing how Abby always came up with good stuff.
“I’ll take it under advisement.”
The waitress placed Abby’s Coke in front of her. She took a big swallow, and waited until we were alone.
“I’ll start at the beginning. First of all, there wasn’t anything interesting in Barbara’s background before she married Roger Palmer. Born and raised on the West Bank, went to UNO and dropped out. She met Roger at an opening at the art gallery where she worked. They had a rather whirlwind courtship. Did you know Roger Palmer was significantly older than Barbara?”
“I knew there was an age difference, but not how much.”
Barbara had mentioned it a few times, on the rare occasions when she talked about her first husband. I’d never given it much thought. Young women marry rich old men all the time. It was practically a cliché. For that matter, Wendell Sheehan had about twenty years on Janna.
“Barbara was all of twenty-five when she married him. He was in his mid-fifties, what was politely called a ‘confirmed bachelor.’ What does that tell you?”
Confirmed bachelor was old New Orleans society code for homosexual. It wasn’t always true, but it was the way polite society acknowledged it without actually saying so.
“Barbara married a gay man. Interesting.”
It certainly explained why she’d never had any problems with my sexuality.
“That’s what I thought, too.” She took another sip of her Coke. “Different strokes and all that. Whatever the reasons were—which we’ll never know—they got married. Roger had never been linked to another woman, at least none that I could find. And four years later, Roger died and left Barbara everything. The house, his money, everything.”
“What’s so unusual about that? Under Louisiana’s Napoleonic Code she would have gotten half of everything, whether he wanted her to have it or not.”
“Roger didn’t die peacefully in his bed, Chanse.”
“How did he die?”
“He broke his neck falling down a flight of stairs in his house. The story Barbara gave out was that she was at a big fundraising party and came home to find him dead. There were only two problems: no one at the fundraiser remembered seeing Barbara there, and she was having an affair on the side. The cops never could find any hard evidence that she was unfaithful, but tongues were wagging in the Garden District.”
“And who was she supposed
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