Murder in the Rue Ursulines

too.

Was there anything I’d done in my work that wouldn’t bear scrutiny? Well, I had killed two men-that could easily be twisted into making me look bad. But they were both murderers, and in either case the district attorney’s office had closed the file without pressing charges. They’d determined I’d acted in self-defense, and the matters were closed. Still, an enterprising reporter or a lawyer trying to make me look bad could make something of that…

The windshield finally cleared enough for me to see through, so I pulled out into the street and headed home.

While I was stopped at the light at Canal Street, I relived that moment on the Rue Ursulines over and over in my head. Loren had done a pretty good job of shaking my confidence in my memory, but I was pretty certain I’d seen Freddy Bliss. It was definitely Freddy I’d seen. Yes, eyewitnesses were notoriously unreliable, but I was trained to observe and notice things. I didn’t just think it was Freddy, it was Freddy Bliss under the street light. As I sat there, listening to Rihanna sing about her umbrella, I wished any number of things- that I hadn’t parked where I had; that I’d walked another block up Burgundy before turning the corner; that I hadn’t returned Loren’s call that morning. The credibility issue was going to be crucial: who would be believed, me or Frillian? They were going to alibi each other, and I knew that was a lie. I generally don’t like it when my clients lie to me, but their first concern wasn’t so much the murder investigation but preserving their careers. Of course they would alibi each other, and they were actors; they’d be convincing. And me? Who was I but a nobody private eye in New Orleans-a gay one, at that-who’d shot and killed two people?

“Have you ever killed anyone, Mr. MacLeod?” I asked aloud as I waited for the light to change. “Oh, you’ve killed two men. Did you ever stand trial? No? Oh, you’ve killed twice in self-defense? What a dangerous line of work you’re in, Mr. MacLeod.”

I shivered.

How much scrutiny would my life bear?

“So, stop thinking about it. Don’t worry about it. There’s nothing you can do to change anything at this point anyway.” The light changed as I scolded myself. I hit the gas pedal and flew across Canal Street. I remembered something else my mother used to say: There’s no sense in worrying about things you can’t control. That’s just borrowing trouble, and life gives you enough without having to borrow extra.

I turned into my driveway. While I waited for the electronic gate to open, I felt the panic starting up again. I parked in the lot alongside the house and got control of my breathing again.

“I’ve had a hell of a day,” I said out loud, grabbing my stash box from under the couch. I loaded my pipe, and took a long drag, letting the marijuana start clouding my brain. I reached from the remote control and turned on the television. It was past ten. The statement from Frillian was going out over the wire services as I sat there. Remembering Loren’s warning, I got up and unplugged my land line. I sat back down and looked up at the framed print of Paul over my mantelpiece. It was a black and white view of him from behind, seated in a chair. I thought about calling his mother, Fee. She’d been like a mother to me ever since Paul died. Originally from County Cork, she had Paul’s sparkling green eyes and an Irish brogue I could listen to all day long.

But what could I tell her?

“Sorry to bother you, Fee, but I seem to be in a bit of trouble. I got mixed up with some movie stars and now one of them is dead, and you’re probably going to be hearing all kinds of crazy shit about me in the media. Yeah, I know. Just don’t believe what you hear, okay?”

Fee wasn’t the kind of person to put up with self-pity though. She’d just give me a long distance bitch slap and tell me to put my chin up.

I took another hit and started laughing. She’d be right, too.

I went into the kitchen and poured myself a glass of wine.

“One hell of a day,” I toasted Paul’s picture, and took another hit of the pot.

I sat down at the computer and logged on to the Internet. As soon as the home page loaded, a headline screamed at me: GLYNIS PARRISH MURDERED. “Damn, that was quick.” I thought, clicking on the link.

“Emmy Award-winning actress Glynis Parrish, 34, best known for her long running role on the hit series SPORTSDESK, was found brutally murdered in New Orleans. Parrish was in New Orleans making a movie. Her body was found by her personal assistant, Rosemary Shannon, earlier this evening.

“Parrish became a star playing the role of Gwen Newberry on the long-running television series, SPORTSDESK. After the show went off the air, she turned her attention to films, appearing in several critically acclaimed and commercially successful films, including MARRY ME, a romantic comedy co-starring Ben Stiller. She was divorced from the actor Freddy Bliss after his very public affair with Oscar winner Jillian Long became headline news around the world while they were filming THE ODYSSEY.

“A statement from the New Orleans Police Department stated that Parrish was killed by a single blow to the head, and the police are following several leads. The police are also looking for a possible witness. This witness allegedly claims to have seen a man leaving Parrish’ home around the time the murder took place.”

What? I stared at the computer screen. How the hell did that already leak out? The only people who knew about my being a witness were Loren and Frillian…

They’d leaked it to the press.

But why would they do such a thing? That made no sense at all. If anything, they’d want to hide that information. What kind of game were they playing? I read on:

“Freddy Bliss’s publicist released the following statement: ‘Freddy and Jillian are deeply saddened by this senseless tragedy. Their hearts go out to her family, friends and her fans, and they pledge to do everything they can to help bring her killer to justice. They are offering a ten thousand dollar reward for any information that leads to the arrest and conviction of her killer.”

I whistled. That was a nice move. I wondered if it was their idea. Jillian was a very smart woman-and her people were going into major damage control. Of course, it was going to piss off the police. Rewards always brought the cranks out-and ten thousand dollars was a nice sum. Every lunatic in New Orleans who wanted ten grand was going to be calling the hotline number mentioned in the article-and in a high-profile case like this, every single lead was going to have to be checked out. They couldn’t take the chance that a lead, no matter how unlikely, might turn out to be the right one in the end.

I could hear Venus swearing right now, and couldn’t help myself. I grinned.

The New Orleans police department had not exactly had the best reputation before the flood-and the conduct of some larcenous officers during the flood had further damaged their reputation. A huge number of them had deserted their posts and evacuated. The department hadn’t yet recovered from those blows-and the constant focus of the national media on the rising crime rate here was even more damaging. They were having a tough time recruiting, and the city was on shaky financial footing to begin with. The reward hotline was going to bury them in work, chasing down leads on the chance it might actually be something. Everyone at City Hall would be applying whatever pressure they could on the department-and interfering in the investigation.

And that didn’t even take the media into consideration.

I could sympathize with the cops, but at the same time this was a lucky stroke for me.

They wouldn’t welcome my own investigation, and I’d have to walk very carefully-but if I kept my head down, it was possible I could move faster then they could. I didn’t have to deal with the city politics-and hopefully not with the media either.

I sipped my wine and looked at the clock in the lower right hand corner of my computer screen. It was just after ten; probably too late to call anyone. I checked the voicemail on my business line. No messages; no one had called me back from Glynis’s list of staff.

I took another hit off my pipe and leaned back in my chair. Okay, Chanse, think about it. Who had access to Glynis’s house? Obviously, her staff did. Rosemary Shannon would be the primary suspect, if you hadn’t seen Freddy coming out of the house. But what motive would Rosemary have for killing her boss?

I got a new spiral notebook out from a drawer where I kept fresh supplies and opened it to the first page. Okay, assume for a moment that Freddy didn’t kill Glynis. Pretend you didn’t see what you did this evening. Who would want Glynis dead?