Murder in the Garden District (Chanse MacLeod Mysteries) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Synopsis

  THE CHANSE MACLEOD MYSTERIES

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Synopsis

  The Sheehans are referred to as “Louisiana’s Kennedys,” a powerful political dynasty with connections in Baton Rouge and Washington. When Warren Sheehan is shot to death in his Garden District mansion, Chanse races to sort out the truth from the many lies surrounding the great family as another hurricane puts New Orleans squarely in its cross hairs.

  Murder in the Garden District

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  Murder in the Garden District

  © 2009 By Greg Herren. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-60282-846-9

  This Electronic Book is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, New York 12185

  First Print Edition: October 2009

  First eBook Edition: July 2012

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Cover Design By Sheri ([email protected])

  THE CHANSE MACLEOD MYSTERIES

  By Greg Herren

  Murder in the Rue Dauphine

  Murder in the Rue St. Ann

  Murder in the Rue Chartres

  Murder in the Rue Ursulines

  Murder in the Garden District

  This is for Stephen Driscoll

  Acknowledgments

  As always, there are a lot of people to thank for their kindness, friendship and support throughout the writing of this book.

  First, I would like to thank Patrick Merla for assuming the unenviable task of not only being my editor but also having to do so in midstream. He was an absolute delight to work with and thoroughly professional.

  Don Weise at Alyson is worthy of mention for tol’rating my bizarre sense of humor and always answering my inane emails.

  Julie Smith again provided her unique and delightful brand of cheerleading, coaching, cajoling, and threatening (but always with a smile) that helped keep me focused and moving on this book. Every writer should be so lucky as to have an Aunt Julie looking out for them—without her I’d still be a personal trainer with big dreams.

  Jean Redmann has also been a source of inspiration and strength in my life now for (gulp) ten years. Thanks for everything, Jean—I still miss the Honda.

  My co-workers at the NO/AIDS Task Force are an amazing group of people. Just being around them always improves my mood. Josh Fegley, Mark Drake (The Evil Mark), D. J. Jackson, Tanner Menard, Daniella Rivera, Martin Strickland, Eric Knudsen, and the always awesome Ked Dixon (Kedley) make me actually look forward to going to work every day. Diane Murray, Tia Tucker, and Maeghan Davis have enriched my life just by being in it. Thank you all so much.

  My friends in Houston (Tom Wocken, Becky Cochrane, Timothy J. Lambert, Rhonda Rubin, Lindsay Smolensky, everyone at Murder by the Book, Margo, Guinness, Rexford, and Sugar) make every trip for a book signing over there something to look forward to rather than dread.

  My friends in Fort Lauderdale (Stephen Driscoll, Stuart Wamsley, and Peggy Gentile) make every visit over there a joy.

  A big thank you to my friends in Hammond (Michael Ledet, Patricia Brady, Bev and Butch Marshall) for their love, laughter, and generosity of spirit.

  I also want to thank Lawrence Schimel, Laura Lippman, Nevada Barr, Philip Rafshoon, Poppy Z. Brite, Chris Debarr, John Angelico, Michael Carruth, Al and Harriet Campbell-Young, Mark Richards, Gillian Roger, Lee Pryor, Kenneth Holditch, Patty Friedman, Chris Wiltz, the Fabulous Carol Rosenfeld, everyone at Garden District Books (the Fabulous Deb, Awesome Amy, Ted Terrific, and Bossman Britton), Amie M. Evans, Thomas Keith, Ryan McNeeley, Jacob Rickoll, Gary Keener, Kathleen Bradean, David Pueterbaugh, Mark G. Harris, ’Nathan Smith, Kelly Smith, Marianne Martin, Val McDermid, William J. Mann, Tim Miller, Alistair McCartney, Nancy Garden, Ellen Hart, Martin Hyatt, David Rosen, Robb Pearlman, Greg Wharton, Ian Philips, Steve Berman, and so many, many others for their support and thoughtfulness.

  And of course, Paul Willis makes my life worth living.

  “It shows that we are not a package of rose leaves, that every interior inch of us is taken up with something ugly and functional and no room seems to be left for anything in there.”

  From Summer and Smoke by Tennessee Williams

  “…Louisiana is not really an American state but a ‘banana republic,’ a Latin enclave of immorality set down in a country of Anglo-Saxon righteousness.”

  From Huey Long by T. Harry Williams

  Chapter One

  I climbed out of my car and immediately started sweating. Christ, I thought, tempted to loosen the uncharacteristic tie I was wearing, this better be worth it. I slammed the car door and headed for the front gate of the Palmer House. I’d been driving back from Houston when Barbara called, asking that I come by at four to meet a prospective client. She’d ordered me to wear a tie, which meant it was one of her society friends. And society friend meant deep pockets, which is always a good thing. I wiped the sweat off my forehead. So much for making a good impression, I thought as I opened the gate and headed up the walk to the house.

  The Palmer House was a historic landmark of the Garden District, and also happened to be the home of my landlady and employer, Barbara Castlemaine, who’d inherited it from her first husband. Built before the Civil War, it was a monstrous looking Italianate house painted a dark burgundy with black shutters. Black wrought iron lacework adorned the upper and lower galleries that ran around the house. The big brick fence that provided it with a semblance of privacy on two sides of the lot leaned toward the sidewalk at a gravity-defying angle from the immaculately kept lawn. A black wrought iron fountain bubbled in the center of a two-foot high box hedge.

  I rang the bell at precisely four o’clock. “Hey, Cora.” I said when the door opened.

  Cora had been Barbara’s housekeeper for as long as I’d known her, and Barbara once told me that Cora had worked at the Palmer House since she was a teenager. I had no idea how old Cora was—her face was free of wrinkles and there were no signs of gray in her hair. She was wearing her black uniform with the white apron and little hat to match. Her face creased into a smile.

  “Chanse! Always nice to see you.” She lowered her voice and stepped onto the porch, pulling the door almost closed behind her. “How’s your mama?”

  I opened my mouth to give her my standard answer, and then closed it again. Her concern was written all over her face.

  “Not good, Cora. She’s responding
to the treatments, but…” My voice trailed off. I forced a smile. “We’ll see.”

  She took my hand and squeezed it. “I’m praying for you both.”

  I blinked away the excess water in my eyes. “Thank you.”

  “Come on, they’re waiting for you in the drawing room.”

  I followed her into the house. All the sweat dried almost immediately in the frigid temperature inside the house. I shivered, wishing I’d brought a sweater with me. Cora led me down the hall past the hanging staircase and into the drawing room, where she announced me. Barbara was seated in a wingback chair facing the door. There was another woman in the room, sitting rigidly on a sofa with her back to me.

  “Chanse, dear!”

  Barbara called everyone dear. She rose and gave me a kiss on both cheeks. Now in her late fifties, she was still a beautiful woman. She refused to have any work done on her face, saying with a laugh, “I earned these lines!” Her thick blond hair had strands of silver woven through it. She exercised every day to keep her figure. Even in jeans and a T-shirt, she managed to convey dignity and class. Today she was dressed in a simple black silk dress with a gold belt at the waist. She was wearing what she once jokingly referred to as her “power diamonds”—huge stones at her ear lobes and a long chain around her neck ending in a large yellow teardrop diamond hanging between her breasts. But her face looked wan, as though she were under some kind of a strain, and I could see a nervous tic in her right cheek. She was using the phony tone of voice she usually reserved for people she didn’t care for much.

  “Allow me to introduce you to Cordelia Spencer Sheehan.”

  With a warning eye roll, she led me to the front of the couch.

  What in the hell could this be about? I wondered.

  I knew who she was, of course—who in New Orleans didn’t? All you had to do was read the newspaper or watch the news occasionally. Louisiana’s local version of royalty pursed her lips and extended a limp, white-gloved hand to me. I wasn’t sure if she expected me to kiss it or shake it, so I took it and gave it an equally limp shake before dropping it.

  Cordelia Spencer Sheehan appeared to be in her seventies. She had the extreme posture of royalty—her back ramrod straight and her shoulders held high and back. Her neck was fully extended, and even though she was seated, she gave the impression of looking down her nose at me. She wasn’t classically beautiful. The nose was too prominent and her lips too thin. She was what most people would describe as striking. There were lines on her face, but the skin was still firm. She was slender and appeared to be short, but her presence made her seem much larger. Her white hair was immaculately styled and she wore a white silk blouse beneath a dove gray jacket. A rope of almost too large to be real pearls hung around her neck. Her skirt matched the jacket, and her legs were tastefully crossed at the ankles. Her blue eyes were sharp and alert as she took me in and apparently found me wanting.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Sheehan,” I said, a little intimidated.

  “Mr. MacLeod.” She inclined her head slightly downward in a disdainful nod, and turned her eyes to Barbara. “You may leave us now, Barbara.”

  Her tone was dismissive, like Barbara was a servant.

  Barbara didn’t react the way I expected her to. She inclined her head respectfully and said, “Of course.” As she pulled the door closed behind her, she gave me an apologetic look and shrugged her shoulders.

  I sat down in the wingback chair Barbara had vacated.

  “Barbara tells me you need my help.”

  “With no offense or disrespect intended, Mr. MacLeod, I cannot express how distasteful this entire matter is to me. I never thought I would see the day when I would require the services of a private investigator. My son, Wendell, was murdered last night in our home. He was shot to death.”

  That got my attention.

  “And I seem to have gotten myself into a bit of a mess which Barbara assures me you can assist me with.”

  Her face and voice were completely without emotion. Her eyes never left mine.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Sheehan,” I said carefully.

  The Sheehans were to Louisiana what the Kennedys were to Massachusetts. They’d been actively involved in state and national politics since before the Civil War. The family had produced state and city legislators, mayors, governors, senators, and congressmen. The woman sitting across the coffee table from me was the daughter of a two-term governor and had also been married to a two-term governor, Bobby Sheehan. He’d died of cancer shortly after leaving office. After his death, Cordelia Spencer Sheehan had devoted herself to helping domestic abuse victims. Her foundation, named for her late husband, operated several shelters not just in New Orleans but throughout the state. She’d been recognized for her contributions numerous times. Just a few months ago, she’d gotten some honor from the current governor that had been splashed all over the Times-Picayune. Her son, Wendell Sheehan, had been attorney general of Louisiana back in the ’90s and had served on the City Council and in the state Senate. He had run unsuccessfully for mayor in the election after the hurricane, and was rumored to be eying the Senate seat currently held by a Republican from Metairie with a penchant for prostitutes. His political enemies often contemptuously called him a liberal, like that should automatically disqualify him for office. I’d voted for him for mayor, and would have gladly voted for him again for the Senate.

  I waited for her to go on. The silence became a bit awkward, so I asked, “Who do the police—”

  “That’s part of the problem, you see.” A small smile cracked her façade, but disappeared so quickly I wasn’t sure I hadn’t imagined it. “I am afraid they may think I did it.”

  My heartbeat accelerated. “Perhaps you should start at the beginning,” I said, leaning back in my chair and taking out a pen and the notepad I kept tucked into my pants pocket.

  She inhaled dramatically. “As you know, there was a terrible thunderstorm last night. I was in my room at home, reading. It was late, around eleven-thirty.” She cleared her throat. “I have trouble falling asleep at night, so I often read. My son wasn’t home—he’s been coming home late a lot lately. He is—was—looking into the feasibility of running for the United States Senate, and had opened a campaign office. I was reading in my room when I heard the shot.” She closed her eyes, and her left hand went to her throat. “You can only imagine how terrified I was. My first thought was of course for the children. I had no idea what had happened, if there was a burglar in the house or what. I put on my robe and went into the hallway. My granddaughter Alais—Wendell’s daughter—was just coming out of her room. I told her to stay upstairs and call the police. The poor dear was terrified. I opened my grandson Carey’s door to make sure he was okay, but he was wearing headphones and apparently hadn’t heard anything. He didn’t even notice me. So I shut the door and went downstairs.”

  “The shot came from downstairs?”

  “Yes.”

  “Go on.”

  She gave me a withering look. “As I said, I went downstairs. The front door was wide open, and there was water all over the hallway floor—tracked in, possibly by my son. When I got to the bottom of the staircase…” She closed her eyes. “I could see my son lying in a pool of blood in the drawing room. I immediately rushed to his side, but there was no pulse. I saw the gun lying there, and I picked it up.”

  “You picked it up?” That hadn’t been smart, and she didn’t strike me as being a stupid woman. But then, if I was to believe what she said she’d gone downstairs without knowing if it was safe.

  She met my gaze without blinking. “I wasn’t thinking clearly. I must have been in shock. When I picked it up the gun went off again. The bullet went into the floor.” Her hands balled into fists. “As I was standing there, my daughter-in-law walked into the room. I immediately knew what had happened.” She pursed her lips again. It was clear she didn’t care for her son’s wife. “She said she’d called the police already.”

  �
��You didn’t see or hear anyone else?”

  She shook her head.

  “And outside of the family, there was no one else in the house?”

  “Not as far as I knew.”

  “And what do you think had happened?”

  “His wife shot him, of course.” Mrs. Sheehan didn’t bother to try to mask her contempt as she spat the words at me. “And that’s why I need you, Mr. MacLeod. I’ve already retained an attorney named Loren McKeithen, and he recommended you. He advised me to have Barbara work as a go-between.”

  I must have frowned.

  “Apparently you aren’t fond of Mr. McKeithen?” Her lips curled in what might have been considered a smile.

  “We’ve had our differences,” I said cautiously. “But I can work with Loren.”

  Loren was the one who’d gotten me into a mess a year ago. He’d brought me into another case, and turned on me when he didn’t like what I discovered. I didn’t trust him.

  “Good. The most important thing here is to protect my daughter, and the two of you will need to work together.”

  The words sounded hollow to me. And she wasn’t making sense.

  “But you picked up the gun,” I said. “You should be more concerned about—”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I wasn’t thinking clearly,” she snapped. “I didn’t kill my son. The notion is ridiculous. Only a fool would think I killed my own child. Obviously, it was his wife. After all, it was her gun. Who else could it have been?” Her lips tightened.

  I pitied the district attorney who might have to cross-examine her.

  “How do you know it was her gun?”