Murder in the Irish Channel (Chanse MacLeod Mysteries) Read online

  “Unless he’s changed, he forgot about her two minutes after he finished talking to Jonny,” I replied.

  “If you got her credit cards, I can run them.” She rolled her eyes. “I don’t think he even did that.”

  I slid the list I’d made before leaving Mona O’Neill’s house across the table. Venus didn’t look at it. She just folded it and slipped it into her purse. “Thanks.”

  She shrugged. “She’s one of those church protesters, isn’t she?”

  I stared at her. “How did you know that?”

  “Are you confusing me with Delvecchio’s sorry ass?” She looked at Blaine. “He apparently thinks I’m too stupid to run her name.”

  Blaine grinned back at her. “You’d think he’d be nicer to cops risking their jobs to do his work for him, wouldn’t you?”

  “You’d think.” She turned her head back to me, her face without expression. “You heard about the archdiocese deciding to try to stop the vigils by having the protesters arrested for trespassing. The cops had to kick in the damned doors—can you believe that? Police officers kicking down the doors of a church. In New Orleans.” Her eyes glinted. “The bastards at the archdiocese dropped the charges, of course, once the message boards online lit up.” She shook her head. “Idiots. Even if public opinion wasn’t on the protesters’ side, it sure was after that. Nobody wants to see the cops kicking in the doors of a church on the news.” She sighed. “But that’s what happens when you have an archbishop who doesn’t have a fucking clue about the city he serves. I don’t know why they can’t give us an archbishop from New Orleans. Anyway, she was the one giving interviews to the press after the arrests. She was all over the news.” She shook her head. “You should watch the local news more often.”

  “But do you really think having a local as archbishop would make a difference?” I asked. I’d heard this argument made, but it had always struck me as another example of New Orleans’ particular xenophobia against anyone and anything Not From Here. “I mean, an archbishop who was a local would be facing the same money problems Archbishop Pugh is facing. Wouldn’t he want to close churches, too?”

  “I always forget you aren’t from here,” Blaine replied as Venus just glared at me. “The major reason everyone’s complaining about Archbishop Pugh is because he doesn’t understand the importance of the individual churches. For him it’s all about money—and neither one of those churches is really costing the archdiocese money to stay open. Both parishes are self-supporting. That’s why the parishioners are so pissed off. There are other parishes in the city that aren’t self-supporting. If it was really about losing money, why these particular churches instead of the ones that are losing money?”

  I debated with myself for just a moment, but plunged ahead anyway. “Well, there’s something I don’t understand. I mean, who cares if your church closes? What difference does it make what church you attend services at? Catholic is Catholic, isn’t it? Isn’t it all about communing with God?”

  “Chanse—” Venus reached across the table and grabbed my right hand with both of hers, squeezing. “Maybe it’s different in other places, I don’t know, I don’t live somewhere else. All I can tell you is what it’s like here. In New Orleans.” She let go of my hands and looked out the window as a Coca-Cola delivery truck went by. She took a deep breath. “St. Anselm has been serving its parish for over a hundred years, and so has Our Lady of Prompt Succor. People who were baptized there, confirmed, married, had their kids baptized and confirmed and married there—the place itself matters to people—it matters.” She shrugged. “And it’s hard to let go, Chanse—it’s like having your heart ripped out.” She swallowed. “I’ve been going to St. Anselm myself since the flood. My old parish in the East isn’t there anymore.” She closed her eyes. “I was baptized and confirmed at Mary Queen of the Universe. I was married there. My kids were baptized, confirmed, married there. It kills me that Mary Queen of the Universe isn’t there anymore, Chanse. And now I go to St. Anselm—and soon if the archbishop has his way, it’s not going to be there anymore, either. And that’s just wrong.” She finished her coffee and pushed her chair back. “Haven’t we lost enough here already? Do we have to lose our churches, too?” She took her cup back to the counter for a refill.

  “Have you talked to Paige at all?” Blaine asked as she sat back down.

  “Paige? Why?” I asked, startled.

  Blaine laughed. “Some friend you are!”

  Venus tried not to smile, but gave up and grinned broadly at me. “Seriously.” She got out of her chair and walked over to the counter, picked up a magazine, and walked back. She slapped it down on the table in front of me and started laughing.

  It was the latest issue of Crescent City, and the cover photograph showed a group of people standing in front of a church with their arms linked. The headline said simply, FIGHTING FOR RELIGIOUS HERITAGE. Beneath that, it said in a smaller font: An in-depth look at the church closing controversy by Paige Tourneur.

  Paige was my best friend, the editor of Crescent City, and had been dating Blaine’s older brother Ryan for about four years.

  “Paige has been covering this story since the archdiocese announced they were closing the churches,” Blaine went on as I flipped to the article. “You mean she’s never mentioned it to you? And you don’t read her articles?” They exchanged glances.

  “Can’t wait to rat your ass out to her,” Venus said with a grin. “You’re gonna have some serious ’splainin’ to do, Mr. Man.”

  I looked at her. “Okay, I admit, I never read the newspaper and rarely watch the news. And she’s used to it. She used to get mad at me when she worked at the paper, but it doesn’t bother her anymore. But can you explain something to me? If it’s two churches, why does St. Anselm’s get all the coverage and no one ever talks about Our Lady of Prompt Succor—which is a ridiculous name for a church, I have to say.”

  “Because it’s over on the West Bank,” Venus replied. “And that best-selling novelist is a parishioner at St. Anselm—so he gets them a lot more coverage, people listen to him when he talks. But the archbishop is trying to close two churches.” She pushed her chair back and stood up. “It’s a pity, too. St. Anselm is a beautiful old church, and the parishioners are really great people. They really made me feel at home there.” She picked up her purse and stalked out of the coffee shop.

  Blaine leaned back in his chair. “Don’t mind her. This whole church thing has got her riled. I can’t say as I blame her—she already lost one church to Katrina, and now she’s about to lose another? And I think her younger daughter’s having marital trouble, but you know how she is. She won’t say a damned thing until she’s ready—and in the meantime I got to put up with her damned moods.” He winked at me. “Speaking of, how are things going with Rory?”

  “Okay.” I shrugged. “Taking things as they go, really. I don’t want to rush anything, and neither does he.”

  “I’m just glad to see you—”

  My iPhone started ringing, and I gave Blaine an apologetic smile as I ran my finger over the screen to accept the call. “Hello, Abby,” I said into the phone, “can you wait a sec?”

  Blaine pushed his chair back and stood up. “I got to go, anyway. I’ll call you later, man.”

  I nodded, giving him a fist bump before he walked out of the coffee shop. “Sorry about that, Abby.”

  “No worries.” Abby Grosjean was my business partner. She’d originally started as my assistant, but I’d made her a partner a few years back. She had amazing instincts and took to investigative work like an old pro. “So, your message said we have a new client?”

  “Yeah.” I hesitated. “Doesn’t have a lot of money, though—so I’m kind of giving him a break.”

  She sighed. “Taking in another lost puppy, are we?”

  “You don’t have to—”

  “I know I don’t have to help out.” She cut me off. “What can I say? I’m a sucker for lost puppies, too. What’s the story?”
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br />   I filled her in, and I could hear her typing as I talked. One of the things that absolutely amazed me about her (and made her completely invaluable) was how quickly she could type. She always took extensive notes of every business-related conversation she had—although she also had a phenomenal memory—which had come in handy more times than I cared to remember. She was also a whiz with gadgets—she was the one who’d convinced me I needed an iPhone, which I’d resisted for years. The iPhone and its ability to shoot video had more than paid for its cost since I’d broken down and bought one. She often called me a Luddite. She’d graduated from the University of New Orleans with a degree in pre-law (she paid her way through working as a stripper at the Catbox on Bourbon Street before she started working with me), but was trying to save up the money to pay for law school at either Loyola or Tulane.

  When I finished, she said, “Okay, I think the best thing for me to do is try to find a connection between Morgan Barras and Mona—besides Jonny’s MMA thing. I’ll get Jephtha to do some checking, too.” Jephtha, her live-in boyfriend, was probably the most talented computer nerd in New Orleans. There wasn’t, he boasted, a system he couldn’t hack into. He’d spent a few years in the juvenile detention system for changing grades when he was in high school, and we had a strictly don’t ask, don’t tell policy on how he found the information I needed. What he really wanted to do was be a computer game designer, and he’d come up with several prototypes so far that I thought looked like winners. He hadn’t gotten anywhere with them yet—which was good news for me, since he needed the work I tossed his way.

  He was so good I kept him on a retainer, and I dreaded the day he made it as a game designer.

  “Okay, great,” I replied. “I’ll head over to St. Anselm’s, see if any of the protesters are willing to talk to me, see if they know anything.”

  “All right. I’ll check in later.” She disconnected the call.

  I rolled up the copy of Crescent City Venus had given me and walked out to my car.

  St. Anselm’s was on Louisiana Avenue between Tchoupitoulas and Magazine. It was a beautiful building, made of yellow brick with a massive bell tower at one end. Like most Catholic churches, it was laid out in a giant cross. I parked underneath a live oak tree and looked around. I didn’t see a green Mercury Marquis parked anywhere on Louisiana, so I checked the side streets as well. It wasn’t parked anywhere nearby. I walked through the wrought iron gate and climbed the cement steps to the double doors. They were scarred from being kicked in, and I pushed slightly on them. They swung open without a problem, and I walked into the darkened church.

  I’d never really set foot in a Catholic church besides St. Louis Cathedral before—I hadn’t set foot in a church of any kind since I’d left Cottonwood Wells, the little town in east Texas I grew up in, for LSU when I was eighteen. St. Anselm’s wasn’t as majestic as St. Louis; but then I doubted any church in New Orleans could compete with St. Louis. St. Louis was so magnificent it hardly registered in my mind as a church—particularly when compared to the Church of Christ I’d endured growing up.

  There was a weird sense of peace and serenity inside St. Anselm’s, and as my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom I noticed at the far end of the church there were candles burning on the altar and there were several people seated in the front pews.

  I walked up the aisle toward the altar, trying to process the calm. On the occasions when I’d been inside the Church of Christ when there was no service going on, it just seemed like a big empty room. It didn’t feel holy—not that it ever felt particularly holy to me during services, when the preacher was screaming about sin and fire and brimstone. Everything was a sin—makeup, skirts above the knee, being naked in front of another human you weren’t married to, mixed swimming, television—it seemed like every Sunday the preacher in our church condemned another function of modern life as a sin in the eyes of an angry God. It wasn’t until I was a teenager that I began to really notice the hypocrisy. There was no way, for example, I could play football without being naked in front of another human being I wasn’t married to—but football trumped sin. My parents didn’t forbid my sister from wearing makeup, her cheerleading uniform certainly didn’t reach below her knees, and some of the moves she was required to do as a cheerleader certainly incited lust in teenaged boys—and in some adult men who shouldn’t have been looking.

  Once I left Cottonwood Wells for LSU, I never set foot in another Church of Christ.

  But then, the Church of Christ didn’t have enormous stained-glass windows on both sides of the building depicting incredibly gory and violent deaths of saints. The bright sunlight streaming through the windows and spilling over the pews was colored brilliant hues of yellow, green, blue, and red. And of course no Church of Christ had an organ, and certainly there would be no enormous cross with a bloodied and suffering Jesus on it behind the altar. The Church of Christ didn’t go in for such nonsense; while they did adorn their bare chapels with a cross, it was always a big metal one—and there was never a leanly muscled man in a loincloth with a crown of thorns on his head hanging from it.

  That was idolatry, specifically prohibited in the Old Testament.

  Funny how you never really get away from religion, I thought as I walked up the aisle.

  Between the windows were marble statues of what I assumed must be saints, with their heads bowed over hands clasped together in prayer.

  How do people find comfort from such a horrible sight? I wondered as I drew closer to the front and could see how exquisitely detailed Christ’s passion was depicted. The eyes were so incredibly mournful, pained, and sad as they looked up to heaven. The muscles stood out in agonized relief. The sword wound in his side dripped blood.

  My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?

  “May I help you?” a female voice asked quietly from the gloom to my right.

  I turned; I’d reached the steps of the altar without realizing it. The woman who’d spoken was smiling at me. She was very short, maybe five foot tall or so. She looked to be in her late fifties, with graying hair that hung to the shoulders of her purple LSU sweatshirt. She was round, with a moon face and very kind eyes. Her hands were folded in front of her, and she exuded an aura of peace and calm that was hard to resist.

  I cleared my throat, which sounded ridiculously loud in the quiet church. “I was wondering if I could ask you and your friend a few questions?”

  “Why?” This came from a man sitting in the front pew. He made no move to get up. He just sat there and glared at me with suspicious eyes. “Who are you? Did Archbishop P. U. send you?”

  “My name’s Chanse MacLeod, I’m a private investigator, and I’ve been hired to find Mona O’Neill by her son Jonny. I just have a few questions—”

  “Go ask the Archdemon,” the man interrupted me angrily. “That’s who’s behind it, you can bet your bottom dollar. That son of a bitch needs to be tarred and feathered and run out of town before he finishes destroying the faith in this city.”

  “Ed, hush. Don’t be disrespectful. That’s not going to get us anywhere, and you know it.” The woman waved her hand at him. “Pay him no mind, Mr. MacLeod. We might not agree with His Eminence, but we don’t wish him any ill will. He’s not a bad man, he’s just a little misguided, that’s all. We all pray that he sees the light and changes his mind. We must have faith, right, Ed?” She held out her right hand, which I shook. “I’m Belle Browning, and the disrespectful lout over there in the pew is my husband, Ed.” She smiled, taking the sting out of her words. “We’ll be glad to help you in any way we can. Mona is a wonderful person. Her family must be so worried.”

  “You can defend that prick all you want, Belle, but I’m not so forgiving,” Ed snapped. “He’s sold his soul—”

  “Language!” She gave him a nasty look. “Not in the church, Ed.”

  “So, did you two know Mrs. O’Neill well?” I asked, figuring the best course was to ignore the bickering and move forward.

  “We’ve k
nown Mona for years, since before Danny was killed.” Belle gestured to the pew where Ed was sitting. “Shall we sit? My feet are killing me.”

  I sat down next to Ed, and Belle sat down on my other side.

  “That was a tragedy—Danny O’Neill was a hell of a man.” Ed Browning shook his head. “Poor Mona—at least the two older kids were old enough to help her out with the baby.”

  “We all rallied around Mona,” Belle said. “I knew her before that only slightly, but it was after Danny was killed that we really became friends. Mona always said that if it weren’t for this church she wouldn’t have made it.” She patted me on the leg. “That’s why St. Anselm’s meant so much to her. It shames me to admit that were it not for her, this church would have been closed already. But she rallied us all, got us organized—”

  “And now she’s missing,” Ed snarled. “And you know that bastard Pugh is behind it.”

  “We don’t know any such thing!”

  “Mona always said Pugh wants to sell the land.” Ed went on like she hadn’t said anything. “How much is this land worth, do you think, Mr. MacLeod? We might be down in the Irish Channel, but this is still pretty damned close to the Garden District—and what are the property values down here? Even before Katrina they were pretty high. And now? They tear this church down, put up some condos—how much do condos go for in New Orleans since the flood? This land is worth a lot of money—and that carpetbagger of an archbishop damned well knows it.” He shook his head. “And the Archdemon is hand in glove with that devil Morgan Barras.”

  I thought about the check from Morgan Barras I’d found. “Do you know if any developers were looking at buying the land?”

  Ed shook his head. “No, can’t say that I do. But it wouldn’t surprise me.”

  Belle smiled at me. “Pay him no mind. He doesn’t believe Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone.”

  I couldn’t help but smile back at her. “When was the last time you saw Mona?”