G.T. Herren - Paige Tourneur 02 - Dead Housewives of New Orleans by G.T. Herren Page A
Authors: G.T. Herren
Ads: Link
in front of my house! I flipped an illegal U-turn (okay, maybe I had to go up on the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street to do it, but no cars, humans, property or animals were hurt) and parked right in front of my gate.
And even better, the rain stopped as I turned the engine off. It was clearly not going to last for more than a minute or two— New Orleans storms often do that, like they’re reloading for a fresh assault. No fool, I made a dash for the front gate, splashing through various deep puddles. My hair was still damp from the earlier soaking, though thanks to Manuela, my sweats were dry. The rain might have taken a coffee break, but the wind hadn’t. Cold and strong, it blasted my still damp hair into what undoubtedly looked like a rat’s nest. With shivering hands, I managed to unlock the gate, and slammed it shut behind me. My teeth were chattering as I hurried along the path around the house to my apartment door. The gay couple who lived in the front apartment on our side of the house were avid gardeners, so the path was made even narrower by the enormous plants, trees, and bushes towering alongside the fence. Of course, in the rain every one of them turned into enormous dripping beasts— so a steady stream of muttered profanities spilled from my mouth as heavy cold drops of water pelted me on my way. I swore, like I did every time it rained, that I was going to buy a machete and commit fern genocide.
I unlocked my door and switched on the ceiling lights. Skittle glared at me from the couch, where he was curled up on top of my thick blue wool blanket. It was cold inside the apartment— the primary drawback of eighteen-foot ceilings doesn’t become apparent until one is trying to heat the place. I dashed up the stairs and turned on the shower. What I really wanted to do was just curl up under my blankets, but I had work to do. I grabbed fresh sweats out of the laundry basket— making a mental note to put the laundry away— and went back into the now-steamy bathroom.
I climbed into the hot shower with a sigh of relief. Within seconds the strong hot spray had the chill in full retreat from my body.
As I stood there, I couldn’t help wondering why on earth Chloe Valence was suing Margery Lautenschlaeger. I’d been wondering that ever since Athalie told me. I was positive Athalie knew more than she was telling me, but she kept insisting Margery hadn’t told her anything about the case, or why she wanted to talk to me. Athalie did have the grace to apologize for ruining my weekend plans, which of course only made me more suspicious— Athalie rarely apologized for inconveniencing her family. All she would tell me was that she would give my cell phone number to Margery, who was going to call me sometime today or tomorrow. I still didn’t understand why it had been necessary for me to change my plans for the weekend and come back to town. It certainly seemed like it could have waited until Monday— and I also didn’t understand why Athalie couldn’t have simply asked me on the phone if it was okay to give Margery my number.
Why did it matter where I was, if Margery was just going to call me?
It was all really strange.
Margery could certainly afford the best lawyers in the country, so what was the big deal?
I was
dying
to know what it was all about. The more I thought about it, the weirder it all seemed. What on earth could Margery have done that would warrant a lawsuit from Chloe?
Twenty minutes later I was seated at my computer, warm and dry with my coffee maker brewing a fresh pot while I checked my email. There was an email from Rachel with an attachment; I downloaded it— it was the promotional package for the show— and the message:
Paige— got hold of Abe Golden. He’s supposed to fly back to New York on Monday— given Fidelis’ death, that might change— but he said he was willing to meet with you tomorrow. He’s staying at the Ritz Carlton on Canal Street.
She went on to
And even better, the rain stopped as I turned the engine off. It was clearly not going to last for more than a minute or two— New Orleans storms often do that, like they’re reloading for a fresh assault. No fool, I made a dash for the front gate, splashing through various deep puddles. My hair was still damp from the earlier soaking, though thanks to Manuela, my sweats were dry. The rain might have taken a coffee break, but the wind hadn’t. Cold and strong, it blasted my still damp hair into what undoubtedly looked like a rat’s nest. With shivering hands, I managed to unlock the gate, and slammed it shut behind me. My teeth were chattering as I hurried along the path around the house to my apartment door. The gay couple who lived in the front apartment on our side of the house were avid gardeners, so the path was made even narrower by the enormous plants, trees, and bushes towering alongside the fence. Of course, in the rain every one of them turned into enormous dripping beasts— so a steady stream of muttered profanities spilled from my mouth as heavy cold drops of water pelted me on my way. I swore, like I did every time it rained, that I was going to buy a machete and commit fern genocide.
I unlocked my door and switched on the ceiling lights. Skittle glared at me from the couch, where he was curled up on top of my thick blue wool blanket. It was cold inside the apartment— the primary drawback of eighteen-foot ceilings doesn’t become apparent until one is trying to heat the place. I dashed up the stairs and turned on the shower. What I really wanted to do was just curl up under my blankets, but I had work to do. I grabbed fresh sweats out of the laundry basket— making a mental note to put the laundry away— and went back into the now-steamy bathroom.
I climbed into the hot shower with a sigh of relief. Within seconds the strong hot spray had the chill in full retreat from my body.
As I stood there, I couldn’t help wondering why on earth Chloe Valence was suing Margery Lautenschlaeger. I’d been wondering that ever since Athalie told me. I was positive Athalie knew more than she was telling me, but she kept insisting Margery hadn’t told her anything about the case, or why she wanted to talk to me. Athalie did have the grace to apologize for ruining my weekend plans, which of course only made me more suspicious— Athalie rarely apologized for inconveniencing her family. All she would tell me was that she would give my cell phone number to Margery, who was going to call me sometime today or tomorrow. I still didn’t understand why it had been necessary for me to change my plans for the weekend and come back to town. It certainly seemed like it could have waited until Monday— and I also didn’t understand why Athalie couldn’t have simply asked me on the phone if it was okay to give Margery my number.
Why did it matter where I was, if Margery was just going to call me?
It was all really strange.
Margery could certainly afford the best lawyers in the country, so what was the big deal?
I was
dying
to know what it was all about. The more I thought about it, the weirder it all seemed. What on earth could Margery have done that would warrant a lawsuit from Chloe?
Twenty minutes later I was seated at my computer, warm and dry with my coffee maker brewing a fresh pot while I checked my email. There was an email from Rachel with an attachment; I downloaded it— it was the promotional package for the show— and the message:
Paige— got hold of Abe Golden. He’s supposed to fly back to New York on Monday— given Fidelis’ death, that might change— but he said he was willing to meet with you tomorrow. He’s staying at the Ritz Carlton on Canal Street.
She went on to
Similar Books
