Murder in the Rue Ursulines by Greg Herren Page A

Jay.”
    “Nice to meet you, too, Chanse. Everyone’s waiting for you in the carriage house. That’s where their offices are.”
    Inside the brick wall, it was like stepping into a park. The garage door opened onto a cobblestone carport. There was a black town car parked next to a bright red Mustang convertible. The rest of the courtyard was green grass with a fountain in the center. The house, a long two-story building with a gallery on the second floor, actually ran along the left side of the lot, beginning at the sidewalk.  Across the courtyard was a two-story carriage house. Thick rosebushes lined the brick walk that led to the front door of the carriage house. I followed Robinette along the brick path, glancing over at the main house. Two children, one dark, the other Asian, were watching me from one of the upstairs windows. I waved at them. They stepped back, allowing the curtains to close. One of Frillian’s causes was adopting third world orphans, I recalled. Robinette knocked once on the carriage house door, opened it, and stood aside to let me pass.
    “Chanse!” Loren crossed to me and shook my hand. There were beads of sweat on his forehead. He’d taken off his suit jacket, showing patches of sweat on his wrinkled shirt. He’d loosened his tie at the neck, and he reeked of stale cigarette smoke. “Thanks for getting here so quickly.”
    I looked around. “No problem. I was already in the Quarter.” The entire bottom floor of the carriage house was just one big open room, with a small kitchenette at one end. The walls were covered with work by James Michalopoulos, a local artist who specialized in paintings of New Orleans architecture in bright colors, but with the perspective slightly off. I’d always wanted one of his paintings, but they were way out of my price range.
    A DVD player mounted on the wall was playing classical music; Mozart, I thought. Just above it was a large flat-screen plasma television. A ceiling fan turned lazily overhead. Bookcases lined one wall, and at the far end of the room, two desks were pushed against the wall. One was neat, the other had papers and folders scattered all over the top of it. Freddy and Jillian were seated beside each other on a long wine-red sofa. Jillian was smoking a cigarette, the smoke curling gently around her head, but her hand was shaking. Those glacial eyes were unreadable, but she gave me a slight smile and nodded her head at me.
    Freddy’s eyes were red, and he kept swallowing over and over again, licking his lips. His hair was disheveled, sticking up in every direction, and he still hadn’t shaved. He looked like hell.
    I turned back to Loren. “What’s going on?”
    “Glynis Parrish is dead.” Jillian crushed her cigarette out. “Murdered. Clubbed to death in her house.”
    I couldn’t have heard that right. “What?” I turned to Loren, the numbness of shock spreading from my brain down my spine. “How—“
    Loren wiped at his forehead with a handkerchief and shoved it back into his pants pocket, only to start sweating again.  “Her assistant came back to the house and found her about an hour ago.”
    “And we called Loren.” Jillian said, sucking on the end of her cigarette.
    “She called here? Why would she do that?” I looked over at Freddy. His eyes were watery, and he was biting his lower lip. “You did tell her to call the police, right?”
    “Of course I did.” Jillian snapped. “She was hysterical, not thinking clearly. Of course, I asked if she was certain Glynis was dead, but she said she checked for a pulse, and there wasn’t one. I told her to hang up and call 9-1-1.” She shook her head.
    I can certainly attest to the horrible shock of discovering a dead body. It’s happened to me more times than I would prefer. “Did she say anything else?”
    “Apparently, Glynis was hit over the head with her Emmy.” Jillian’s voice shook a little bit. She glanced at Freddy.
    “That Emmy meant everything to her.”