Murder in the Rue Ursulines (17 page)

“Thanks, Mallory, put me down for tomorrow morning..”

I called a cab from Café Envie to go home.

The day was beautiful. The sun was out and there was a nice breeze blowing in from the river.  I crossed the street to wait for my cab.  I leaned against the black wrought iron fence in front of the old U. S. Mint building. There were a surprising number of pedestrians out—and from the looks of them, mostly tourists. My lungs ached for a cigarette. I thought about walking over to a little shop I knew about midway down the block that sold cigarettes, but fought off the urge. Quitting had been an incredibly terrible experience. Now that I was off of them for good, I wasn’t going to put myself through that again. I felt better now that I wasn’t smoking. I didn’t get out of breath as quickly as I used to when I was doing my cardio at the gym, my lungs felt better, and I seemed to have more energy than I did when I smoked. Besides, the price kept going up, and it was ridiculous to spend that kind of money on something intangible that gave such little pleasure. I wondered if the desire to have a butt would ever go away once and for all.

Somehow, I doubted it. An addiction is an addiction. From what I heard, alcoholics never stopped wanting a drink, so why would nicotine be any different?

I just wanted to get home and be by myself, smoke some pot, open a bottle of wine, and decompress. I’d already had a couple of close calls with anxiety attacks, and I was in no mood to tempt fate. There’s nothing more horrible than those things, and I’d had enough of them to know that I was dangerously close to having one that no amount of calming exercises would head off. I’d much prefer to be in my house if it happened—and my Xanax stash was in the medicine cabinet. My heart rate had been getting steadily faster since I set foot in the precinct building, and the exercises my therapist had taught me to ward off the attacks were losing their effectiveness. I just stood there, leaning against the Mint’s fence, my eyes narrowed to slits, and tried to regulate my breathing. In and out, nice and slow and steady—I knew that as long as I had my breathing under control, my heart rate would gradually slow down and I’d be safe. The cab pulled up and honked, and I climbed into the back, giving the cabbie my address. As soon as I settled into the backseat and the cab pulled back out onto Decatur Street, I closed my eyes and imagined a quiet beach, with palm trees and white sand, gentle green waves lapping at the shore. I pulled out my phone. I’d turned the ringer off before meeting with Rosemary.

The little digital window informed me that I had two new voice-mail messages.

I checked the messages as we crossed Canal Street. The first one was from Paige.
Hey Chanse, Paige here. You are so not going to believe what happened during my interview with Shirley Harris! I still don’t believe it myself. I did get some rather interesting dirt on both Freddy and Jillian before we were interrupted—and therein lies a tale like you wouldn’t believe…Sandy Carter had to postpone—I’m meeting her for breakfast in the morning. So, call me whenever you get home so we can get together and compare notes. Why don’t you just come over to my place and we can order in? I am dying to hear what the assistant wanted to talk to you about, and if you got anything out of her. Love ya!

I punched the seven key to delete it. I smiled to myself. I was definitely curious to hear her opinion of the Rosemary conversation. The Shirley Harris thing sounded good too—Paige’s voice had been in her high-pitched “I don’t know if I can keep from laughing” mode.

Chanse MacLeod? Hello, how are you, this is Veronica Vance, from CNN Headline News. I would love the opportunity to interview you tonight on my show. It airs at seven o’clock eastern, and I can guarantee you I’ll be the most fair journalist you could speak to. Please give me a call back at 415-555-0909, so we can make arrangements for the satellite feed from either your office or your home, or from a local affiliate’s studio; whichever is the most convenient for you. If you’re familiar with my show, you KNOW that I am the only journalist who would give you a fair shake to tell your side of the story. Thanks in advance, and I look forward to talking to you further.

I couldn’t delete that one fast enough.

Oh yes, I was familiar with Veronica Vance, all right. Before the flood, I’d found her shrill and obviously affected Southern accent offensive—as offensive as her regular claims to be fair and unbiased. She was one of those horrible ‘journalists’ who never allowed her guests a chance to finish anything they were saying, cutting them off rudely, and while she claimed to be giving them an opportunity to tell their side of whatever story she was reporting on, she usually came across as a cross between an avenging harpy and a banshee. Every once in a while, I’d watched her show when I was bored and nothing else was on. But after the levees failed, when all the news networks were reporting on New Orleans 24/7—I’d grown to hate her with the burning intensity of the sun. The lies and inaccuracies that had flown out of her mouth, while she sat in her high and dry studio in Atlanta, wrapped in her usual cloak of sanctimonious superiority, made me burn with rage. She placed blame everywhere but where it belonged—with the Army Corps of Engineers and the White House. She blamed the mayor, the governor, the people who hadn’t evacuated—you name it, she blamed them.

 To me, she was the epitome of everything that was wrong with the news media.

I wondered how she’d gotten my cell number.  Undoubtedly, she had sources everywhere. I sighed and took no small pleasure in deleting the message. There was no way in hell I was going to call her back—let alone agree to an interview.

The car swung around the corner of Euterpe onto Camp Street and came to a dead stop. The traffic on Camp Street was intense—which was rare. I craned my neck forward to see what was going on, and my jaw dropped. I felt all the blood draining from my face.

The street in front of my house was clogged with news vans.

The sidewalk in front of my house was filled with photographers and cameramen.

Oh my God, oh my God oh my God.

“Stop here and wait a minute,” I said to the cab driver, my voice shaking.

How am I going to get into the house through that mob?
I thought.

My heart was beating so loud I could hear it in my ears.

My breath was coming fast.

A panic attack. No, please God, no, I can’t melt down in front of the media.

Somehow, I managed to croak out Paige’s address to the driver. He pulled around the vans along the curb and headed up Camp Street.

I tried to measure my breathing as I scrolled through my stored numbers.

I found Paige’s number and hit call.

“Tourneur.”

“Paige, it’s Chanse.” I was beginning to hyperventilate. I tucked my head down and tried to control my breathing. “Please….I need…help.”

“Are you okay?” Her voice was alarmed. “Where are you?”

“There’s a—there’s a crowd of reporters in front of my house.” I forced myself to take long, slow, deep breaths. I was getting faint. There was a roaring in my ears, and my heart was pumping so hard it felt like it was going to jump out of my chest.
Breathe, just breathe, focus on your breathing, everything is going to be okay.

“Don’t answer the door, make sure the curtains are closed, and don’t answer the door whatever you do.” She instructed. “Those fucking vultures.”

“I’m…not…in…the…house…” I started gasping for air.
Think about your happy place, think about the beach, get a hold of yourself, you can do it, Chanse, you can stay calm and focused..
 “I…am…in…a…cab…”

“Oh God, where are you right now?”

“On…my…way…to...your…house”

“You’re having an anxiety attack, aren’t you? Shit, fuck, SHIT! Hang on, how close are you?

“Corner…of…Melpomene…and Camp…” I swallowed. “I…think…I…can…make…it…”

“Buddy, are you all right?” the cabdriver asked as he turned up Melpomene.

“Hang in there, Chanse! I’ll be out front waiting for you.” Her voice was panicked. She hung up.

“I’m…fine…” I said to the cabdriver. “Just…drive…”  I put my head down between my knees.

Breathe, just breathe, you’re on a beach, close your eyes and imagine you’re on a beach, with the sun shining and the waves coming ashore and…

It wasn’t working.

My mind raced on. Horrible thoughts filled my mind, one after another, each one worse than the one before.

I hadn’t had an anxiety attack in months.

They’re terrifying, absolutely terrifying. There’s nothing worse than having your mind race out of control. What makes it even worse is there’s a flicker of awareness, of your normal mind working, and it KNOWS you are acting crazy, that you’re mind is racing out of control and there’s not a goddamned thing you can do about it. You can’t stop yourself, no matter how you try, and while it’s going on you want to die, you pray to die, anything would be better than letting it go on.

I’d thought they were a part of the past.

After I’d returned from the evacuation, they’d happened almost daily. They would come on suddenly, without warning. One moment, I’d be perfectly fine. The next moment, I’d be on the floor in a fetal position, my mind racing out of control, my breathing so fast I was close to hyperventilating, my heart beating so fast I thought it would explode. My doctor had prescribed Xanax for me to handle the anxiety attacks, and Lexapro to handle the depression. It didn’t take long before I was addicted to both.

But  I’d kicked them both, and now the last of the  Xanax sat in my medicine cabinet collecting dust for those increasingly rare anxiety attacks.. I’d been proud of myself, and my therapist had given me some control exercises—breathing, creative visualizations, all that psychoanalytical mumbo jumbo I’d always dismissed as stupid in my past life. But much as I hated to admit it, they did work most of the time.

But they weren’t working as I waited for the cab to get to Paige’s house. Time seemed to have slowed to a complete standstill. Nothing was working. All I knew was that I was helpless, melting into a puddle in the backseat of the cab. I tried imagining myself on the beach again, tried imagining myself in any number of happier places, tried to remember times when I enjoyed myself and was happy…and nothing would come to replace the panic overwhelming me. Tears began streaming out of my eyes as I fought for my sanity, to keep my grip on reality, to stay out of that dark pit where I’d spent so many horrible hours.

I wanted to die. I wanted someone to just shoot me to make it stop.

Maybe I could just crawl out into the street in front of a car…

The cab pulled up in front of Paige’s. She dashed over to the cab, shoved a pill into my mouth and gave me a bottle of water to wash it down with. “Come on, baby, you’re going to be all right, come on, just get out of the car and we’ll go back to my house, okay, you’re going to be just fine…”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. “ I blathered and babbled as she somehow helped me out of the cab, and I leaned on her. I was vaguely aware of her tossing a bill and talking to the cabdriver. I couldn’t understand what she was saying to him. My entire body was shaking. “Breathe, Chanse, focus on your breathing,” she shouted as she walked me through her front gate.  I just kept my eyes closed, waiting for the Xanax she’d given me to take effect.

Then, I was walking along the side of the house to Paige’s apartment in the back. I had just stepped onto the small set of stairs to her door when suddenly the terror stopped and as she fumbled with her keys, a curtain of calm came down over me.

I collapsed onto her couch, and Nicky, her thirty-pound Maine Coon cat jumped into my lap, purring and rubbing his head against my chest. “Thanks, Paige.” I took a deep breath. “Sorry about that.”

She lit a cigarette as she poured herself a glass of red wine at the small bar she had set up in the corner of the living room just beneath the curving staircase to the second floor. “No problem.” She handed me a glass. “I take it you weren’t expecting the media circus to be waiting for you at the front door, huh?”

I took a swallow of the wine.. “No. No, I wasn’t.” I ran my other hand through my hair. It was damp with sweat. “It was coming on before then, though. I knew when I was at the precinct this morning that it was coming.”

“You should have gone home and taken a pill then. You know better.”

“I know.” I replied. “When I see the signs, I should just write off the rest of the day and take one.” I took another deep breath and exhaled. “I just wasn’t expecting the media waiting to ambush me.”

“Yeah, well, you should have been. I warned you they already had your name.” She plopped down in the reclining chair. “All the damned news networks are all Frillian, all the time.” She shook her head. “It’s fucking insane, and they’re all talking about you.”

“About me?”  I tried to stand, but my legs were still weak. I sat back down. “What are they saying?”

“Trust me, you don’t want to know what they’re saying. It’ll just bring on another attack. Let the Xanax work its magic, and then we’ll turn on the television and you can hear it for yourself.”

“Okay. So, tell me what Shirley Harris had to say.” I was starting to feel a lot calmer, if a little bit foggy, from the drug.