Murder in the Rue St. Ann Read Online Free PDF Page A

myself. Paul was a good-looking man. Whenever we went out, people hit on him, tried to buy him drinks, grabbed his ass, or touched his biceps. Nobody ever seemed to notice me when Paul was around. And Paul could be a little mean sometimes. Well, not mean, but unintentionally thoughtless. Even when he told me I looked good, there was always a criticism involved. “Those pants look great on you,” he’d say,  “and just think how great they’ll look when we tighten your butt up some more.”
    So this was kind of a minor triumph. I wasn’t that ugly.
    She let go of my face and smiled. “Let me know.” She winked at me. “Anyway, you’re probably wondering why I called you.” I nodded. “Have you heard of me?”
    “I know you had a couple of hit dance records.” I didn’t really want to go too far in my research on her. I assumed this was an ego-driven question anyway.
    My assumption was on target. She smiled again and fairly squirmed with delight. “Thank you. Anyway, I probably could have been bigger, but the business of show business, I just hated. I didn’t want to be really famous, you know—I just liked making good music.” She shrugged. “But my single-minded devotion to my career turned me into someone I didn’t like. I did whatever the record company and my agent told me to do—the interviews, the public appearances, all of that stuff. It ended up costing me my marriage.” She finished the second half of her sandwich, lit a Virginia Slim and  blew smoke into the blades of one of the ceiling fans. “After I filed for divorce, I had to stop and take stock of my life. I loved music, but music had taken over my life, and for what? So I could sleep in motels every weekend and wake to find myself  on a plane or in a car heading for the next show? So I could maybe sell a few more CD’s? Anyway I made a decision to get out of the business. I’ve always wanted to own a nightclub, so I decided on this place.”
    “Why New Orleans? Are you from here?”
    She laughed. “Hardly. I grew up in Buffalo, if you can imagine that. My father was a French Canadian merchant seaman named Pierre Levecque, and my mother was from the Dominican Republic. I wasn’t born Dominique DuPre—I became her. My real name is, of all things, Clarette Levecque. I always liked New Orleans when I came here to perform, I liked the people and the energy of the French Quarter. So I got myself some partners and sunk my life savings into Domino’s.” Another plume of smoke jetted upward. “And now someone is trying to ruin me.”
    “How’s that?” I leaned forward.
    “Somebody doesn’t want me to open this club,” She said with a shrug. “The battle I have had over the liquor license--you don’t even want to know how awful that was. We’ve been reported I don’t know how many times to the city for code violations, which has further delayed the opening. And we weren’t in violation of any codes! But all the work had to stop until the city inspectors came in and checked things out, and they never come quickly. We’ve lost weeks. I was hoping to be open for Southern Decadence...” she let her voice trail off. Then she looked me square in the eye. “My public relations company thinks the gay bars are trying to keep me from opening.”
    “Why would they do that?”
    “The competition, I guess.” She shrugged again. “As far as I can tell, there’s plenty of room for bars in the Quarter, don’t you think?”
    “One would think.”
    “Mark Williams, my p.r. guy, is convinced that the owners of the other bars here are trying to sabotage my club.” She sighed. “Two nights ago someone cut the power cable. That took another whole day to get repaired. Then someone called the phone company and got our phones turned off.” She stood up. “I’m losing money every day this club stays closed, Chanse. I mean, I didn’t mind it so much when they were causing trouble for me with the liquor board or the city