Cover

Dedication

To Jennie and Katie

Epigraph

“There are a lot of places I like, but I like New Orleans better.”

— Bob Dylan

Prologue

Crime Scene, Walkthrough #1

The detective walks through a tunnel of weepy oak trees, follows the picturesque path to the glowing French doors. She tries to imagine herself in the killer’s shoes.

Did the killer sneak up on them? Or were they already inside when the party started?

She stares up at the strange, eclectic house. It inspires awe and horror in tandem.

The pediments and classic columns give the place an undeniable Greek feel. But like so many other domiciles in New Orleans, it’s a haunting patchwork of influence—the Spanish and Caribbean flashes of color and design; the Creole parapets and cast-iron balconies; the Victorian motifs twisted like lace. And the siding looks Italian…

A true work of architectural genius… Too bad its reputation will be tainted after today, the detective thinks.

Someone has either decorated the front of the house for the bachelorette party, or it’s left over from Mardi Gras; there are gaudy swoops of pearls and flowers, and massive bride and groom statues, which look to be made of papier-mâché, keep watch at the carriageway.

The detective stares at their faces; stoic, they reveal nothing about what transpired here. What secrets are you hiding? she wonders.

Through the carriageway, she stops at the French doors. Her assistant helps her into boot covers and gloves. He tucks her long dark hair into a rubbery hairnet.

The assistant is young and male, barely twenty. His eyes are frightened. His skin has turned a muted gray. But the detective pretends not to notice.

“Take me to her, please,” she says.

Down a marbled hallway lined with a dark mix of Parisian and contemporary paintings, the assistant stops at the entry of a grand dining room and points toward the dining hall. It’s large enough to fit a ballroom inside it.

On a long wooden table are the remnants of half-eaten food. The pungent aroma of rotting oysters fills the air. There are open wine bottles scattered from the head of the table on down.

The banquet assumes a substantial portion of the room, but the centerpiece of the space… is the woman.

The detective moves in, tiptoeing like a ghoulish ballet dancer around the ghastly main attraction.

The noose is tight around the victim’s neck. She dangles from the rafters, still as a statue carved by Marcus Aurelius himself, as though she’s part of the mishmash design that comes with the house, with this entire city…

The victim’s eyes are open, staring.

The detective turns, follows her gaze toward the putrid food spread, trying to see through her victim’s eyes. What was the last thing you saw before you died? Or should I say: who did you see?