Murder in the Rue Ursulines

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“Chanse MacLeod to see Loren McKeithen,” I said to the pretty woman at the reception table. She looked to be in her late thirties, and of mixed racial heritage, her skin the color of a delicately mixed café-au-lait, her hair copper-colored. She gave me a wide smile. There was a wedding ring on her left hand, and a diamond tennis bracelet on her right wrist. Her nails were done in a French manicure. On her forehead was a smudged cross made of gray ash. I was tempted to ask what she’d given up for Lent, but decided against it.

“Have a seat, and I’ll let him know you’re here.” She gave me a smile, picking up her phone. “It shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.”

I nodded and took a seat in an overstuffed leather chair, picking up an issue of Crescent City magazine and idly paging through it. I was tired, probably way too tired to be taking on a new job. The aspirin I’d taken hadn’t kicked in yet, either. Every muscle in my body ached. I’d planned on spending my entire Ash Wednesday in bed, or lazing around my apartment, recovering from the overindulgence of the last five days. But Loren was a good guy, and threw me some work every now and then. So, I’d roused myself out of my post-Mardi Gras stupor and come to his office.

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