G.T. Herren - Paige Tourneur 02 - Dead Housewives of New Orleans by G.T. Herren

expense by railroad. It was built square with each side the same length, and at each corner of the house was a square tower with crenellated molding at the top. The windows were all enormous but the curtains were rarely, if ever, open. I didn’t even want to think about how much the entire property might be valued at today. Once the house was finished, he and his wife went on a tour of Europe, buying paintings to adorn the walls and sculptures for the alcoves and the gardens behind it. The collection was one of the most famous in the South, and Margery was always loaning pieces to museums. The library was one of the largest private book collections in the south— there were rumors that a first edition
Huckleberry Finn,
autographed by Mark Twain, was the showpiece of the library. There were stories that Twain had actually stayed in the house on a visit to New Orleans.
    Margery was the last descendant of Isaac to bear the name Schwartzberg. The Buchmaier family were also direct descendants of Isaac— they lived in a much more traditional Victorian mansion further downtown on the Avenue. When Isaac diversified into alcohol, he handed the jewelry business over to his daughter Leah and her husband, Judah Buchmaier. The liquor business Isaac founded, Black Mountain Liquors, stopped producing their own brands shortly after World War II, but they still were the major liquor distributor in New Orleans— and you’ll never go broke supplying bars, stores, and restaurants in this city with liquor.
    The mansion was polarizing— people either loved it because it was unique and different, or hated it because it was unique and different.
    I’d loved it from the first time I saw it. I was still at LSU, and had come down to New Orleans to use the library at Tulane. As I drove my battered Toyota up St. Charles, I’d seen it out of the corner of my eye and pulled over immediately, unable to stop staring at it. The more traditional New Orleans architecture is stunningly beautiful, of course— but I thought Schwartzberg Castle was equally as beautiful. I’d always wanted to see the inside of the house, and Margery’s reluctance to allow photographers inside only heightened my desire.
    It had finally stopped raining as I drove up the man-made hill and parked in front of the house. As I got out of the car, a servant opened the front door and stood there, patiently waiting as I locked up the car and climbed the stone steps. When I reached the small porch I realized he was huge— taller than even Chanse, which was rare. “Ms. Tourneur?” he asked, his voice deep yet somehow soft at the same time, with a slight bow of his bald head. There was a trace of a British accent in his voice. “Madame is waiting for you in the library. Just walk down the hallway, and it’s the second door on the left.”
    “Thank you,” I replied with a smile as I walked into the enormous foyer. The floor was a pale pink marble, polished till it shone. The massive chandelier sparkled with thousands of teardrop crystals as my wet workout shoes made splooshing sounds on the floor. Everything in the foyer and the wide hallway had to be an antique, and everything was completely spotless and shining in the light from the chandeliers. I was very aware of my ratty sweats and wished that I’d had the time to run home and change into something more appropriate for an audience with Margery Lautenschlaeger at Schwartzberg Castle.
    Seeing that the second door on the left was open, I rapped my knuckles on it, and entered. The room was like something out of
Architectural Digest.
Each wall was built-in bookshelves from floor to ceiling, and each shelf was neatly filled with books organized efficiently by size. Another gorgeous crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling in the direct center of the room, over a beautiful carved wood table. In the very back of the room was a glass case, with an opened book inside resting on a red velvet pillow.
    The priceless
Huckleberry Finn,
no