The Death of Madame Chauvet

By Julia Birmele

As a clever, depraved woman of business, Madame Carolina Chauvet owns the vibrant gentlemen’s club, the French Maidens, in the French Quarter of New Orleans. The end of World War II has not only produced an influx of victorious, lustful men, but a naïve farmer from Indiana, Willy, has found himself seated at the bar of the vivacious club. As he attempts to keep a family promise, Willy is instantly attracted to Madame Chauvet and entranced by the surreal nights that he wouldn’t dare dream about. Unforeseen circumstances land Willy behind the bar of the club where he is immersed in the intricate operations of Madame Chauvet. There is more to the French Maidens than shiny poles and topless dancers, and things are starting to go wrong. Madame Chauvet is left to question if the young farmer is to blame for the failures her business is enduring or if the staff she has trusted for years is capable of sabotage.
Laced with a perfect amount of New Orleans voodoo, The Death of Madame Chauvet is an ominous tale of how far one will go for vengeance, love, opulence, and hatred. Make yourself a delectable French 75, find a seat at the catwalk, and enjoy the show. Welcome to the French Maidens.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hawes & Jenkins Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jun 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781637840375

Book preview

cover.jpg

The Death of Madame Chauvet

Julia Birmele

ISBN 978-1-63784-036-8 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-63784-037-5 (digital)

Copyright © 2023 by Julia Birmele

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Hawes & Jenkins Publishing

16427 N Scottsdale Road Suite 410

Scottsdale, AZ 85254

www.hawesjenkins.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

XVII

XVIII

XIX

XX

XXI

XXII

XXIII

XXIV

XXV

XXVI

XXVII

XXVIII

XXIX

XXX

XXXI

XXXII

XXXIII

XXXIV

XXXV

XXXVI

XXXVII

XXXVIII

XXXIX

XL

XLI

XLII

XLIII

XLIV

XLV

Epilogue

About the Author

I

She was a tall woman—the kind of tall you couldn't help but look at. Except for a thick coat of tempting red lipstick, she dressed in all black from the top of her wide-brimmed hat to the tip of her ankle strap shoes. Long dirty-blonde hair rested over her right shoulder, and she had eyes the color of whiskey to complement it. Between the fingers of a black leather glove nestled a cigarette holder accompanied by an always-lit smoke. As wealthy as she was, one would think she would carry enough matches for all of Bourbon Street, but she was careful to never ask the same man for a match more than once. She walked slowly—slightly but noticeably swinging her hips with each step. A woman of her stature didn't have to be anywhere at any given time. She was clever, mysterious, and daring. She was refined and tempting. She was Madame Chauvet.

Early Sunday afternoons were her favorite time of the week. While most of the town was gathered at the cathedral, she was seated perfectly in the middle of the bar inside the French Maidens. An almost-empty glass rested in front of her with drops at the bottom of what was her favorite drink: a French 75. Next to the condensed glass was Agatha Christie's latest novel, and the title itself reminded her of the mixture that it complemented. Her long legs crossed over one another as the bottom of a tea-length dress drooped dangerously off her thighs. A hardwood T-shaped stage rested against the far wall, ricocheting any sunlight that burst through the undraped windows. Empty chairs lined the edge around the stage while pub tables filled the space between the catwalk and the dark bloodred walls.

The wall behind the bar was plastered with mirrors, making it easy for the bartender to watch for thirsty customers. Madame Chauvet studied the bartender as he straightened the bottles of liquor positioned on the counter. His age was noticeable only in the gray that made up his sideburns, and his reflection confessed that he hadn't used a razor that morning.

In these mirrors, Madame Chauvet noticed a man walking toward her. She took a long drag on her cigarette as she watched him nervously approach and stop directly behind her barstool. Smoke engulfed the young man's face as she whirled around. His shoulders were raised slightly higher than comfortable, and his cheeks were as red as the crawfish sold in the French Quarter that he had probably never tasted. The man stepped back as he stifled a cough.

The smoke dissipated into the film of the empty room while Madame Chauvet observed his clothes; they were worn and oddly out of season. He had light brown hair and chestnut eyes. In his right hand was a full glass of beer, and his hat (discolored by the sun) was clasped in his left.

Pray tell why you are not in church today, sir, she questioned with her eyes burying into his, blatantly unnerving him that she spoke first.

Not a Catholic, the man replied.

Madame Chauvet put down her cigarette in pseudo-shock. Not a Catholic boy? Interesting. And why are you wearing a jacket in July? Even the river is sweating. She stared at the man, waiting for a response. He stared back, almost as if he were waiting for her to answer her own question. His eyes shifted to the floor where they burned holes in wooden knots before the light touch of leather under his chin raised his head, bringing the two once more eye to eye.

I must give you credit, sir. You were able to say three words. Most men can't get past one. Madame Chauvet regained her cigarette and siphoned the tip to a bright ember before snuffing it with the little bit that remained on the bottom of her glass. As she began to stand, she was interrupted by the stranger once more.

Can I buy you a drink, ma'am? I don't want to finish this glass by myself.

She laughed as she stood, her chin barely higher than his. Although I do appreciate your offer, kind sir, I must decline, but Henry there—she pointed to the bartender—will be here until closing. He would enjoy some company. Madame Chauvet extended her arm toward the bartender who then delicately replenished her glove with a fresh lit smoke. Leather fingers grasped her treasured literature as she started for the door. Her high heels echoed in the temporary empty room as she gave Henry a wink.

The man took the seat next to her ghost, chuckling at rejection, yet satisfied that he tried. So why are you not in church today, ma'am?

She stopped. With her back still to the gentleman, she dragged on her cigarette and allowed her lungs to house the fumes before releasing them in a cloud. Slowly, the smoke melted into the natural haze of the club's ambiance.

It would take more than a God to save me, she answered as she opened the door and disappeared among the various people that were now beginning to flood the streets.

The man watched her leave, staring at the door long after she was out of sight. His stare moved to the full glass as he embraced himself for a drink in solitude. Henry moved over to him, unable to hide that he had heard the conversation.

You're not from around here, are you, boy? Henry asked as he grabbed Madame Chauvet's empty glass and began to clean it.

How can you tell? Sarcasm resonated in his voice as he sipped on the full beer.

Well, you're wearing a wool jacket in New Orleans in the summer, the bartender commented as his eyes scanned the loner. You're in a titty bar on a Sunday afternoon, and you just tried to buy Madame Chauvet a drink. Henry put the glass away and waited for the man to respond, but he was silent. What's your name, boy? Where are you from?

The stranger was hesitant to answer. The woman had made him feel meek, but it wasn't the first time a woman had done that to him.

William. He set down his beer and extended his right hand. Willy Cains. A sheepish smile formed on Willy's sunburned face. My family has a farm in South Bend. Who was that woman?

That was Madame Chauvet, Willy. Madame Carolina Chauvet. She's my boss. Henry shook Willy's hand, stifling a laugh at his weak handshake.

You say she's your boss?

Well, she owns this place.

How so?

Her name is on the deed. Henry chuckled. Lucky lady inherited almost twenty grand. Her daddy was a lawyer, won some fraud cases in the twenties.

What about her mom? What did she do?

You mean who did she do, and the answer is everyone.

Tell me about them.

About the spivs she took to Mount Pleasant? Henry asked. Oh, they're most likely still clapping around town.

No, about the Chauvets.

Henry glared at Willy. He moved in closer to keep what he was about to say between the two of them as if there were anyone else in the building.

Listen, boy, don't go sticking your nose in Chauvet history. They wouldn't like it. You don't want to see yourself on the next locomotive north in a box. Willy took another drink of his beer as Henry watched his face slightly cringe. He could tell Willy was more interested in Madame Chauvet than he was his drink. Besides, Henry continued, what I'm telling you is nothing short of common knowledge.

You don't sound as if you care much for these people.

Henry stood up straight, his pecs stretching the fabric across his chest. The Chauvets are like family to me. They always have been.

But how did he die?

Why are you so curious, boy? People die all the time. He grabbed Willy's full glass and dumped it into the sink.

I wasn't finished with that.

Yes, you were. Now get on outta here. I don't need some out-of-town kid stirring up trouble right before the ‘welcome home' party. If you want to see the Madame again, then I suggest you come back tomorrow night. This time, don't try to buy her a drink. She already owns them all.

Willy nodded slowly and reached for his wallet. Save your money. You're going to need it tomorrow night.

Okay, well, what's a good time to come by? Willy asked with his hand still in his back pocket.

When you feel like seeing a nice pair of tits. Don't be silly, boy, Henry answered with his focus switching to the sink.

Willy was silent. He looked around the club and noticed a door to the left of the stage. Where does that door lead to? he asked Henry.

Backstage, of course.

What about that set of double doors? Is that a room for private, uh, affairs? He pointed to the doors to the right of the stage.

If private room means the Madame's office, then sure.

What about that last door in the corner?

That's the bathroom, you ass.

Willy put his worn-out hat on his head and headed for the front door.

By any chance would Ms. Carolina be onstage? he asked, noticing a door with an exit sign above it to the left of the bar. He contemplated asking where it led, but he feared being thrown out of it.

Henry, quickly growing annoyed by the dim-witted man, moved toward him. That's Madame Chauvet to you, and no, she will not be on that stage. You're lucky you even saw her at the bar. Now get out of here before I make you taste the Mississippi, and take off that fucking jacket.

Without hesitation, Willy moved to the front door and disappeared into the streets. Henry watched him vanish and then made his way to the end of the bar. He took a small bronze key out of the front pocket of his pants, knelt, and wiggled a loose floorboard until it came out of place.

He reached beneath it and pulled out a small black box (about the size of a coffee mug) then used the key to unlock it. Inside was a black pouch, and Henry poured the contents onto the bar—fine white powder. He took a straw from the counter and cut it in half with his pocketknife then used the blade to make a fine line out of the powder. Henry glanced at the front door, saw that no one was looking in, and lowered the straw to the surface of the bar.

Welcome home, boys, he said as he sniffed the bar clean. Welcome home.

II

The streets were plastered with victory posters, and they had been for months. Parties and celebrations were raging across Louisiana. Boats were coming in from the gulf almost every day, but word had it that Monday morning's boat would be the last to return from Europe.

The French Maidens' welcome home party was going to undoubtedly be the biggest, craziest, and sexiest celebration yet. Crowds of people were gathering alongside the Mississippi River, waiting for the doors to open. Jazz music vibrated the roads, fireworks lit up the water, and at 8:00 p.m., the doors to the French Maidens were opened.

People poured in, most of them in their military uniforms that they wore home. Every seat in the club was taken. Every barstool was spoken for. The chairs outlining the catwalk were filled with deprived men. Women began walking throughout the crowd wearing black maid skirts with white trim shorter than their lower cheeks. Their sleeveless maid tops ended at the belly button and were barely big enough to support one breast. White lace chokers brought out their dangerously high white heels. Each maiden had long wavy hair (blonde or brunette) that rested over one shoulder. They each carried a tray full of glasses filled to the brim with beer that was being served to any man with a quarter in the air.

Willy walked in as the third round of drinks was being served. He stood at the bar waiting for an available seat. Henry spotted him and motioned him toward the counter.

Do you have any bartending experience? Henry asked as he shook a drink.

My old man taught me how to make a margarita.

So you're useless to me. Listen, kid, tonight will be crazy. If it gets a bit rough for you, then don't be afraid to leave. Last week, I found a guy hiding under the bar covered in vomit that I don't think was his.

No, I'll be all right. Things could get wild in Indiana sometimes.

Hey, Willy, I don't want to know where you put the corn. Henry laughed at his own joke and stepped to the other side of the bar. A drink was placed in front of a man who looked as though he was going on his fifth.

Henry, I don't think that guy needed another drink, Willy commented, concerned.

Madame Chauvet says that men come here for drinks and the slight touch of a stripper's ass crack on his stiffy. If he wants to drink himself to death, then what better place to do it than at the French Maidens?

Does she not have morals?

Of course, she has morals, but business is business. We have to keep selling alcohol in case they try to take it away from us again. Henry grabbed a bar rag from the counter and looked over at the bottles on the back of the bar, blatantly admiring his stock as he dried his hands.

Willy gazed at the crowd of men and looked back at Henry. Are you really the only man pouring all the drinks tonight? Willy asked.

Henry flashed Willy a wicked grin. Not exactly. These women don't know much about mixing drinks, but if the drunk she's taking care of needs a beer, she knows how to get that. Anyone can read a label. Some of them pour their own shots. Now if that bloke wants some fancy shit, then I'll make it for him. Between you, me, and Mr. Beam, after their fifth or sixth drink, most of them don't know what the hell they're drinking anymore, so we just pour them some cola and keep telling them there's rum in it.

So they're getting drunk off soft drinks? I should try that with my mom.

No, they're getting drunk off rum. Henry winked at Willy as he began to straighten his supply of bottles. Why'd you come back, kid? You know she's never going to open her legs for you.

Willy fell silent as he watched a man wobble in his barstool. The man picked up an empty shot glass. He threw it back as if it were full and wiped his mouth before slamming the glass onto the bar. He glanced up and noticed Willy watching him.

You gotta problem with me? the drunk slurred. Why ya staring at me like that? You some kinda faggot? The man put his hand against the bar and pushed himself off the stool. He balled his hand into a fist and took a step toward Willy but dropped to the floor before he could raise his arm. Willy, feeling his heartbeat quicken, watched as the man face planted in front of him.

Empty seat, Henry chuckled.

Willy stepped over the drunk and sat down. Have you seen Ms. Carolina tonight? he asked as he pushed the empty shot glass toward Henry.

Henry bitterly grabbed the glass. That's Madame Chauvet to you, and yes, I have seen her. I see her just about every day. The two of us keep this place running, and not so hungry little Yanks can come down for their annual hunting.

Then where is—

Look, kid, I told you before. Her legs are locked tight, and you don't have the right key.

Why would anyone want to spend an inheritance on a strip club? Willy asked, ignoring the unpleasant comment. If I ran into some money, I would buy some more land, or maybe I'd get some more cattle.

This club is her land, and these women are her cattle. Not everyone likes the way an ear of corn feels between their hands as much as you do. Henry moved toward Willy and lifted a pack of cigarettes off the corner of the bar that someone had abandoned.

Need a smoke? Henry asked as he motioned the pack toward Willy.

I'm asthmatic.

Then what the hell are you doing here? Don't those girls just take your breath away? Henry chuckled as he reached in his pocket for matches. You're a strange man. If you want to see her, then you'll have to wait until she comes out of the back office. No one is allowed back there unless she escorts you inside herself. He struck a match against the phosphorus and watched the flame illuminate the small space between his face and hand with its flickering dance. The tip of a cigarette was then emerged in the flame before the tired stick was tossed into an abandoned beer.

Willy thought for a second. Are you allowed back there? Maybe you could get her out here.

Of course, I'm allowed back there. I have a key to every door in this place. But no—he took a long drag on his cigarette—I'm not going to do that. She's a very busy lady. Do yourself a favor and enjoy the show.

Willy turned around and stared at the door to her office. His gaze landed on a maiden bent backward over a table with a man doing a line of coke off her cleavage. He sighed and looked around the crowded club. He noticed a young man coming out of the restroom. Willy giggled at the sight, for the man's zipper was down, and his hands were fumbling to tuck his shirt in. The connection between his hands and brain had been long lost with the residue on his face being to blame. The man, realizing that his efforts were fruitless, gave up. He rubbed his face and wiped his hands on his dark pants—leaving small streaks of white on his neatly pressed trousers.

In a sudden second, the lights went out, and a hush fell over the rowdy crowd. The silence was broken by the sound of two powerful spotlights illuminating the far corners of the T-shaped stage. Two chrome-plated poles rose from the empty lights, deepening the growing anticipation that was now embedded in the ambiance.

Finally, two women emerged from the behind the curtain. Their beauty alone was captivating, and the size of their breasts was an erecting bonus. Dark wavy brown hair rested over their right shoulders while feather dusters were firmly grasped in their left hands. They wore the same outfits as the wandering servers but in red with white trim, bringing out the color of their perfectly tanned skin. They froze in front of the poles with their high heels shoulder width apart. Their empty right hands rested on their hips, and their chests reached for the crowd that was now saturating the club with exhilaration.

There was a brief pause in the ruckus. The two looked at each other and grinned. After a perfect effective pause, the women gripped the lustrous poles with their vacant hands. The two circled the poles twice, slowly and gently, tantalizing the men as they made eye contact with each one that they could, allowing them to feel special for half of a second. The sound of their high heels clapping against the hardwood floor cut through the thrill and resonated off the walls that were keeping the night a private party.

They reached the front of the poles and faced each other, bending only at the waist toward the other woman.

As the men stilled with greed, the women raised their feather dusters and dusted each other's intensely exposed cleavage. Jazz music laced with the voluptuous sound of the saxophone erupted from the gramophones as the feather dusters were thrown into the crowd. The women turned and placed both hands on the pole as high as they could reach before lifting their bodies and smoothly sliding to the bottom where they swung their legs behind them. With crossed ankles, the dancers hung upside down while the men roared, almost completely covering up the jazzy music.

The music stopped, and a spotlight went to the vacant end of the T-shaped stage, leaving the attended ones in the dark. The club quieted as they waited impatiently. A trumpet blasted from what sounded like every corner of the club, and a blonde-haired woman came out from behind the curtain. She strutted down the catwalk as her destined pole rose in the same fashion that the others had. Her outfit was the same as the two tan dancers, but her fair skin and blonde hair made her stand out like a burning match in an opaque black room.

She reached the pole and grabbed it with both hands, allowing her nipples to fall out. An uproar of excitement vibrated the room as Willy remained silent. The blonde spun upside down and joined the other two in the same pose. Willy watched as the three of them danced; his pulse raced, and his pants tightened. With both feet back on the ground, they ripped off their tops in one quick movement, exposing the most succulent breasts Willy had ever seen. One of the dancers made eye contact with him, and he looked away in discomfort.

His eyes landed on the set of closed wooden doors that Henry had told him were the Madame's office. A dim light ran down the center that seemed to tease the young man's curiosity. Willy stood from his seat at the bar and looked for Henry. He spotted him at the end of the bar taking a shot with one of the ladies that had been walking among the crowd.

Willy moved over to the thick set of double doors, hiding himself among the mass of men who were cheering too loud for Willy to hear anything that was happening on the other side. He peered through the small gap where the doors came together. There she was—Madame Carolina Chauvet. Her office was outlined with cherrywood walls, and the floor was the same as the stage that no longer had any part of Willy's attention.

He stared at her and watched her hand move back and forth as she