This episode of "Hotel Heiress" follows the action to "Hotel Heiress: Behind Bars" so read that episode first in order to fully understand the action to this episode. Here's the back story:
Young rich adventuress Valerie Masters was imprisoned in a woman's prison in New York for a murder she did not commit (this was in Episode "Hotel Heiress: Behind Bars). Through a sordid deal involving sex and an affair with a black prison guard, Byron, she was able to be released from prison upon the discovery she was innocent and she knows that the true murderer, Latina wild woman Alma Chavez, has been living in New Orleans. She has kidnapped her own lover the married photographer artist Ron Ash. Now Valerie and Byron set off to New Orleans, Louisiana, armed with guns, to take matters into their own hands, determined to save Ron and catch the criminal Alma. The series reads like fictionalized memoirs, not always in chronological order and the heroine is in her 20's and describes her experiences in the 1990's.
New Orleans, 1994
What a picture I must have made at that time.
I don't remember what I wore. Each time period dictates its own fashion and in the 1990's, it was a fabulous time for individuality in fashion, unlike these days. I must have been wearing clothes that were not in style and certainly not my own California couture so I wouldn't be recognized. It wouldn't do at all if I was mobbed by the public who recognized me as a celebrity. That would keep me from doing what I came to Louisiana to do. I did not want the media covering my little investigation on Ron Ash's kidnapper and the real culprit behind the murder I was framed for. I arrived in New Orleans with Byron at the right time, during Mardi Gras madness.
Now up until then, I had only been to New Orleans for Mardi Gras only once, when I was about ten years old, back when my mother and father were still together. At that time, still an innocent child, the city was magic. Everything was colorful and exotic, and the multi-colored, showy floats in the big parade were bizarrely beautiful. The old buildings and houses were so elegant. People were friendly and leisurely and it could have been the land of Oz for all I knew. I had no idea that this city had a dark side until I returned as an adult.
I was still in my early twenties. There was no real reason why I should be in New Orleans on a manhunt for a murderous woman and kidnapper, no reason other than my own anger against her.
This woman, this Alma Chavez, caused my wrongful imprisonment in New York, framed me for a murder she had committed. She then took off with Ron Ash, the San Francisco married photographer who had photographed me for his artwork in New York, a man I had feelings for. Sure, he was Alma's lover. He had a seedy side to his own nature, a private side of him that he didn't tell his wife Linda about. He did drugs. He and Alma were not only lovers but they smoked pot and did other drugs together.
Surely by now, wherever Ron was, he knew that this girl was no good. She had taken him against his will to New Orleans and no one knew what they were doing or where they had hidden themselves. The air was filled with danger and suspense. I was risking my very life in taking matters into my own hands, seeking justice myself. It was like straight out of a detective "film noir" type novel but this was real and it's no fictional embellishment in my memoir.
I look back and wonder what was I thinking? Was I that consumed with revenge and with anger? You bet I was! Looking back, I wish I had done things differently – like just left the case to the authorities, to cops, to detectives and investigators. But there I was and New Orleans and I was looking forward to an adventure and there was no turning back. Of course, I didn't tell my mother or father or closest friends what I was up to. I simply told them I wanted to get away and have some leisurely privacy in New Orleans. I specifically requested that no one come see me.
The city hadn't changed much, at least during the daytime. I arrived in the morning with Byron and we checked into a hotel. I don't remember the name of the hotel. It had a French name and its theme was a Creole plantation house. It was not a five star hotel, certainly nothing as high quality as my own father's Seasons hotel chain. It was charming but petite little boutique hotel with about five stories and little fancy façade on a porch-like entrance.
A rose garden was sprawled around it, front and back, and there was a mysterious, distant looking courtyard behind two large gates at the front of the hotel. It wasn't anywhere near the major city areas or streets like Canal Street or Bourbon Street. It was just a lovely little hotel hidden away from view. What better place for a celebrity like me to stay. It worked too. No reporter or paparazzo had tracked me there and the hotel staff didn't treat me like a star, just like another guest of the hotel.
Byron was born in New Orleans and he told me he grew up there before he moved to New York City. He seemed to know New Orleans like the palm of his hand and from the minute we arrived, he served as my tour guide. He knew for instance that this quaint hotel just off the city's main streets was perfect for us. The walls were painted pastel lime-green, and there was no carpet and only polished wood floor.
On the ceiling was a small gas-lit chandelier. Our little room had only one big canopy bed. Of course, I knew it was Byron's doing. I remembered our little deal back in prison. I didn't think he'd want to make love right away. It was still morning. We had our luggage sent to our room and we ordered breakfast, which consisted of Belgian waffles, fruit, and tea. The tea was exquisite and served as if it were high tea service.
"Did you get enough sleep on the plane?" he asked me.
"Yes, thank you," I replied.
We sipped our tea. I had no idea why we were so formal all of a sudden. Here's the thing. The truth is I liked Byron. If he had not been my prison guard back when I had been locked up in New York City, and if circumstances had been different, this was the type of guy I would have been in a relationship with. I was attracted to black men as much as I was to white men. Byron was a handsome, strong black man with a lean, athletic body and muscle. While his hard Nubian body was made for sin, his face was so calm and so distinguished and even innocent looking.
"Remember, this is not going to be a vacation," he said, "we're here on a dangerous little mission just because you want revenge."
"Don't make it about me," I said to him, "you want to bring that Alma bitch to justice just as much as I do."
"Lord knows I do. She ruined my life. She made me quit high school and I was on drugs for a long time. I had to go into rehab. She was always cheating on me with other guys. She doesn't care for anyone but herself and she's a walking danger. It's ironic that I turned out to be a prison guard after having been in jail once myself too –and because of her."
"Do you have any idea where we can find her?"
"No idea. It's going to take a while but we got to move quickly."
"But we just got here. Can't we relax for a bit?"
"Ok. What do you want to do?"
We were quiet for a few minutes, the sound of the Grandfather clock in our room striking eight in the morning. The sun was streaming through the window and the birds were singing and chirping cheerily. Because we were just outside all the Mardis Gras action, we were wrapped in intimate silence and secluded in a very serene setting. It got boring real fast.
"You want to fuck?" I said to him.
"Hell yeah!"
