“All I know is a conflict of interest exists if there’s a personal relationship between reporter and source. Our dinner would be strictly business, sugar.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “Then why, after I repeatedly have asked you not to, do you continue to call me sugar and sweetheart and darlin’—not to mention Ace!” She held up her half-empty wineglass. “And if it’s just business, why am I having a glass of wine with you in my bare feet—in your home?”
King gave her a measured look and seemed to admit defeat.
“Because… there might be more than business going on here, am I right?”
Without a word she quickly slipped on her shoes, shouldered her bag, and glanced around the office regretfully. “I’d better be on my way.”
After a long, awkward pause, King said quietly, “Let me walk you to your car.”
Before she turned to leave, Corlis saluted him with her rolled-up 1840s rendering of the threatened Selwyn buildings. “Thanks a lot for this.”
King escorted her to the courtyard entrance of the house and pushed the button to activate the gates. Meanwhile Corlis quickly opened her car door and slipped into the driver’s seat.
“Last chance,” he said, ambling toward her over paving stones surrounded by springy green moss. “Sure you won’t have supper with me?”
For a long moment, Corlis reconsidered his proposition. She also took into account the unholy attraction she was feeling toward this man—an allure she could no longer ignore.
Honest reporters don’t carry on personal relationships with their sources.
“I really appreciate your asking me,” she said earnestly, looking up at the devilishly handsome figure leaning against her car. A person could drown in those blue eyes, she thought. “But as long as I’m assigned to this story, and you’re a player in the piece, I can’t accept any invitations. Do you understand?” she asked, trying to keep the pleading tone out of her voice.
“Ace, you’re something else,” he said. He flashed her a grin. “But you have to understand something. This is Louisiana, darlin’… so it’s kinda hard for a poor southern boy like me to follow every single rule you Yankees set down.”
“I’m not a Yankee!” she retorted. “I’m a westerner.”
“That’s probably why I like you so much,” he replied, composing his features into a deadpan expression. “I always knew you had that pioneering spirit. Want to meet at the library tomorrow morning, ’bout eleven o’clock? I can show you the ropes.”
Corlis shot him a doubtful look then laughed. “It’s business, right?”
“Absolutely. Just business.” Then he leaned a fraction closer and added, “But right now, we’re both off the clock.”
Without warning he leaned inside the car, cupped her face between his hands, and kissed her soundly on the lips. And instead of pushing against his embrace, she could only marvel at his wickedly sensuous assault on her nervous system. Even worse, her only desire was to open the car door and follow him up to the magnificent bedroom at the top of the stairs.
McCullough, you are certifiable!
King took a step back and stared down at her with an unmistakable gleam of triumph in his eye. “Now you take good care of that cat of yours, sugar pie… and sleep tight.”
Chapter 11
March 12
The next morning Corlis stopped off at the city’s historic records building on her way to her scheduled meeting with King. Once inside the archive, she opened a nearby window and allowed plenty of fresh air to waft through the basement where rows of shelves were bulging with old documents.
She was leaving nothing to chance.
After inhaling deeply she found herself smiling.
Then, once again, she swiftly began to scan the accordion-pleated folder containing papers that chronicled the history of the 600 block of Canal Street. She searched for any documents relating to the original owners and builders of the twenty-three structures that had once been on the site.
“Bingo!” she whispered when she found the signature of one “Ian Jeffries” affixed to the building plans submitted to the city in 1839. Stunned to have located what she was looking for so easily, she stared at the yellowed document for several minutes.
“Glory, glory,” she murmured. Her heart began to race while she fingered the brittle paper. Beneath Jeffries’s sweeping penmanship, the foreman on the project had also signed his name: Randall McCullough.
Corlis leaned back in her chair and slowly shook her head in disbelief. It unnerved her to think that she had somehow accessed her ancestor’s life. Were these signatures proof positive that some sort of system was at work whereby descendants of people with unfinished business got to rub shoulders generations later—as sort of a cosmic joke—just to see what would happen? Or was this evidence that the modern-day Corlis McCullough was going bonkers?
She scribbled the reference to the aged building permit into her reporter’s notebook. Then she returned the file to its proper folder and headed for the exit in order to keep her appointment with King on Chartres Street.
Corlis eased her car into a narrow parking space in the crowded French Quarter and did her utmost not to think about the beautiful balconied house on Dauphine and Ursulines streets—or King’s unexpected ten-alarm kiss. Did she dare tell him about the extraordinary linkages she kept uncovering between people she now knew—or knew of—in New Orleans and long-deceased figures involved in the buildings on Canal Street? For the moment, at least, she decided she would keep what she’d learned this morning to herself lest she stretch King’s faith in her sanity too far.
The Williams Library, where the Historic New Orleans Collection archives were housed, was located in the heart of the Quarter in a turn-of-the-century courthouse built in the beaux arts style. The grand old building had been restored and refurbished as a state-of-the-art specialized repository.
Talk about your adaptive re-use! Corlis thought admiringly as she reached the second floor and walked through brass-studded, leather-upholstered doors into the main reading room. The lofty chamber was built to a majestic scale, with high ceilings, fanlight windows, and long, mahogany library tables resting on a richly woven, gold-and-navy carpet. She immediately spotted King leaning casually against the reference desk, speaking in a low voice with a middle-aged woman with dark close-cropped hair.
As for Professor Duvallon, today he sported a dark green polo shirt and freshly pressed chinos, a combination that subtly complemented the richness of the library’s decor.
“Hey, Ace… whatcha know?”
I know that I’d better ignore that kiss last night, Mr. Preservation!
King swiftly introduced her to the director of the library. Corlis’s gaze shifted to several bulging files resting on the librarian’s desk. “Have you two found any more documentation about the people who built the 600 block of Canal?” she inquired with a growing sense of excitement.
“I’ve pulled together some material King asked me to research,” the librarian replied. “Perhaps you’ll find something in this folder that will head you in the right direction.” She smiled. “In fact, I think you’re both in for a few surprises.”
“How so?” King asked, intrigued.
“I don’t want to spoil your fun, but I will say this—at least three of the co-owners were Free People of Color, and two were women!”
“Incredible!” King exclaimed. “As early as 1840?”
“Remember, King,” the librarian said, “most people are surprised to learn that at least forty-five percent of all blacks in New Orleans at that time were free—not slaves.”
“About how many people is that, do you know?” Corlis asked.
“Well…” The librarian glanced at some figures she had jotted down. “There were some thirty-three thousand blacks, so… that means about eighteen thousand of them were classified ‘Free People of Color,’ and many of them owned slaves themselves.”
“Then my chances of tracing descendants of the original o
wners—black and white—might be pretty fair,” Corlis said. “It’d be great if I could get some modern-day family members to talk about their heritage on camera.”
“That certainly places the historical value of these structures at a much higher level than any of us had guessed, don’t you think?” King suggested.
“I think this information makes them very important,” the librarian whispered. “These were among the first black-owned businesses in the entire United States.” She kept her voice low in deference to other library patrons. “Not only that. A few Scots-Irish merchants, a Jewish businessman named Jacob Levy Florence, and several other merchants whose names I still have to pin down, were also co-owners in this block.”
“It sounds like what we have here is a sort of Rainbow Coalition of nineteenth-century entrepreneurs,” King declared.
“Including some women!” Corlis interjected triumphantly, and clamped her hand over her mouth in embarrassment.
King looked over at her, amused. The librarian ushered them into a small conference room.
“Even Paul Tulane was among the consortium,” the librarian said, pointing proudly to a monograph in her file that described the life of the Anglo-American merchant and first major benefactor of the prestigious university on St. Charles Avenue uptown.
Corlis felt a frisson of excitement. “Could you tell me the names of the two women owners you mentioned?” she asked, and ignored King’s gentle poke to her rib cage.
The librarian flipped open the file folder once again and scrutinized a typed list.
“So far, I’ve only found the name of one woman whom I can confirm was a bona fide owner: Livaudais… Celeste Marigny Livaudais.”
“Oh… interesting,” murmured Corlis. Oddly enough, she was vaguely disappointed not to hear the librarian pronounce the name Martine Fouché.
C’mon, McCullough. Be thankful you’re not the voodoo lady you thought you were. Forget all that stuff! Concentrate on getting a story on videotape that Andy Zamora will let you broadcast on TV!
Just at that moment Corlis’s cell phone attached to the strap on her leather shoulder bag vibrated.
She peered at the tiny screen. “Oh, Jeez Louise,” she sighed, noting the number printed in electronic dots.
“Gotta go cover a fire?” King asked.
Corlis nodded resignedly. “I wish,” she replied, making a face. “The symphony’s annual luncheon at the Pontchartrain Hotel starts in twenty minutes… a real softball event, as we say in the news biz,” she added for the librarian’s benefit. “Virgil is wondering where I am.” She pointed to the phone’s screen.
King picked the file folder off the conference table.
“Thanks a million for the photocopies,” he said to the librarian, “and let me know if you turn up anything else.” To Corlis he added, “I’ll walk you to your car.”
The warm, faintly humid March temperatures outside forecast the sultry summer heat that everyone in California had predicted Corlis would find insufferable. As they advanced down the sidewalk, a fast-talking teenager attempted to thrust into her hand a short bamboo-like stalk of sugarcane with a free, cellophane-wrapped piece of candy and a card attached by a piece of red yarn.
“Patti’s Praline Pleasure Palace. Best in N’awlings, darlin’!”
“I’m not a tourist!” she protested, noting the salesman made no attempt to offer any of his wares to King. “I live here!”
King chuckled and pointed to a long line of people standing patiently by a restaurant door, waiting for K-Paul’s Louisiana Kitchen to open for lunch.
“There are your customers, Remy!”
“She’s such a pretty lady!” Remy declared with a broad grin. “I can always try, can’t I, Professor?”
“You know that guy?” Corlis whispered, amazed as King gently clasped her by the elbow and guided her past the youthful huckster and around a couple dressed in matching shorts and tops that declared, “Been to New Orleans—Got This Stupid T-Shirt.”
“Oh, Remy’s a real character around here. He and his sister Patti have been in the Quarter for years, selling pralines like their mama and grandmama before ’em.”
“There’s my car,” Corlis announced. King leaned against the Lexus while she dug in her purse for the key clicker to open the door. He raised his forefinger to his lips, reached toward her, and gently tapped her on the nose. “Now that you and I have concluded our business meeting today, I’d sure like to—”
“King!” Corlis protested, alarmed by the magnetic force drawing her dangerously close to his side.
He continued to hold her in a riveting stare until he said, shrugging, “You take care, y’hear?”
***
Corlis had reason to remember King’s words when she and her television crew made a quick pass, with camcorder rolling, through the ballroom jammed with well-dressed symphony patrons having lunch at round linen-covered tables decorated with elaborate floral centerpieces. The “culture vultures,” as the movers and shakers of the New Orleans classical music scene were known, had turned out en masse to raise money for an orchestra that struggled to survive in a town renowned for jazz.
“This is a nonevent,” Virgil commented under his breath.
“I’d say it’s worth about a seventeen-second voice-over and call it a day,” Corlis agreed. “Let’s blow this pop stand.”
“Is that any way to treat one of our fair city’s most hallowed institutions?”
Corlis turned to identify the source of the soft southern voice laced with disapproving irony that had just whispered in her ear.
“Jack.”
“Hello, Miz McCullough.” A hunk of Ebert’s straight sandy hair skimmed the tops of his pale brows above eyes the color of chlorinated pool water. “Better not let Bonita Jeffries hear you say that.”
Damn, but this is a tiny town! Corlis thought. Grover Jeffries’s well-placed donations over the previous decade had landed his wife the presidency of the symphony board and earned her some social clout in the bargain.
“In TV land, seventeen seconds on any subject is a lot of time,” she replied flippantly. “How are you, Jack? Heard about your new assignment with Arts This Week. Congratulations.”
“Thanks,” Jack said shortly. “I’ll be taking a look at the personalities as well as cultural institutions in New Orleans. The magazine’s top management has given me carte blanche.”
“Good for you,” Corlis said with false enthusiasm, wondering if her nose was growing longer, like a female Pinocchio.
“They especially want me to cover architecture,” he said with a faint smile.
“So I heard. Sounds like Beth Worthington gave you a broad mandate,” Corlis murmured, speculating where this conversation was leading.
“Has WJAZ still got you covering the controversy at the university?”
Corlis shrugged nonchalantly. “The professorship named after Mr. Jeffries? That’s pretty much died down, don’t you think?”
“It may heat up,” Jack said importantly. “Someone told me that there may be a big Jeffries project afoot for the Selwyn properties. You heard anything more ’bout that?”
“The Selwyn buildings?” Corlis echoed. “What kind of project?” She loved playing dumb for a guy too lazy to do his own research.
Jack gave her a hard look and shook his head. “Some hotel or apartment house, or something, over on Canal. Who knows if the rumors are true? I just thought you might have heard the same rumbles round town that I have.”
“What rumbles are those?” she asked innocently.
Jack pulled back the left sleeve of his white linen suit. His attire was matched by the pale warm-weather clothing worn by two-thirds of the men in the ballroom—which made the gathering appear to be a convention of Colonel Sanders clones. “Well, my watch says I’m on a deadline that’s coming up mighty shortly. I guess there can’t be much to the gossip if you haven’t heard ’bout it,” Jack noted evenly. “Better get a move on. Nice seeing you, Corlis.”
<
br /> Yeah. I’ll just bet.
Corlis had a deadline of her own and soon headed back to WJAZ to record the voice track on today’s story about the symphony luncheon. An easy day, she thought gratefully. By five thirty she was headed down Canal Street, wondering if Cagney Cat had deposited any remains of birds or mice on her wrought-iron gallery today.
Her car came even with the ugly aluminum screen that masked the Selwyn buildings. On impulse she headed for an empty parking space in front of the large metal S that hung over the entrance. Through the windshield Corlis drank in the block’s amazing transformation since its construction in 1840. As she sat in her car, she pictured the stately columns that she knew stood behind the false front. Her mind drifted to the black-and-white rendering King had given her that revealed the buildings as they had appeared around 1842.
From the front door of the building, white-collar workers exited in groups of two and three. At this time of day no one would notice if she indulged in a little detective work. She locked her Lexus and strode toward the entrance. Once inside the dilapidated lobby, she headed for the rear of the buildings to see if she could determine where some of the nineteenth-century commercial establishments had once done business.
Within minutes she emerged from a back door onto Common Street, to discover that the unsightly aluminum screening extended on only three sides of the city block. On the Common Street side, the buildings were faced with painted brick, enhanced with Boston-granite piers and lintels around windows matching the ones she’d glimpsed behind the front facade. Nearby an exhaust fan from an eatery called Miss Pearl’s Saddlery with a sign that declared it specialized in “Authentic Louisiana Cuisine” pumped the odor of pancakes and cane syrup into the sultry afternoon air.
The Saddlery! That must be where a shop selling harnesses and carriage equipment once existed.
Corlis could feel her adrenaline starting to pump. Just then a large black woman in a floral caftan was escorting a loose-limbed teenager out the restaurant’s front door.
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