Ciji Ware

by Midnight on Julia Street

  “You mean… like Thanksgiving?” he said pointedly.

  “Are you reminding me to show a little gratitude?” she replied meekly. “For being able to purify this place?”

  “Might be a good idea, oh ye of little faith.”

  On their third round of the building, Dylan brought a small bell out of his briefcase. On the ground floor he rang the bell once and paused to listen to its pure, clear tone. Then he walked the perimeter of the downstairs foyer, ringing the bell at intervals.

  “Visualize all the spaces filling with shimmering light and sound,” he commanded with quiet intensity as he continued on his rounds. “This will create a protective shield of pure, vibrant light.” Then Dylan drew a horizontal figure eight in the air with the bell. “It’s the symbol of eternity,” he declared with absolute conviction. “It tells the spiritual energy to keep going round and round this protective ring we’ve constructed.” He turned suddenly and rang the bell over her head, as if to enclose her in its pure, tinkling sound.

  “What are you doing?” she protested mildly.

  “I’ve just given you a personal shield, dear Corlis,” he said. “If you ever feel you are in a dangerous situation, just remember that you can create your own sacred space around you by imagining that I am ringing this bell in a circle to trace your aura.”

  And instead of feeling foolish or cynical, Corlis glanced around her front parlor, filled with gratitude for the clear shafts of daylight slanting through the floor-to-ceiling windows. A strange humility seized her, and she gave thanks for the extraordinary, lanky young man with the golden eyes who was presently neatly packing his odd assortment of space-clearing implements back into his briefcase.

  “And now, Ms. WJAZ,” Dylan Fouché announced cheerfully, “you may buy me lunch. An expensive one. At Antoine’s.”

  She called into the station, explaining that the traffic downtown and in the French Quarter was a bear and she’d be an hour late.

  ***

  In the days that followed Dylan Fouché’s “psychic cleansing” of Corlis’s apartment on Julia Street, a gradual sense of serenity enveloped her home environment. With it came the conviction that she could now forget about the strange visions she’d been having and simply get on with her normal existence as a feet-on-the-ground reporter.

  High on her list of priorities was to follow up on something King’s assistant, Chris Calvert, had mentioned to her recently. She wanted to find out if Grover Jeffries was using strategic campaign contributions “donated” to members of the New Orleans City Council to help smooth the way toward downgrading the zoning of the 600 block in the historic district along Canal Street. Such freewheeling largesse was also bound to help Jeffries’s cause with the politically appointed City Planning Commission, a body that would be required to give its permission to demolish the Greek Revival structures in order to make way for the proposed hotel.

  King Duvallon was obviously doing research along the same lines.

  “Hey, Ace… how ya doin’?” he asked a few days later over the telephone. It was five thirty and Corlis had returned to her office cubicle after broadcasting a story about the metropolitan water district’s plans for new pumping stations. “You looked real nice on TV tonight.”

  “You watched?” she asked, pleased.

  “Sure did,” he replied. “Now listen, sugar… want to go to a masquerade ball with me on Saturday? It’ll be a real New Orleans experience.”

  Surprised and secretly delighted, she smiled into the phone receiver. “A costume ball? Do they still have those things?” Then she frowned. How would it look to be seen at a social function with a date who also figured in the ongoing public controversy she was covering for WJAZ?

  “Don’t worry… It’s absolutely, positively business,” he said, as if reading her mind. “It provides a chance for us both to do a little sleuthing—you for your cause, me for mine.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Grover Jeffries’s wife is giving a fancy-dress extravaganza at their mansion to benefit the symphony association. It’d give us a golden opportunity to nose around a bit.”

  “Can we wear masks the whole time so no one will know who we are or that we’re there together?”

  “That’s part of my plan,” he assured her. “In fact, you’re my ticket in. Grover and Bonita Jeffries love publicity. I’m sure WJAZ is on the invitation list. Get yourself assigned to cover the party, and I’ll go as part of your crew.”

  “What—specifically—are you looking for?” she asked warily.

  “The same thing I expect you are.” He sounded amused. “Information about how Grover intends to get the Landmark Commission, the Planning Commission, and the City Council to see things his way and vote to change the historic zoning and okay demolition of the Selwyn buildings. I understand he has a home office…”

  “And you want to rifle through his files to see who he’s giving campaign contributions to, right?”

  “Well, it wouldn’t be exactly breaking and entering. Not like that time at Ms. UCLA—”

  “Pretty close to it, Professor.”

  “Who knows what we might pick up on if we just have a little look-see?” King suggested, ignoring her previous remark. “You’re exactly the person I want to have with me while I poke around. Besides, it might help you too. Advance the story, and all that. Are you game?”

  “Why not,” she drawled. “What shall we go disguised as?”

  “The four musketeers,” he replied promptly.

  “Four? Are we double-dating?”

  “Kinda,” King said, laughing. “You gotta get Virgil and Manny invited, too. They’ll provide me the best cover. And y’know how much that Bonita Jeffries dearly loves to be interviewed. It’ll be a piece of cake.”

  Chapter 16

  April 4

  On Saturday the two-man camera crew, along with King and Corlis, eased themselves, their television equipment, and their bulky costumes out of the WJAZ news van. As they donned black satin face masks, they caught sight of Grover and Bonita Jeffries’s imposing mansion, lit up as gaudily as a birthday cake created for the King of Carnival.

  The quartet of masked duelists advanced up the drive, capes and swords swinging in unison. Up ahead, lights glowed in every window, beckoning the guests to make their way along the brick path to the open front door.

  Standing in stark splendor at the top of a circular drive that branched off stately St. Charles Avenue, the Jeffries’s house was a concrete monument to unadorned postmodern design. Massive plate-glass windows looked out in every direction across wide cement verandas distinguished by stark, pencil-thin cypress trees planted in what looked like oil drums painted gun-metal gray.

  “It looks like Saddam Hussein’s old bunker!” Corlis marveled.

  King burst out laughing behind his plastered-on mustache and goatee. “It doesn’t much look as if it belongs in New Orleans, that’s for sure.”

  “Nice lawn,” Virgil offered hopefully, nodding in the direction of a half acre of manicured turf that was dotted with flowering magnolia trees and artfully sculptured hedges. Musical strains from a dance band hired for the occasion drifted toward them as they mounted the front stairs and entered the impressive foyer paneled in silver-tone brushed metal.

  Bonita Jeffries was the first to greet the arriving contingents. Attired as a plantation belle with chestnut ringlets cascading behind each ear, she gaily tossed her head, framed by a large broad-rimmed picture hat trimmed with dusty-pink ribbons, Scarlett O’Hara style. Both she and her husband—who was posing as a Texas Ranger—had elected not to wear masks while society photographers from the Times-Picayune and Arts This Week scurried about.

  “Keep your camera under your cape, Virgil… And the rest of us just nod and walk past ’em—fast!” King advised, sotto voce, as they approached their hosts.

  Fortunately a boisterous troupe of harlequins clad in black-and-white domino costumes was entering the house just ahead, and the crew passed unnoticed
. They entered an enormous living room that looked more like a hotel lobby than a private home and quietly fanned out in search of Grover Jeffries’s office.

  Corlis had taken only a few steps when a butler, dressed in the gold-braided livery of the French king Louis XVI, approached with a tray filled with champagne flutes.

  “Thank you so much,” she said, accepting a glass from the servant’s gloved hand. On impulse, she cast him a coquettish glance from behind her mask. Then, in an approximation of a southern drawl, she asked, “Do you ’spose you could direct me to someplace very quiet? I have to make an important call later to check on my baby. It’s the first time we’ve left her with anyone, and I’m so nervous!”

  “Why certainly, ma’am,” he replied, eyeing her male attire with some surprise. “You just take that metal staircase up to the second floor. There’s a nice quiet spot on the landing where you’ll find a phone.”

  Corlis glanced at a huge flight of stairs that looked as if it would lead to an aircraft factory.

  “Oh… well, I have a problem,” she said hastily. “I wanted to conference call with my husband who’s in Texas on business, y’know? He wants to be on the phone with the housekeeper at the same time, so we can both make sure everything’s all right. Wouldn’t it be even quieter if I used Mr. Jeffries’s office or somethin’?”

  The waiter looked doubtful, so Corlis continued brightly. “And also, Harry said he’s probably gonna fax me somethin’ to give to Mr. Jeffries tonight. Some big deal, cookin’,” she said with a wink. Then she leaned forward and added in a confidential whisper, “My husband does all sorts of business with Mr. Jeffries, y’know, and Harry wants to surprise ’im with the good news when the papers are signed. I don’t think Grover’d mind if I went into his lil’ ol’ home office, do you? It’ll only take a few minutes.”

  “Sure, ma’am. I ’spect that’d be all right. Go up the stairs, down the hall on your right, and it’s right there, first door on your left.”

  Corlis squeezed the man’s satin sleeve and said, “You are such a darlin’. Thank yew!”

  Pul-eeze! I’m starting to sound like a genuine magnolia!

  Corlis quickly gave the high sign to her confederates to follow her at a discreet distance and soon made her way through the milling crowd, disappearing up the stairs. After an appropriate interval her three companions followed suit.

  “Rock ’n’ roll!” King said when the group reassembled in Grover Jeffries’s study.

  Virgil shut the heavy door behind his companions. “Wow! These digs are something else, aren’t they?”

  Corlis followed his gaze around the elegantly appointed library and state-of-the-art electronic office. On one wall a bank of television sets was framed by the same gray-slate paneling that adorned all four sides of the spacious study. A vast, matching chrome-and-slate desk stood on polished concrete flooring in front of large picture windows overlooking a sloping lawn. The horizontal work surface served as a platform for a twenty-four-inch monitor, keyboard, and other streamlined equipment that appeared to qualify Grover Jeffries as a member of the computer literati. Shining black enamel filing cabinets were built into an entire wall on the far side of the room.

  “Mama Roux!” echoed King on a long breath. “Guess the first thing to do,” he declared, flipping the “on” switch on Grover’s home computer, “is to access Grover’s main directory on this thing.”

  “Okay,” Corlis agreed with trepidation, “but this sure feels like breaking and entering. And I told a couple of incredible whoppers to get us in this place, so we can’t stay long.”

  “Why, sugar,” King said with a sly smile, exaggerating his own southern drawl, “you’re really getting into doing things N’awlins style!”

  Ignoring him, she turned to address her television crew. “Manny, Virgil… while we’re here, just give me close-ups of that bank of TVs… stuff around the room—in case anyone walks in on us. It’ll look as if we’re just shooting background shots.”

  “Gotcha,” Virgil said, hoisting his camera onto his shoulder. “But first, I’ve got to take off this stupid mask. It itches something crazy, and I can’t see anything through my viewfinder.” Taking the cameraman’s lead, the others tossed their masks onto Grover’s expansive desk.

  “Jackpot!” King said suddenly under his breath, scrolling down the computer screen. “Just have a look at this little ol’ file that was stored under ‘Lafayette Marchand’!”

  They all crowded around the computer screen.

  “Sweet Jesus, Duvallon, you’re somethin’ else,” Virgil said admiringly, pointing to the glowing screen. “You preservation guys are guerrillas.”

  “Just lookee here,” King announced gleefully. The screen displayed a memo entitled “Del Mar Hotel Development Proposal—First Draft,” authored by Grover Jeffries’s public relations specialist, Lafayette Marchand. “I’ll try printing out a copy while you look for it in the file cabinet. Maybe a copy’s in there, too. One way or another, we gotta get this.”

  “You get it,” Corlis said worriedly. “We can video the hard copy, but WJAZ can’t actually pinch it. Those are the rules, remember, Mr. Guerrilla?”

  “Whatever,” King muttered, looking around the room for a printer.

  Virgil continued recording video around the office.

  King spoke up suddenly. “Double jackpot!” He held up several sheets of paper that had been in Jeffries’s out-box on top of his desk. “Grover already printed out the same memo! I can’t believe it was right in front of us! And this version’s got notes in the margins…”

  Corlis and King studied the memo closely.

  “Oh m’God!” she murmured. “I can’t believe it’s right here in black and white.”

  Manny and Virgil crossed to the desk and stood beside Corlis and King. Four pairs of eyes stared at the memo that Corlis now held in her hand. In the left margin was written in ink in bold capital letters: INSERT HERE OUR OWNERSHIP OF THE BUILDINGS. Farther down on the page was another notation: State for Del Mar’s benefit we have a lock on p.c. rezoning change.

  “What’s P.C.?” she asked. “Some sort of computer?”

  “No,” King said grimly. “P.C. is the Planning Commission. They have to okay the zoning change and approve the demolition order before it can go on to the full city council.”

  At the bottom of the memo, a third handwritten comment read: Direct Acct. to make CC’s to friendly city council members now!

  “CC’s” Corlis echoed. “Copies?”

  “CC’s in this town, sugar, can mean only one thing,” King explained with a cynical laugh. “Campaign contributions. It sure looks as if Grover is directing his money man to grease the palms of various members of the city council to see things his way on the zoning changes and the order to demolish.”

  “And did you see this?” Corlis said excitedly. “This memo more than implies that Grover himself owns the Selwyn buildings now!” She looked over at King. “How can we prove that? Wouldn’t there be a deed on file somewhere downtown? And how can we prove ‘CC’ means ‘campaign contributions’?”

  “Well, first we need a copy of this with Grover’s notes all over it,” King asserted, hurriedly scanning the memo’s second page.

  “And after you photocopy it, and we get out of here, Virgil can get it—nice and clear—on videotape for WJAZ!” She nodded at her cameraman, who continued to shoot close-ups of objects around the office.

  Just then a raucous burst of laughter from down the hallway brought the foursome up short.

  “Did any of you see a copier?” King asked, taking the memo from Corlis.

  “Yes!” She pointed across the office. However, before anyone could move, the door to the office opened, and in walked a black-caped figure wearing white tie and tails. The man’s face was obscured by a white porcelain mask that covered only half of his face, immediately suggesting that the reveler was masquerading as the Phantom of the Opera.

  “Well, well… look who’s here. King D
uvallon.” The masked man took in Corlis and her fellow TV crew members. “Aren’t y’all enjoying the party?” inquired the intruder. “What’re you doing in here, may I ask?”

  With a sinking heart Corlis realized she’d recognize Jack Ebert’s voice anywhere.

  “We were getting some cutaways for a video profile I’m doing on the charitable activities of Mr. and Mrs. Jeffries,” she declared swiftly and with as much aplomb as she could muster.

  If only they’d kept on their masks!

  Virgil spoke up.

  “And I was just about to check in with the assignment desk at WJAZ to let ’em know how long we’d be here,” he lied, shifting his heavy camera off his shoulder and nodding in the direction of the telephone on the desk.

  Corlis didn’t dare look at King. “What’re you doing in here?” she demanded suddenly.

  Jack advanced further inside the slate-paneled study. His gaze swept the room and rested on the desk. Corlis blessed the fates that King had dropped the memo approximately where they’d found it in Grover’s out-box.

  “I’m merely a guest,” Jack declared evenly. “I thought I’d have a look around this palace.” His eyes narrowed as he addressed King. “Do the Jeffries know you’re here?”

  King ignored the question and instead asked Virgil, “Ready for that drink?”

  “Are you servin’ as Corlis’s production assistant these days, Duvallon?” Jack persisted.

  “Naw… just interested in how you folks do your stuff, so I asked my pal Virgil, here, if I could tag along.” Jack’s expression made no secret of his skepticism. King turned to Corlis. “I say we all get a drink.” He snatched his and the other remaining black face masks off the desk. “See ya, Ebert.”

  Without further farewells, Corlis, King, and the two television technicians filed out of Grover’s office and walked in silence down the hallway that led to the staircase, donning their masks. When they arrived at the large front salon, filled with noisy partygoers clad in elaborate fancy dress, Corlis muttered, “Jeez Louise, talk about your unwanted intruders.”