“More to the point,” King said tersely, “we didn’t have time to get a copy of that smoking gun memo. But it sure goes a long way to prove that Grover’s definitely up to his usual tricks, trying to use his money to influence folks.”
“But we still don’t have the hard evidence,” Corlis reminded him. “And we nearly got caught red-handed,” she added under her breath, wondering how Andy Zamora would feel if his star reporter got hauled away to jail for breaking and entering, handcuffed to Grover Jeffries’s archenemy.
Dangerous. This was getting very dangerous on about ten levels, she thought worriedly.
Virgil appeared to be reading her mind.
“Let’s do the interview with the Jeffrieses and then get outta here,” he said gruffly. He turned to King and said, “Do us a favor buddy… and get lost.”
King disappeared into the crowd of masked revelers. The remaining musketeers soon found themselves back inside Grover’s inner sanctum, a suitably quiet spot in which to ask Mr. and Mrs. Jeffries about their worthy goals for the symphony organization that Bonita Jeffries chaired.
During the interview Lafayette Marchand, who was dashingly attired as a red devil, stood to one side and looked on approvingly as his clients settled into two handsomely upholstered chairs opposite Grover’s mammoth desk and began to speak enthusiastically about their generous support of the arts in the New Orleans community.
At the conclusion of the interview, Virgil asked, “Okay if I photograph some of the pictures on the wall and stuff like that? I’ll use ’em later for cutaways with the story, okay, Mr. Marchand?” His eye was glued to his camera’s lens piece.
“Fine… fine,” the public relations consultant agreed.
The incriminating memo with Jeffries’s handwritten directives to virtually pay off key public officials was no longer in sight on the desk, and now that the interview was at an end, she couldn’t get a good view of Grover Jeffries’s in- and out-boxes without drawing attention to herself. However, she was relieved when the cameraman took close-ups of various items on Grover’s chrome-accented, slate desktop. That way she at least had footage over which she—as the TV correspondent—could narrate, at some point in the future, an account of having seen the damning document with her own eyes in Jeffries’s office—even if she didn’t have physical possession of a copy.
“We do so appreciate your covering this event,” gushed Bonita as the crew packed up their gear. The hostess eyed Corlis closely. “Doesn’t that mustache itch, dear?” Then she added quickly, “Of course, we really appreciate y’all in the media coming in costume, too!”
“Actually, it does itch. Quite a bit. Is it all right with you, Mrs. Jeffries,” Corlis asked politely, “if the crew tapes some party atmosphere out there on the dance floor?”
“Why, I’d be mighty pleased if you would!” Bonita responded with enthusiasm.
“More fun than doing a story about those bleeding heart malcontents at the university, eh, Corlis?” Grover said pointedly.
“While we’re on that subject, Mr. Jeffries,” Corlis replied, “I’d like to get your views on the growing controversy about your future plans for the Canal Street project that we hear is on your drawing boards.” She looked over at Marchand expectantly. “There are a lot of intriguing rumors about a twenty-eight-story hotel you want to build there. How do you plan to corral the necessary votes to get the Planning Commission to downzone a declared historic district so you can demolish the existing structures?”
Jeffries’s expression revealed surprise that the reporter was privy to these developments, but he quickly switched to a look of disgust. “Have you seen those buildings?” he demanded. “They’re about the ugliest things in all of New Orleans! I’d be doing this town a favor to get rid of ’em!”
“I’ve seen behind the metal screen, Mr. Jeffries,” she said quietly. “There are eleven perfectly preserved Greek Revival facades that apparently go back to the first half of the nineteenth century.”
Grover’s gaze hardened, but before the veteran developer could reply, Jeffries’s public relations mouthpiece smoothly intervened.
“I’d be most happy to supply you with plenty of solid background material on the major economic benefits that the city will derive from our plans for that entire area,” Marchand assured her. Then he added, “I’m sure that when the time is right, we can arrange an on-camera interview about that, don’t you think, Grover?”
Jeffries eyed Corlis skeptically.
“Give her the new press kit,” he said grudgingly. “If she’ll promise to read it, maybe we can talk sometime later.”
“It’s my job to ask questions, Mr. Jeffries,” Corlis said with a level gaze.
“Yeah, right,” Grover grunted.
Corlis quickly exited Grover’s office. Once outside, she scanned the crowded dance floor for a glimpse of a tall, dark-haired man wearing a sword and sporting a wide-brimmed hat trimmed with feathers.
“Need a little something to settle your nerves?” a voice said behind her. “There’s a bourbon and branch water-laced punch that will knock your socks off.”
She whirled around in time to catch King, his face concealed once again by his black mask. He bowed from the waist and made a sweeping flourish with his feathered hat. Laughing, she offered a mock bow in return. Just then Jack Ebert threaded his way through the undulating throng of dancers.
“King, dance with me!” she demanded. “Quickly! Jack’s coming this way. I don’t want to have to deal with that creep twice in one night.”
Instantly King took her in his arms. The pair was oblivious to the odd picture they made dressed as two musketeers in tunics, capes, and thigh-high boots, swaying to the rhythms of a homogenized rendition of Dr. John’s howling “Goin’ Back to New Orleans.”
“To do this to Dr. John is sacrilege,” King noted, inclining his head in the direction of the stodgy band and some dancers of advanced years making fools of themselves in public. Meanwhile, Corlis was conscious both of Jack’s hovering presence and King’s warm embrace as he whirled her around the dance floor.
“Why won’t Jack Ebert just get lost?” she complained. King followed her gaze. The menacing Phantom of the Opera was leaning against one wall and staring directly at them. “I swear that man should get the Lounge Lizard award. All he ever does is lurk about.” She glanced defiantly over King’s shoulder and locked stares with her fellow journalist, who eventually had the grace to look in another direction.
“What do you think Jack was doing in Grover Jeffries’s study?” King wondered aloud as he skillfully avoided a collision with another couple dressed as Miss Piggy and Kermit the Frog.
“Mr. Poison Pen? I don’t know.” Then she had a curious thought. “Maybe he’s after the same information we are?”
“Possibly,” King replied as he maneuvered between a gyrating twosome attired in identical chartreuse-and-pink clown costumes. “Didn’t you tell me he was writing about architecture now for Arts This Week?”
“That’s right,” Corlis confirmed, startled. Then she shrugged. “I suppose he could be doing some decent investigative reporting for a change, instead of just his usual slicing and dicing.”
“I seriously doubt it,” King scoffed. “Jack invariably looks for the easy way in all things. He probably saw us go in there… and wherever you are, sugar, there’s usually a good story close by.” He glanced over his shoulder and smiled. “He’s gone now. Shall we find Virgil and Manny and hit the road?”
Within minutes, the foursome made their exit down the front steps of the mansion just as a silver-haired, well-built figure dressed entirely in red accosted them at the circular drive. Lafayette Marchand was waiting for the valet parking attendants to deliver his car.
“Hello, again,” Marchand called out. Corlis sensed that Grover Jeffries’s media adviser had been closely observing one of her three companions. “Is that you, King? I wasn’t dead sure, because of that wig… not to mention the mask. Good to see you,” he sai
d, walking toward them. “May I say that you all look quite spectacular as seventeenth-century French noblemen.”
“You seem to know your history,” King replied coolly.
“With a name like Lafayette, I was rather forced into it,” Marchand responded pleasantly. The older man paused then added, “I didn’t see you here before, King, but I take it from the looks of your coordinated costumes that y’all came here together.” Corlis glanced quickly at the other musketeers, but nobody said anything. “Well,” Marchand continued, “I’m actually glad for this unexpected opportunity to speak with you, son. I hope you’ll take this as it’s intended.”
“As what’s intended?” King asked sharply.
Surprisingly, Corlis thought, Lafayette Marchand’s attitude held no hint of threat or condescension. In fact, the older man’s blue eyes had an almost benevolent aspect to them as he addressed King.
“I have some concerns about your position as an associate professor at the university should you involve yourself in any further public campaigns against Jeffries Industries.”
“Now, why would you have those kinds of concerns, Laf, unless you were part of the pressure that’s being exerted on the dean to deny me tenure and get me thrown out?”
Corlis placed a restraining hand just above one of King’s lacy cuffs. Had his job at the university actually been threatened? She felt a flash of anger at the notion and forced herself to inhale slowly.
King Duvallon can fight his own battles, dearie.
Oddly, Lafayette Marchand shifted his attention just then to Corlis and her television crew, as if he wished to gain their support. Then he glanced back at King. “You have a perfect right to your opinions, of course, King,” he said, “and you have a perfect right to act on your conscience—especially when I’m sure that your intent is to protect historic buildings. I merely speak on a personal basis.” His face grew grave, and he laid his hand lightly on King’s shoulder. “Remember, now, I know how hard you’ve worked for that PhD, son.” King’s icy stare slid from Marchand’s face to the man’s hand that had remained resting on his shoulder. However, Marchand didn’t seem to notice and continued speaking. “There’s no need to sabotage your future at the university. Grover Jeffries hears you,” he emphasized. “And once you’ve gotten tenure, he cannot hurt you as seriously.”
“You mean you can’t hurt me as seriously, don’t you, Laf?” King asked evenly. “Because everybody knows you’re Jeffries’s mouthpiece. The hired flak that’s supposed to make a highway robber look like a civic hero at every opportunity.” He regarded his godfather with more curiosity than malice. “On a personal basis, Lafayette,” he drawled sarcastically, “I actually don’t know how you can stomach it, working for a guy like him. But then, we all make choices in life, don’t we?” He turned toward Corlis and the two crewmen. “Are we outta here, or what?”
And without further conversation, the four musketeers turned their backs on Lafayette Marchand and strolled down the drive toward St. Charles Avenue. As King walked beside her, Corlis sensed he was struggling with feelings both of anger and melancholy, but he remained silent. It must be hard, she thought, for him to accept what Marchand did for a living these days.
Once inside the news van, however, King’s customary good humor returned. He asked her if she’d seen anything else interesting when she went back into Grover’s office to shoot the interview.
“Actually, yes,” she said with a thoughtful expression. “It was really weird, though.”
“What was?”
“Grover took a few moments to clean off his desk just prior to my interviewing him.”
“So?”
“Virgil was busy shooting ‘B’ roll while Grover fiddled with a pen and fussed around with papers on his desk, and so on… you know, close-ups we can use to cut away to when we edit the interview. Well, anyway,” Corlis continued, “Grover initialed a one-page something-or-other and slipped it into his out-box. It was a single sheet with columns and words typed on it.”
“So? You said he was cleaning off his desk, right?” King said, shrugging.
She heaved a sigh of resignation. “Anyway, whatever that one-pager was, it had a headline at the top that I could just barely read upside down. It said: ‘Writing Assignments.’”
“Maybe after we all left the office the first time tonight, Lafayette Marchand presented Grover with his monthly bill?” King suggested. “He was right there in Grover’s office when you did the interview, correct?”
“Oh…” Corlis replied, crestfallen. “That’s probably it. I’ll bet that Marchand doubles as a ghostwriter for the guy, as well as handling his regular PR. Grover’s always giving keynote speeches at the Petroleum Club and places like that.”
In the middle of this exchange, Virgil suddenly floored the accelerator in order to speed through a yellow light. Corlis grabbed hold of King’s arm.
“Sorry,” she murmured.
Making no reply, he put his arm around her shoulders and gave her a soft squeeze. His reassuring embrace made Corlis irrationally yearn to snuggle against his chest and tuck the top of her head under his chin.
Ignore it, lady! There’s too much at stake this time around!
King drew her closer against his chest, and she felt his body heat raising her own temperature several degrees. As she stared into his eyes, only inches away from hers, she was forced to swallow hard and close her lids. Then, slowly, she gave him a warning shake of her head.
“How ’bout we rattle some folks at the Hummingbird Grill and go get a late-night breakfast?” she heard him ask.
“Dressed like this?” Virgil protested, looking into his rearview mirror and pointing to his elegantly coiffed wig and the lacy jabot at his throat.
“Great idea!” Manny chimed in. “Virgil and I missed dinner.”
“Okay, okay,” grumbled Virgil. “Let’s give those late-night characters in Corlis’s neighborhood a thrill.”
Corlis heaved another sigh. The sooner she put a Formica tabletop between herself and King Duvallon’s handsome presence, the better. Thank heavens the all-night restaurant was less than a block from her front door on Julia Street, behind which she’d be safe from the odd, tingling sensations that were percolating in her solar plexus.
“The Hummingbird it is,” she quickly agreed.
Man, oh man, she thought, she’d gone from having visions of long-lost relatives to suffering serious palpitations over somebody she’d wanted to throw in jail a decade or so ago.
***
Within minutes Virgil parked the van outside the restaurant in the Warehouse District. Inured from years of Mardi Gras excess, few of the late-night denizens in the Hummingbird bothered to note the entrance of the four musketeers. Before they devoured their breakfast, however, Corlis ducked into the ladies’ room, removed her wig and mustache, and stuffed both inside her voluminous leather shoulder bag.
King laughed when she sat down, pointing to her upper lip. “You looked pretty cute with all that hair… but a lot better, now.”
When their food arrived, King, Corlis, and her crew set about their enthusiastic consumption of waffles saturated with thick, sweet cane syrup, plus multiple cups of coffee. Corlis resolutely snatched the bill away from the men to establish that the meal was a purely business affair, but she hadn’t the strength to protest when King insisted on walking her around the corner to her front door. Manny, Virgil, and the WJAZ news van headed down St. Charles Avenue past one of the streetcars that King would eventually take back to the edge of the French Quarter.
It was long after midnight, and Julia Street was deserted. The silent row of brick facades thrust both sidewalk and street into shadow. On the opposite side of the road, old-fashioned globed streetlamps stood like a line of night watchmen, casting circles of mellow light over the sidewalk. Side by side, King and Corlis strolled silently down the hushed block. Suddenly she was brought up short by the clip-clop sound of horses’ hooves.
Oh no! Corlis thought, she co
uldn’t be—
Please, don’t let it happen again. Not now. Not in front of King!
Chapter 17
April 5
An open carriage with battery-powered headlights turned the corner at Church Street, heading toward a livery stable. At the reins was a tourist guide with a boom box blaring full blast on the seat next to him. Vastly relieved, Corlis gave silent thanks that she was still tethered to her own century.
“Got your house key, Ace?” King asked, leaning a cloaked arm against the carved white molding that framed the entrance to her building.
“The damn thing’s in here somewhere,” she muttered as she rooted at the bottom of her purse. At almost the same moment she found her key ring she felt King slide his hand up her arm.
“Well, sugar,” he murmured, his mouth only inches away from hers, “that was quite a party tonight, huh?” To both her joy and dismay, he slowly and deliberately bent down and brushed his lips against hers with a come-hither invitation that she’d have to be unconscious to ignore. After a few long, delicious seconds, he backed off a bit and scrutinized her closely.
“I guess this is good night,” she murmured. For another long moment, she was virtually incapable of breaking from his steady gaze.
Then, in an act of pure instinct, she released her grip on her key ring and allowed it to fall to the bottom of her purse. She withdrew her right hand from the depths of her shoulder bag and felt the leather pouch slide down her arm and land with a soft plop near her feet. As if someone had switched her to automatic pilot, she put both arms around King’s shoulders, closing the short space between their lips, and held on to steady herself. She tilted her head back and sought to inhale his breath—as if the man’s very life force could keep her grounded.
When she thought about it afterward, Corlis couldn’t recall who had made the next move, but their second kiss was electrifying, terrifying, and foreshadowed a potential for intimacy that was shocking in the extreme. She opened her mouth the merest fraction and nearly gasped when she felt his tongue’s feathery touch, redolent with the honeyed taste of cane syrup. Like his breath, the tip of his tongue felt hot against hers… hot as the flames that had licked sugarcane fields in some other life she had once briefly glimpsed.
Ciji Ware Page 27