“You sure are a stickler for following rules, sugar,” King replied mildly. He got out of the car, came around to her side, opened the passenger door, and helped her retrieve her overnight case.
She dug for her key in her shoulder bag as they walked toward her front door.
“Let me do that,” he said, taking the door key from her hand.
Corlis laughed self-consciously. The front door ajar, they turned to face each other again.
“I can’t wait for this to be over,” she said, fighting a wave of melancholy.
“Me, too,” he replied softly. King seized her hand and pressed it to his lips in a gesture as courtly as any André Duvallon had ever employed. Then he flashed her his killer grin. “You know what?” he demanded. “We’re goin’ to win!”
Feeling as if she were about to burst into tears, Corlis answered with an earnest plea. “We’ve got to get something straight. Much as I applaud what you’re trying to do, as a reporter, I just can’t be a partisan in your cause, King. I just can’t.”
“You went to the costume party with me,” he reminded her. “You were as excited as I was to find Grover’s incriminating memo.”
“But I went there with a different agenda than you did,” she protested. “My role as a journalist is to tell the story concerning the threat to those buildings as it unfolds without my trying to influence the outcome. I’m sleuthing for facts for the benefit of the television viewers, not the preservationists. You guys will use the information you uncover to try to change public policy, which is your job!” she explained. “My job is different. The public owns the airwaves and grants people like Andy Zamora a license to use them for profit. In return, the public is owed honest information. My sole task is to gather and disseminate information about what’s happening in the community, so the viewing public can make up its own mind about political issues that are important to it.”
“Why, Miz Reporter,” King grinned. “You’re just as much of an idealist as I am, and in these times your idea of journalism is pretty quaint. I bet your aunt Marge taught you that speech.”
Corlis reached up and smoothed away a shock of dark brown hair from his forehead. “She did,” she said soberly. “So, what about it, King?” she asked with a level look. “Can you understand what I’m saying here about our separate roles?”
“I’ll try,” he responded, his gaze troubled. “I guess I have to keep reminding myself that we really do have different jobs.”
“That’s right.” She nodded. “And thanks for recognizing that.” She hesitated a moment, and added, “Good luck.”
“Do the rules stipulate it’s okay to wish me that?” he asked in a slightly mocking tone.
She pushed her front door open wide and tossed her bags onto the foyer’s floor. She hesitated a moment, then turned to face him.
“Oh, screw the rules!” she exclaimed, kissing him hard on the mouth. She dashed inside the door and quickly shut it behind her so she wouldn’t be tempted to ask him in. She shouted through the thick wooden panels, “That’s the last kiss you get from me until this damned Selwyn story is old news!”
***
During the next weeks Corlis and King both kept true to their pledge. They met and spoke only in public while the proposal for rezoning and demolishing the Selwyn buildings made its way successfully through hearings before the Landmark and City Planning Commissions. Nor did they communicate when Edgar Dumas assumed the presidency of the New Orleans City Council and put the matter of demolition and the Del Mar hotel project on the upcoming council agenda for further debate.
They didn’t even exchange phone calls after Corlis’s boss handed her a copy of Arts This Week in which Jack Ebert hinted at a “cozy—some say personal—relationship between the leader of the opposition to the construction of the Del Mar Hotel and a high-profile TV reporter covering the story.” Ebert reiterated King’s brush with the law while a student in California and raised the issue of the associate professor’s moral fitness for being granted tenure at the university, come June.
“Jeez, this is outrageous!” Corlis exclaimed to Zamora.
“I assume Ebert based part of his piece on seeing you with King at Galatoire’s and at the costume party, correct?” Zamora pressed.
“I imagine so,” Corlis replied, staring across her boss’s wide desk while trying to avoid the piercing stare from his lawyer, Marvin Glimp.
Read out of context, Jack’s magazine story was devastatingly damaging to King personally. The piece also went so far as to cast the preservationists as part of the “lunatic fringe element” of the environmental movement. The story could be lethal to her if her name was revealed publicly as the reporter in question. Jack also must know, she thought darkly, that he was treading close to the line in the defamation department.
“And am I correct that you and King are not seeing each other in any other context than reporter and source?” Zamora asked, obviously for Glimp’s benefit.
“I haven’t seen King alone or talked to him privately in just under a month,” Corlis replied. However, her conscience prompted a further disclosure. “You both should know, though, that in mid-April, I attended the funeral of Edgar Dumas’s sister-in-law. Emelie Dumas had been the Kingsbury-Duvallon’s cook for thirty years. King provided the entrée. I seized the chance to judge the impact on one elderly woman whose entire way of life was uprooted by the Good Times Shopping Plaza project.”
Her recitation was the truth—if not the whole truth—she considered with a twinge of guilt. Corlis hesitated for a moment and made the decision not to reveal that she and King had stayed together at the old Kingsbury fishing cabin. Certainly not that they’d slept together while there.
It’s my private life, and it’s not affecting how I cover the story, especially since King and I are now giving each other a wide berth.
And oh how hard that separation was turning out to be, she thought bleakly.
“Did Edgar Dumas see you at that black woman’s funeral?” Glimp demanded, his harsh words forcing Corlis’s attention back to the two men. Marvin turned to address Zamora. “Edgar’s bound to know that his sister-in-law was the Duvallon’s family cook, and you know how touchy—”
“Yes, he knew the connection,” Corlis interrupted, turning to face the agitated lawyer. “That day I asked Dumas if he would be willing to do an interview with me. I told him I’d like to hear his views regarding the difficulty for elected officials to balance the need for new construction projects, which help the city’s economy, with the desire to preserve the unique history of New Orleans, where tourism is the number one industry.”
“I’ll just bet Edgar’d love to pontificate on that subject!” Zamora said with a cynical laugh.
“I already put the interview on tape and stored it in our vault,” she replied. “I’m saving it for when you give me the okay to do another piece—after the city council votes whether to demolish the Selwyn buildings.”
“Good,” Zamora said shortly.
Marvin Glimp chimed in, “Even so, McCullough… just remember, you’re still skating on thin ice around here.”
Aren’t I just? Corlis answered silently, thinking of Jack Ebert’s twisted use of the facts.
“Just tell the story as it happens, you got that?” her boss admonished her gruffly. “No fancy stuff, and avoid any more junkets with Duvallon, no matter what! You can be in the same public place at the same time—if it has to do directly with this story—but you can’t be seen going anywhere together. You got that?”
“Got it,” Corlis replied stiffly. She turned to leave.
“And by the way,” Zamora added in an offhand manner. “Good job getting Dumas to go on camera. That footage’ll save our ass when we need some balance after the showdown at city hall next week, right?”
Corlis gave both men the thumbs-up sign and hurried out of Zamora’s office before Marvin Glimp or her boss could hand out any more directives that would further tie her hands.
She imme
diately made for the employees’ lot and soon was steering her Lexus down Canal Street toward the river for a meeting called by Althea LaCroix. She passed the Selwyn buildings and turned left into the French Quarter, parking as close as possible to the library that housed the Historic New Orleans Collection.
“Hey, Corlis!” Althea hailed her as she headed up the granite steps of the elegantly restored beaux arts building. “Whatcha know? Thanks for coming here today.”
“Thanks for asking me,” she replied as the pair trudged up the marble staircase and entered the beautifully appointed reading room on the second floor. “Are Keith LaCroix and Dylan coming, too?”
“The Gang of Three?” Althea said, laughing. “You betcha! We’ve actually gotten several black history professors, African American business folks, and owners of historic properties around town to join together to fight Jeffries’s petition to demolish the Selwyn buildings. Keith and King see it as sort of our very own Rainbow Coalition to preserve this landmark. How’s this for a battle cry? ‘Long live Free People of Color and their nineteenth-century entrepreneurial spirit!’” she joked.
“Have you already approached the Preservation Resource Center?” Corlis asked, ignoring her mention of King’s name. “Will they support you guys?”
“Oh yeah!” Althea enthused. “As a matter of fact, King Duvallon’s gonna meet with us today, too. He’s a great buddy of the librarian, who’s been a huge help tracking down the building’s history.”
King was coming to this meeting? Corlis felt her heart lurch with forbidden anticipation. She lectured herself severely to calm down.
“Hmmmm,” she replied noncommittally.
“It was King’s idea to ask you to come,” Althea added. “He thought you might be interested in our next project.”
“You mean to do another story for WJAZ?” she asked warily.
“Well, maybe. But first of all, we want to do a TV commercial,” Althea announced proudly. “You know, a public service announcement to the community. Something catchy that touts the black history aspect in the fight to preserve the Selwyn buildings that tells folks this is their history that Grover Jeffries and the Del Mar people want to demolish!” Althea pointed across the reading room where King stood next to the reference desk, deep in conversation with the librarian. “King figured you and your cameraman, Virgil, would know just how to pull off making this commercial.”
“Oh, Althea…” Corlis began, her heart sinking, “WJAZ can’t take sides in this. We’re not supposed to show any favoritism—”
Just then they both turned at the sound of someone’s footsteps taking the stairs behind them, two at a time.
“Hey, baby, where y’at?” Virgil said, patting Althea smartly on her derriere. Corlis’s stalwart crew member was minus his camera, which startled her. “Hi, boss,” he added, more subdued.
When Althea strode on ahead, Corlis took Virgil aside and whispered, “We can’t help them produce a TV commercial, Virgil. We’re supposed to be neutral, remember?”
“What’s wrong with giving a little friendly advice in my off hours to my black brothers and sisters?” he asked, his brown eyes widening innocently. “And besides, I’m not gonna be the shooter on the deal…”
“Well, that’s a relief. Zamora and his legal beagle called me on the carpet, saying I was already being too sympathetic to the preservationists on this story.”
“To me,” Virgil said softly, “this is more than just another story. I didn’t even know some black folks were free before the Civil War. And I sure as hell didn’t know blacks owned most of those buildings way back then and ran their own businesses on Canal Street!” He cuffed her gently on the chin. “This is history, girl, so if I steer Althea in the right direction for this TV idea she’s got, go sue me.”
“I won’t sue you,” Corlis whispered back. “I just don’t want Zamora to fire you!”
“I’ll be cool.” Virgil grinned. “Very cool. C’mon, boss lady,” he urged, “if you and I don’t join them over there, people’ll be talkin’ ’bout us instead of you and King!”
“What?” she protested.
“Even when you two are walking on opposite sides of the street, the temperature rises,” he teased her. “You’re not fooling nobody, sugar.”
Corlis leveled a disgusted look at him but didn’t reply.
During the meeting held in a small conference room off the main reading room, Corlis did her utmost to keep her attention focused on everyone in the group except King. She nodded politely at architect Keith LaCroix and historian Barry Jefferson. However, she couldn’t fight off a big hug from Dylan Fouché.
“No more weird stuff goin’ on when you go into your bedroom?” he whispered in her ear.
“Nope,” she replied, ignoring the curious glances from the others. Someday she might tell him about seeing André Duvallon in King’s living room, but certainly not now. As the meeting progressed she studiously made notes in her reporter’s notebook, never offering an opinion or even asking a question.
“So,” Althea said. “A reliable source has given me the name of a freelance team who can shoot our ‘Save the Selwyn’ spot.” She looked over at King. “Now it’s up to you to find us the money to pay these guys that Vir—” She interrupted herself then continued, “…pay these camera crew guys I heard about. Any ideas?”
King glanced briefly at Corlis and replied, “Mr. and Mrs. Mallory and a few other folks have said they’d match what I’m willing to put up to help pay for this thing—though they haven’t told me yet how much. Mrs. Mallory is related to Paul Tulane on her mama’s side. As you all know, Tulane was a successful merchant, before the university was founded, and one of the original white partners in the building project,” he explained further.
Mallory… Mallory? As in Cindy Lou Mallory? Ms. Magnolia, wrecker of weddings? Her parents?
My, my, Corlis thought ruefully, Miss Cindy and her mama must be willing to do virtually anything to try to win back the affections of the dashing—and discreetly wealthy—Kingsbury Duvallon. But why in the world would Mr. Integrity accept money from the Mallorys? Couldn’t he get anyone else to match his contributions besides them?
Well, sugar, this is N’awlings!
Before Corlis could recover from this bit of intelligence, Althea was asking her a question. “Would you and your TV crew be interested in doing a story that follows black LaCroixs and Fouchés touring Reverie Plantation, trying to find their roots?” she asked with a sly smile.
“Why, Ms. LaCroix,” Corlis said, forcing a reciprocating smile while she put everything else out of her mind except doing her job, “I’m sure my boss would consider that legitimate news. WJAZ would love to tag along. Tomorrow?”
“They open at 10:00 a.m.,” Althea replied.
Corlis then gathered up her belongings and said good-bye to the group, offering only a curt nod in the direction of the Hero of New Orleans—a veritable powerhouse, apparently, when it came to raising funds for a cause he believed in.
***
Corlis spent the next morning supervising Virgil and Manny while they followed Althea and Julien LaCroix and Dylan Fouché with video and sound recorders around the magnificent Reverie Plantation’s grand manor house.
It had been a distinctly unnerving experience to wander about a place she’d already “seen” in one of her strange visions. In the slave quarters at the back of the property, sepia-colored photographs of African American women in long calico skirts and men in work clothes bore startling resemblances to the profiles of the visitors who possessed the same last names as the early white owners.
“When was photography invented, anyway?” Althea wondered aloud.
“The caption here says this was taken in 1843,” Corlis murmured. “I think I read somewhere that daguerreotypes were invented in the late 1830s.”
“White Fouchés owned the neighboring plantation back then,” Dylan explained, pointing to entries in a family Bible that lay on a table in one of the sparsely
furnished cabins. “The original Althea Fouché was probably a mulatto fathered by the white owner and a slave woman on that plantation. Eventually Althea’s daughter, Martine, a quadroon, caught the eye of Julien LaCroix. Any children they had together would have been octoroons and probably would have taken the name LaCroix.”
But ah… let us not forget Julien’s father, Etienne, Corlis mused silently. If only she could verify that, through a twist of fate, Martine had had sexual relationships with both father and son. How had poor Julien taken the news of André’s suicide? Had he ever received the letter his banker wrote to him, detailing the unholy link the LaCroix men had forged with the beautiful Free Woman of Color? Was Julien and Martine’s mixed-blood baby perhaps the progenitor of the musical LaCroix family?
And what of her own ancestors, the McCulloughs? pondered Corlis. What ultimately happened to Corlis Bell McCullough and her ne’er-do-well mate, the builder named Randall? Had they and Ian Jeffries actually been run out of New Orleans on a rail?
“Can you all finish shooting this last bit without me?” she abruptly asked her crew. “I want to check on something in the main house, okay? Meet you out front in twenty minutes.”
Virgil shot her a startled look and shrugged. “Sure, boss lady,” he replied accommodatingly. “But make it half an hour.”
“Will do.”
Corlis dashed across the wide lawn to re-enter the front door just as the final tour of the day departed out the back steps. She was certain that no one saw her slip past the red velvet rope, enter the small room off the front foyer, and quietly close the door. Earlier she’d spied a crystal decanter filled with absinthe standing on a leather-topped desk. Hesitating only a moment, she sat down and gazed apprehensively at the bottle of chartreuse-colored spirits. The guide had said it was a less potent mixture than in the old days, made of green dye, crushed eucalyptus leaves, and anise, whose combined odors closely approximated the lethal liquor brewed in the nineteenth century.
Corlis involuntarily shuddered. The sight of the decanter recalled the vision of André Duvallon lying in green absinthe and dark-red blood.
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