Ciji Ware (34 page)

“I can see you two are obviously working overtime,” Jack said with a cynical smile that insinuated their rendezvous was purely personal. “I expect you both heard that Marchand’s boss has just announced plans for a wonderful new hotel on Canal Street.” He cocked his head to one side and asked King, “Are you preservation folks gonna oppose it?” King responded to the query with a cool glance. In the ensuing silence Jack turned to address Corlis. “And what about you? Has King already persuaded you that Grover Jeffries is the Darth Vader of the Evil Empire?”

Marchand put a steadying hand on his dinner companion’s shoulder.

“Ms. McCullough is widely recognized for her fine reporting,” Lafayette Marchand said pleasantly as he admonished Jack. “And I’m sure she’ll get the facts made public on both sides of this issue. Please give me a call, Corlis, if I can assist you in any way. And y’all enjoy your meal, y’hear?” With a courtly bow, he propelled the television critic out the restaurant’s front door.

Meanwhile their waiter hovered nearby.

“Zee usual starter, Monsieur Duvallon?” Cezanne inquired politely when the two men had departed.

Corlis was having difficulty concentrating on anything besides her uneasy feeling that it was sheer bad luck to be spotted at a glamorous restaurant by King Duvallon’s principal nemeses. Would Marchand, especially, believe that King was just a source?

Was
he merely that?

Be honest, now, McCullough.

The waiter smiled benevolently at Corlis as she placed her order for a glass of Merlot. “I will be zee envy of everyone tonight!” Cezanne declared. “Monsieur Duvallon brings only special friends to Galatoire’s, is that not so?”

Corlis wondered how often King and Cindy Lou Mallory had sat at this cozy table.

Lafayette Marchand and Jack Ebert have a right to be suspicious! I’m becoming a jealous fool—for no reason! The man merely kissed me once through a car window!

Cezanne retreated while she carefully smoothed the large linen napkin the waiter had placed in her lap and tried to recover her equilibrium.

King glanced at his watch. “Dylan Fouché is going to join us for dessert. I thought I’d introduce you two, have some coffee, and leave you folks alone to get acquainted.”

The man had the most uncanny ability to sense exactly what she needed, when she needed it, she thought with a rush of gratitude. However, when it came right down to it, she wasn’t even sure what she would say to someone like Dylan Fouché. She wondered what the former priest’s reaction would be when she told him about Martine Fouché, she thought with some trepidation. Would he recognize the name from his family tree? And if Martine had really existed, would Dylan be amused—or offended—to have counted among the generations of pious Fouchés a courtesan of mixed blood beholden to a nineteenth-century white planter?

Cezanne arrived with a ramekin filled with steaming oysters Rockefeller.

She sensed King watching her closely as she tentatively dipped a small cocktail fork into its creamy mass. Sliding over her tongue was a magical mix of spinach, garlicky buttered bread crumbs, and a mysterious flavoring she’d never tasted before.

“Oh, dear God!” she gasped. “I think this is the best thing I’ve ever eaten in my life!”

“You said that at Casamento’s about your po’boy sandwich,” he reminded her, chuckling.

“That’s true… but I never ate
this
before!” she protested. “What, in addition to the garlic,
is
that incredible flavor?”

Cezanne had remained by their side and was grinning happily. “It’s a flavoring known as
Herbsaint
,” he said, giving its French pronunciation with a great gusto. “A kind of liqueur. You know… like calvados or curaçao.”

“Well, it’s just fabulous!” Corlis exclaimed, her fork suspended halfway to her mouth.

“The dish was named in 1899 for John D. Rockefeller,” King explained, glancing at Cezanne for confirmation. “At that time, he was the richest man in the world, and it was the richest dish in the world, so, the name seemed apropos.”

“Ambrosia,” Corlis sighed, taking another bite and settling back in her chair with a contented smile.

“Wait till she tastes zee crabmeat Yvonne!” Cezanne declared confidently. “She’ll never let you bring her anywhere but Galatoire’s!”

“Cezanne, you are something else!” King admonished the waiter blandly. Cezanne merely smiled with an air of satisfaction and backed away.

The crabmeat entree was equally mouth-watering. Corlis had nearly forgotten about her request to meet Dylan Fouché when an unusually tall, reedy man in his thirties, dressed in a crisp, seersucker suit and bright pink silk tie, crossed the restaurant to their table. In his lapel was a fresh carnation the same pastel shade as his tie. To Corlis he handed a long-stemmed red rose, surrounded by frothy green ferns and Queen Anne’s lace, and wrapped in cellophane with a fuchsia bow.

“Stars receive flowers…” Dylan declared with a flourish. “So this is for you. I admire your work on television, Ms. McCullough.”

Corlis hardly noticed his offering, for she was staring at Dylan’s pale brown complexion, high cheekbones, mildly flared nostrils, and generous mouth. His features seemed to her near carbon copies of those possessed by the glorious, golden-skinned Martine Fouché—whose image was now indelibly burned into Corlis’s memory.

To cover her astonishment she quickly glanced down at the table and fingered the cellophane wrapper protecting the rose. “This is… beautiful. It’s really… very nice of you… I—”

Dylan deposited his lanky, impeccably tailored body into a chair and flashed a wide, gleaming smile at her across the table.

“Well… King says you’ve been seeing things.”

“Nothing like bowling the lady over with your finesse, Fouché,” King declared with mild irritation. Then he looked at Corlis with an expression of concern that she might think he’d broken a confidence. “I certainly didn’t describe events in that way to this character. I just mentioned you’d come across some unusual experiences that you have
not
described to me in any detail, but that you’d like to discuss with… an expert. Is that an accurate summary?”

“No need to defend yourself to Ms. McCullough, King,” Dylan intervened, his lips quirking upward slyly. “I’m psychic, remember?” To Corlis he added, “Between what little King, here, told me over the phone, and meeting you just now, the remark about you seeing things just popped out.”

“Yeah, right,” King admonished. “You’d better watch that impulsive nature of yours. She’s a mighty savvy reporter. You could blow your cover.”

“Naw…” Dylan said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “This lady’s also trustworthy. Just a little impulsive herself, right, Corlis? It’s gotten you into some trouble in the past, I’d wager.”

“I can vouch for that,” King volunteered with a crooked smile. Corlis ignored the wisecrack, uneasy that Dylan Fouché could virtually read her thoughts. Her table at Galatoire’s had unaccountably turned into the Mad Hatter’s tea party! King pushed his chair back. “Well… I’ll leave you two together,” he announced, rising to his feet. “Dylan, can you see the lady home to Julia Street?”

“Julia Street? How divine. That’s perfect!” Dylan exclaimed.

“Why do you say that?”

“Well… don’t you feel right at home?” Dylan asked mischievously.

“Yes… but—”

“We’ll talk about all that later,” Dylan assured her with a breezy wave of his well-manicured hand. “Okay, gorgeous,” he announced to King. “Leave us to it.” He turned just in time to catch Corlis’s double take in response to Dylan’s endearment. “Such a tragedy for the gay community that Kingsbury Duvallon’s straight—but then, all the better for
you
,
isn’t it, Ms. McCullough? You’ve changed your mind about this guy, haven’t you?”

Corlis was flabbergasted by Dylan’s accurate observations. She felt naked and exposed by what he had just said in front of King and promptly flushed scarlet.

King gave Cezanne the high sign that they’d like to pay the check. To mask an unexpected stab of regret that King was leaving, Corlis reached beneath the table and retrieved her shoulder bag.

“I can put this on my expense account,” she announced emphatically. Then she immediately wondered if Andy Zamora would think it “strictly business” to pay for oysters Rockefeller at Galatoire’s.

“That’s very sweet of you to offer,” King replied swiftly, “but I asked
you
to dinner, remember?” He grinned at Dylan. “Thanks for responding to my call so quickly.” He patted the real estate broker on his well-tailored shoulder. “It’s nice to know that she’s safe with you, buddy.”

“Safe as a nun,” Dylan replied, breaking into laughter at his own joke. “Oh, by the way, King, I think I’ve found a buyer for that dilapidated property on Girod Street.”

“Really? That’s great news.”

“You wanna play angel again?” Dylan asked. “It’s a young schoolteacher and his wife who’s a social worker. They’ve got money for the down payment, but it’s their first house and the bank, well,
you
know—”

“Send me the paperwork,” King interjected, “and I’ll let you know.”

Dylan looked at Corlis as he chortled. “Now,
that
place’s gonna need space clearin’ big-time! Used to be a brothel, way back when. But, as is my custom…” He placed his hand over his heart with mock solemnity. “I wait till I’m called. Bye, sugar,” he added affectionately to King.

“So long, Dylan. Remember now,” he cautioned good-naturedly. “I’m counting on you to make sure the lady gets back to Julia Street, her aura intact.”

Corlis took a deep draught from her freshly poured cup of coffee. She watched King pay their check and make his way out of the restaurant while she considered her host’s unusual brand of private philanthropy. When she returned her attention to her new dinner companion, Dylan Fouché was in the act of poking his fork delicately into a slice of key lime pie. Suddenly Corlis recalled the milky-green absinthe quaffed by the distraught Adelaide LaCroix as her husband fled into the arms of Martine Fouché.

Dylan looked up from his dessert and stared fixedly at Corlis with eyes that were the most amazing amber color—just like Martine’s. Their golden translucence held her in his gaze, and she felt, instantly, that she could tell him anything. Just like to a priest.

And she did.

Chapter 15

March 13

It was a few minutes after 1:00 a.m. before Dylan and Corlis glanced at the clock on her mantelpiece. They’d left Galatoire’s, driven back to Corlis’s place, and had been talking for hours.

One flight below on Julia Street, the neighborhood of warehouses and art galleries had grown quiet—except for the occasional truck driving past and turning left onto St. Charles Avenue, where moss-green streetcars glided by with decreasing frequency as the night wore on.

She had been relieved when Dylan took her description of the world of Martine Fouché in stride. He’d stopped teasing and now sat with a serious expression on the love seat in her parlor, sipping a third cup of strong, black Café du Monde coffee from a dainty white-and-gold porcelain demitasse.

“Have you ever heard of this kind of thing happening to people before?” she asked anxiously, having described at some length the details of the strange series of visitations she’d experienced since Christmastime. To her chagrin, Dylan shook his head.

“Oh, I’ve heard of many individual experiences along these lines,” he assured her, “but I don’t think I’ve ever encountered anyone like you who had such a long-running and varied picture show!” Then he added in a surprisingly grave tone of voice, “Now, you’d tell
me
,
wouldn’t you, m’dear, if you were in the habit of smoking funny stuff or popping pills?”

“Yes, I would—and no, I’m not,” she replied stiffly.

“Well…” he drawled, “you’re from California, so I hope you understand why I feel I have to ask.”

“Yes, Father Fouché,” she said with an edge of sarcasm. Then she gave him a frustrated look. “Sometimes, Dylan, it can be very difficult to tell when you’re serious and when you’re putting me on.”

“That’s one of the reasons my bishop and I thought it wiser for me to leave the orthodox priesthood and find some other vocation, like real estate.”

“Well, do you think you could give me some clue about what could possibly be going on here—and how I can get it to stop?”

“I can try to explain it,” he said, “but this time it’ll be
your
turn to see if you believe what I’m telling you.”

“Try me,” she said, kicking off the high heels she’d worn to Galatoire’s. She sat, feet curled up under her on the large club chair opposite him.

Dylan glanced around the parlor and slowly rose to his feet.

“This is as good a place to start as any,” he said. “You were lying on this couch where I’m sitting now, correct, when you suddenly found yourself staring at a dead body in a coffin a couple of blocks from here in the French Quarter?”