Ciji Ware (51 page)

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 immediately 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.”