Ciji Ware (16 page)

“Exactly!” He lowered his flashlight and smiled benignly at Corlis, adding, “There’s a lot more research to be done to find out who built ’em.”

“And now they’re on Grover’s hit list?” she murmured. “What a crime.”

“Most people don’t
know
what beauty exists behind this aluminum screen. My guess is Grover wants to move fast before anyone figures it all out, and Lafayette Marchand is helping to smooth the way, the son of a bitch! The two of them have been busy setting the stage for twenty or thirty stories of steel and glass to replace what’s been sitting on this land for a century and a half.”

For a moment Corlis chewed her lower lip in thought then asked, “What do you think the chances are of finding a few direct
descendants
of the original owners who might still be living here in New Orleans?”

“Well…” King considered slowly, “you could look in the files at the city’s building department. They go pretty far back, and maybe you could find the names of the people who were the driving forces behind constructing the place back in 1840. You could also check out the earliest deeds for the property to see who’s listed as the first owners.”

“All that stuff’s public record isn’t it?” she said enthusiastically. An idea had begun to form in her mind that would be more intriguing to WJAZ’s viewers than the usual one-minute-fifteen-second take about another bunch of buildings threatened by the wrecker’s ball. “What are the buildings like inside?”

“Want to have a quick look?” he inquired, glancing at his watch. “Unfortunately, I’ve got to be at a meeting at the Preservation Resource Center in half an hour, but I can at least give you a sense of what the interiors looked like in the old days.”

He gave a push to the revolving glass door and followed her inside to a small dingy lobby. Shabby ceramic tile lined the walls and ceiling, an interior feature that must have been installed about the same time as the homely metal exterior.

“The place looks pretty deserted,” Corlis noted, her voice echoing throughout the lobby as they walked along.

“A lot of the businesses housed in this block closed down. One or two ambulance-chasing lawyers and a few accountants still lease the upper floors.”

King placed his hand lightly under her elbow and guided her to his left and through a fire door. Instantly she was transported into another era. A long, dimly lit corridor met her gaze, flanked by waist-high wooden wainscoting that ran the length of the hallway. Doorframes on both sides were decorated with wood-carved medallions studding each corner. Paint the color of lemon curd curled from most wall surfaces, and the single light bulb hanging from a broken fixture overhead cast eerie shadows in their path.

“This wing is completely abandoned now,” he said. “Fortunately, this particular section still retains much of its original construction and ornamentation.”

Suddenly the sound of a cell phone ringing startled them both.

“Oh, heck… is that
me
?”
she asked, fumbling in her purse.

“No, it’s my mobile, I think,” King said as he rummaged inside his bulging leather briefcase. “Hello?” He shook his head. “The static’s terrible! Hold on a sec, will you?” He apologized to Corlis. “ ’Scuse me, sugar. I’ll just step out into the lobby and see who this is. Be right back, okay?”

Well, there goes lunch,
Corlis thought wistfully, resigned that King wasn’t likely to break himself any time soon from his habit of calling everyone of the female persuasion “sugar.” She silently concluded she’d simply have to grab her customary doughnut and coffee before she went to edit the story Virgil had shot earlier that day. Walking farther down the hallway, she ignored her incipient headache, which was verging on something more serious.

King’s steps faded in the distance as Corlis absently ran her fingertips over a carved wooden door on her right, leaving her hand covered in dust. When she cracked the door open a couple of inches, a sudden cool draft of air raised the hairs on the back of her arm. Inside she discovered an anteroom with curtainless windows where a small rusted heater stood in a corner, along with an old lead-lined sink and sideboard. Beyond she caught sight of an arched entrance, swathed in darkness. The dank and dismal place might have been, most recently, an old laundry room or perhaps a photographer’s darkroom, she speculated. Slowly she advanced toward the archway. Peering through the gloom, she could see a shadowed stairwell against the wall on her right that led to a second story. In the air Corlis could swear she smelled a faint aroma of natural gas.

“This old place is probably a deathtrap,” she muttered, turning to leave.

Then she glanced toward the landing, conscious that her head had begun to ache in earnest, a sure signal she should eat something. She dug into her handbag, hoping for a chocolate bar. No luck.

Suddenly she was startled by the sound of angry voices. The words that floated toward her were indistinguishable, but loud enough to let her know an argument had started.

Curious, she took another step toward the archway that led into the second room. Her eyes slowly became accustomed to the light, as if someone had mysteriously turned up a dimmer switch. In the anteroom the sink and heater had vanished, and in their place a small brocade love seat stood against one wall, illuminated by a two-tiered gas chandelier. Corlis stared at the ceiling, mesmerized by the lighting fixture’s faceted glass icicles winking overhead.

Gaslight?

She walked through the archway into the larger space that was sparsely but elegantly furnished. A silver tray filled with calling cards stood on a mahogany piecrust table. Whereas a moment before the windows in both rooms had been bare, now midnight-blue velvet curtains etched with gold braid and tassels cascaded in graceful folds down the wall. The carved oak stairs were carpeted in a rich floral pattern, while the surface of the walls fairly pulsed with paint the color of cinnabar, accented by white wooden moldings and trim.

She mounted the first few stairs and felt a familiar pounding in her chest. The railing felt solid beneath her hand, and the sound of voices could distinctly be heard from behind a closed door at the top of the landing. Corlis felt herself drawn to the top of the stairs…

***

The closer Corlis Bell McCullough came to the second-floor landing, the more the May heat intensified. Her instincts were to flee back down the stairs and out into the sultry air blanketing Canal Street. However, spellbound by the sound of a ferocious female voice shouting from behind the paneled door, she remained paralyzed on the landing.

“Julien LaCroix! Stop this at once!”

Next she heard the sound of some object being thrown against a wall.

“Damn you both!” shouted a male voice in reply.

“Julien!” The woman’s voice went up a notch. “I simply cannot permit this! Control yourself! It is outrageous that you should barge in like this… especially
now
!”

“I suppose you expect me to leave my calling card, like Etienne—or Henri Girard—once did?” The man’s words were laced with both fury and the pain of betrayal. “I am the
father
of this infant son, Althea Fouché, and I demand to hear from Martine’s own lips how she could have kept from me knowledge of my family’s involvement!”

“Julien…” another voice, soft and pleading, protested weakly. “You are no gentleman to be behaving this way. You must go at once.” Then, in a husky, conciliatory tone, the woman added, “We will talk when I have regained my strength. I promise you. Return in two days’ time and I shall—”

“You shall do
what
?”
he shouted. “Erase all that has happened? Mend what cannot be mended? Martine, you two have
lied
and
cheated
and
deceived
us all! I suppose you were in league with Randall McCullough and Ian Jeffries all along, weren’t you?”

“Never!” Althea exclaimed.

“Well, believe me, those two blackguards will be run out of New Orleans forever, if I don’t kill them first!” Julien threatened savagely. “And your daughter, Lisette, will never forgive you when she learns of your treachery!”

Corlis Bell McCullough inhaled swiftly and stepped deeper into the shadows on the landing.

“Lisette will understand that what was done was done for her future and her brother’s future!” countered the woman whom the man had addressed as Althea. “The McCulloughs were in league with you and Ian Jeffries to wrest this land from Martine, and all the while, you protested your love for her!”

“I did love her! I
do
love you, Martine,” the man cried in anguish, “but you never revealed the truth about Henri and my father! And you never told me that André Duvallon—”

“All you really wanted was the deed to the Canal Street property,” interrupted Althea. “My daughter may not be bold enough to say it, but I shall! You’ve behaved like a cad!”

“Julien?” asked the softer voice identified as Martine. “What could you expect me to do under the circumstances?”

Before Corlis could duly consider what was being said about her husband and Ian, the door across from where she stood in the shadows was yanked open. She swiftly retreated farther down the hallway just as a figure in a dark tail-coated suit and vest and starched white collar suddenly appeared on the threshold. Behind him in the dimly lit chamber, a golden-skinned woman lay with her back propped up against lacy pillows piled high on a garnet brocade chaise longue. A tiny baby lay sleeping in her arms, amazingly deaf to the angry exchanges by the adults.

“Julien—” the new mother beseeched.

“I cannot answer for what I might do, Martine, if I remain here a moment longer!” declared the distraught visitor.

“Then go!” ordered the outraged grandmother of the newborn. Althea stood dressed in a floor-length russet gown at the foot of the elegant chaise.

The young man, whose dark mustache contrasted sharply with his pale, perspiring complexion, cast a withering glance at the light-skinned, middle-aged Negress. Althea glared back at him. Her lovely, reclining daughter, Martine, brought her hands to her face. Her amber eyes were luminous with tears that began to spill down her cheeks.

Ignoring Martine’s show of emotion, Julien abruptly stormed out of the room and down the staircase. Again Corlis flattened herself against the wall. However, the tormented young man appeared oblivious to her presence.

Althea strode toward the open door, the hem of her taffeta bustle sweeping across the sitting room’s plush Persian carpet. She scowled at Julien’s retreating back. Then she flung shut the door with a resounding bang.

***

Corlis jumped as if someone had trod on her toe, startled by the sound of screeching brakes as a cacophony of angry motorists on the street outside the Selwyn buildings honked their horns in frustration.

Bewildered, she turned on the landing and gazed at the small anteroom below, now plunged into darkness. She was astonished to note that there was no sign of the man called Julien LaCroix, and no gas-illumined crystal chandelier hung suspended overhead. Nor was there any longer floral carpeting on the stairs.

There was, however, a faint whisper of natural gas floating in the air.

Or was it merely mustiness? Corlis asked herself, gazing doubtfully at the old heater, which looked as if it hadn’t had a working pilot light in decades.

The room was bare of any furniture, and the only light filtering into the deserted chamber came from the outer hallway’s naked bulb glowing through the half-opened door to the corridor.

“Corlis?
Corlis!
”

As if through a fog, she recognized the deep timbre of King Duvallon’s voice calling her name. By this time a splitting headache pounded behind her eyes. And as had occurred at Saint Louis Cathedral during the Ebert-Duvallon wedding, Corlis actually felt as if she might faint.

It had happened
again
!

She had been a witness to another tumultuous event in a time period in which her ancestor Corlis Bell McCullough had lived! But what were people named Fouché and LaCroix doing here?

She suppressed a small gasp of recognition.

Fouché? As in Dylan Fouché, the real estate broker who King said doubled as a ghostbuster?

None of this made a bit of sense.

Corlis promised herself that from now on, she’d start taking time out to eat lunch—no matter what!

The sound of King’s voice grew louder.

“Hey, California! Where are you?”

More to the point, Corlis thought, leaning weakly against a wall of peeling crimson paint, where have I
been
?

“Corlis!” King called, more insistently.

“Here,” she replied, amazed that she could even speak. “I’m in
here
!”

She clutched the banister in a death grip and descended the steps. Then, decidedly shaky, she moved beyond the archway and through the anteroom toward the half-opened door. An overwhelming sense of relief flooded through her as she caught sight of King Duvallon’s tall, broad-shouldered figure advancing down the hallway. She sagged against the doorjamb and breathed deeply of a fresh supply of air.