Authors: Midnight on Julia Street
“I did.” King nodded brusquely as a woman with perfectly coiffed hair and a brittle smile also stepped into the kitchen. “I thought you and Dad were on Patrick Ryan’s yacht this weekend?”
“We were,” King’s mother said shortly, “but your father wanted to come home early to watch some baseball game.” The couple exchanged steely-eyed looks. Obviously there had been words on the journey home from the Gulf.
“Mother… Dad… meet Corlis McCullough,” King said. “Corlis, this is my mother, Antoinette, and my father, Waylon.” To his parents he said, “We just came by to check on Bethany and Grandmother Kingsbury. Gotta run. I’m just going to drop Corlis off at… her office.”
“So
you’re
Corlis McCullough?” Antoinette exclaimed. “From WJAZ, am I right?”
Still feeling shaky from her recent ordeal, all Corlis could do was nod.
“You’re the TV gal that did the story about the wedding,” Waylon said accusingly. “And aren’t you also the lady, all the way from California, helping King here, stir up that bad publicity about the Selwyn buildings over on Canal Street?”
“I live in New Orleans now,” Corlis replied, wondering how best she and King could make a rapid exit without seeming impolite.
Antoinette took a step closer to Corlis and said with an expression of solicitude that set Corlis’s teeth on edge, “You were the one who did that real nice segment recently about the symphony’s annual luncheon, didn’t you?” She turned to Waylon. “There were some lovely shots of our floral centerpieces she showed on TV, Waylon,” she reminded her husband sharply. Then she smiled ingratiatingly at Corlis. “That was real sweet of you to give Flowers by Duvallon such a big boost.”
Corlis nodded politely at both Mr. and Mrs. Duvallon. “I’m glad you were pleased,” she managed lamely.
Just then King’s grandmother appeared in the kitchen doorway on her walker, flanked by Aunt Bethany. Antoinette frowned and said, “It’s not time for mother’s lunch yet, Bethany.”
“She heard your voices and wanted to come down to be with everybody,” Aunt Bethany said timidly. She nodded in friendly fashion at Corlis and added, “She also wanted to meet King’s friend, didn’t you, Mother? She likes to watch you on TV.”
“How do you do, Mrs. Kingsbury?” Corlis offered warmly.
“Very pretty,” the frail old lady said, nodding solemnly. “Very, very pretty.”
King’s mother plastered another smile on her face and directed Bethany, “You’ll have to organize Mother’s dinner tonight. The drive home just wore me out. I think I’ll lie down, and then I have my bridge club later.”
“Well, we’re off,” King interjected quickly. He deposited a quick kiss on the cheek of his grandmother and aunt. Then he nodded in the direction of his parents and swiftly guided Corlis out the kitchen’s back door.
They walked in silence to his car. Finally Corlis said, “King… can I ask you a question? Your mother and father
saw
the WWEZ-TV piece about Daphne’s wedding, right?”
“They sure did,” King replied, putting his key in the ignition and starting the Jaguar.
“Then why was your mother so civil to me, and why did
she compliment me on the symphony luncheon story—which, by the way, was a totally worthless exercise in puff!”
King headed the car toward the Warehouse District. “Number one,” he said, staring stonily through the windshield, “when it comes to Flowers by Duvallon, Mother loves publicity. Number two, in Louisiana, a person might kill you, but they’ll be
real
polite doing it. And number three, it’s not a magnolia’s style to tell you what she
really
thinks.”
“Wow,” Corlis said on a long breath. After a pause she added, “Your father seemed a little…”
“Testy? Abrupt? Rude?” King inquired with undisguised sarcasm. He thrust out his chin and spoke in a voice that was a close echo of Waylon Duvallon’s. “‘How much you makin’ now, boy? How ’bout payin’ me back for bein’ your daddy all these years?’”
“I caught the dig about the Jaguar.”
“My daddy doesn’t approve of the way I spend and donate the money I’ve earned,” King said in an exaggerated drawl. “Says I owe him an early retirement.”
“He talks to
you
that way? And what about your mother?”
“She’s mainly interested in finding out if I’ve been granted tenure yet.” King flashed Corlis an ironic smile. “The son of one of her cousins is also up for the same slot. You remember him—Jonathan Poole.”
“
Not
the guy named to Grover Jeffries’s so-called Chair of Historic Preservation?” she said with a gasp.
“The very one.”
“A relative?” she confirmed philosophically.
“In Louisiana? What else?”
She reached across the Jaguar’s plush leather seat and patted his hand resting on the steering wheel. “They’d be crazy not to give you full tenure and a corner office!”
“Thank you, sugar,” he replied quietly. “Believe me, I appreciate the vote of confidence in a town where the opposition to saving historic buildings usually comes from my parents’ best friends and business associates.” Then he appeared to regain his even disposition and said with a grin, “Hey! Look at it this way. If I lose my teaching job over fighting for the Selwyn buildings, then I can give more time to the Preservation Resource Center—”
“Not to mention becoming a billionaire with your investments,” she teased.
“That depends on the crazy market.” He nodded judiciously. “And guess what else? I’d just be down the block from you!” His lighthearted tone reassured Corlis he’d at least partially recovered his morale. “Maybe I can stand under your window after midnight, and you can tell me more about André, the friendly ghost?”
“He wasn’t so friendly. He was depressed, big-time,” she replied soberly. Then, as dispassionately as she could, Corlis related the numerous instances in the last few months where her sense of smell had transported her to pre–Civil War New Orleans. Once again, she choked up when she described André Duvallon’s suicide.
“It’s all right, sweetheart,” King said soothingly as he reached for her hand. “It must’ve been a real frightening experience for you today. Tell me why you think André Duvallon took his own life.”
To her relief none of King’s questions was facetious or skeptical, and he listened intently to her answers. “You know,” she mused as King turned his car into Julia Street, “André Duvallon clearly hated the Americans that were pouring into New Orleans in the 1830s and 40s.”
“The enmity between the two cultures is well documented,” King agreed. “Why would a man with André’s background feel any differently toward money-grubbing Yankees who were trying to take over everything? His despair about being extorted apparently drove him to end his life.”
“I can’t
believe
we’re talking so casually about my seeing some apparition of
him in
your front parlor! Tell the truth, now. You don’t think I’ve got a screw loose or am coming unglued, do you?”
“No more than I am,” he responded ruefully. King parked the Jaguar in front of Corlis’s front door and turned off the ignition. Then he tilted his head back, lowered his lids, and regarded her speculatively. “And even if you are, it doesn’t change
one
thing.”
“And that is?” she asked warily.
“You may be wacky, but you’re still a great kisser.”
“King!” Corlis protested. “Be serious.”
“Would you consider letting this source kiss you one last time before you turn into a pumpkin?”
“King… no! We made a deal, remember, and we’d better start getting used to it. Besides, I don’t trust either of us to exercise restraint in the kissing department.”
He arched an eyebrow and gripped the steering wheel with both hands.
“Okay… a deal’s a deal, but you’ll pay later, Ace. Big-time.”
“Fine by me,” she said, her spirits lightening a notch. She turned and held his gaze, yearning to touch him again. “However,” she added regretfully, “given the heat that the Selwyn buildings fight is bound to generate from here out, I don’t think you and I should be talking about ghosts—or anything else that isn’t strictly to do with the story.”
“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.