Ciji Ware (25 page)

King glanced at her curiously and asked, “Do you work
all
the time, Ace? Don’t you take time off once in a while to have a little fun?”

It was a legitimate question, she acknowledged silently.
When was the last time she’d had fun?

“Oh… the hell with it,” she exclaimed, removing her sling-back heels and carrying them in her hand. “These things are killing me. Do you have any Merlot?”

“How’s a bottle of Sunstone? I stocked up on some California wines today just for you.”

“You did?” she asked, touched. “Sunstone’s a
fabulous
wine! It’s from a little winery near Los Olivos, north of Santa Barbara. I
love
it!” She smiled at him. “You’re just full of surprises, Professor. Sunstone. Wow.”

Within minutes, wineglasses in hand, King and Corlis returned to the downstairs office, where he opened a large cardboard tube and unrolled a pair of architectural drawings.

“Have a look at this,” he said, placing them on the conference table with a flourish. “The librarian at the Historic New Orleans Collection is a regular Sherlock Holmes.”

Corlis padded in her bare feet to his side and bent to peer over his shoulders. “The Selwyn buildings?” she asked, her glance taking in the sketch of horse-drawn carriages and an omnibus full of men sporting top hats and women holding parasols—
just like the one Corlis Bell McCullough had been clutching the day she’d stood on the levee, waiting for Julien and Adelaide LaCroix’s ship to dock!

“Yup… the very same structures,” King declared, nodding, “This was done around 1842, we think. A year or so after the building opened for business. All twenty-three original sections of the block can be seen in this sketch. See the commercial enterprises on the street level?” He pointed at signs that denoted a haberdasher, a milliner, and a large dry goods shop, among others. “Many of these merchants lived above their own establishments in fine style.” He pointed out an insert drawing on the lower left corner. “One section on the back of the block that faces Common Street apparently housed a saddlery, a ladies’ dress shop, and the offices of cotton and sugarcane merchants who were exporting products grown on plantations upriver to buyers all over the world.”

The hair on the back of Corlis’s neck lifted slightly.

“Look at that,” she murmured. She pointed to a sign sketched above one doorway. “It says ‘LaCroix and Company—Exporters of Cotton and Sugarcane.’ LaCroix… as in your bed.”

And mine?
she considered silently.

Her gaze shifted from the drawings to King’s face, alight with enthusiasm.

“What a sleuth you are, Ace. I didn’t even notice it.”

This is the building where Julien LaCroix stormed up the stairs into the private living quarters of Martine Fouché the building that may have been constructed by Ian Jeffries and my own ancestor, Randall McCullough!

“It’s just all too weird,” she said.

“What is?”

“Nothing,” she said, embarrassed. “Have your preservation guerrillas come across any more documentation about who built these?” she inquired, doing her utmost to appear calm. “Names, other than LaCroix, that I could trace to see if any descendants currently live in New Orleans? I think our television viewers might relate more personally to the case being made for preserving these buildings if they could see them in terms of human connections to the past—and not just in terms of saving the bricks and mortar.”

“Smart cookie,” King agreed with an approving nod. “And a good place to start is to talk to the librarian at the Historic New Orleans Collection who found this for me. I’ll give her a call and tell her what we’re looking for.”

“I can call her.” Corlis gathered up her purse and set her wineglass on the table. “Thanks a million for the lead,” she said in her most professional tone. Then she turned and asked, “By the way… who’s Jitters?”

King gave her a measured look and said, “You mean the ‘Jitters’ mentioned on my phone message? Why didn’t you leave word when you called earlier?”

Busted!

Corlis could feel herself blush.

“I… ah… had another incoming call right then, so I hung up and took it,” she fibbed. “Well, who is Jitters?”

“A kitten that I rescued from a Dumpster just after Christmas. Meeting Cagney Cat inspired me, I guess.”

“Where is he?” she asked, looking around the room again.

“He’s still a scaredy-cat… very jumpy. He’s probably beneath the bed upstairs hiding out.”

“Hence the name Jitters.”

“You got it.”

“That reminds me, I have to go home to feed my cat,” she said, avoiding his piercing look.

“From what I’ve seen of Mr. Cagney, that boy could afford to miss supper occasionally. You, on the other hand, could use a good meal. Let me take you to dinner.”

At that moment she knew if she held his gaze an instant longer, she would throw herself against his well-muscled chest and ask to be served breakfast in bed. However, ignoring his invitation, she said, “Cagney wouldn’t thank you for suggesting he skip dinner.” Despite her best intentions, she looked directly at King, nearly drowning in the dark blue pools of his eyes. After a pause she heard herself saying, “You do know, don’t you, that I’d really love to have dinner with you?”

“Then do.”

“We can’t. I mean, I can’t.”

“Why ever not?”

“You’ve been involved in enough controversies around here to know why.”

“Maybe,” he admitted slowly, “but I want
you
to tell me why.”

“King!” she protested. “You’re not being fair. You know perfectly well why.”

“All I know is a conflict of interest exists if there’s a personal relationship between reporter and source. Our dinner would be strictly business, sugar.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “Then why, after I repeatedly have asked you not to, do you continue to call me
sugar
and
sweetheart
and
darlin’
—not to mention
Ace
!” She held up her half-empty wineglass. “And if it’s just business, why am I having a glass of wine with you in my bare feet—
in your home
?”

King gave her a measured look and seemed to admit defeat.

“Because… there might be
more
than business going on here, am I right?”

Without a word she quickly slipped on her shoes, shouldered her bag, and glanced around the office regretfully. “I’d better be on my way.”

After a long, awkward pause, King said quietly, “Let me walk you to your car.”

Before she turned to leave, Corlis saluted him with her rolled-up 1840s rendering of the threatened Selwyn buildings. “Thanks a lot for this.”

King escorted her to the courtyard entrance of the house and pushed the button to activate the gates. Meanwhile Corlis quickly opened her car door and slipped into the driver’s seat.

“Last chance,” he said, ambling toward her over paving stones surrounded by springy green moss. “Sure you won’t have supper with me?”

For a long moment, Corlis reconsidered his proposition. She also took into account the unholy attraction she was feeling toward this man—an allure she could no longer ignore.

Honest reporters don’t carry on personal relationships with their sources.

“I really appreciate your asking me,” she said earnestly, looking up at the devilishly handsome figure leaning against her car. A person
could
drown in those blue eyes, she thought. “But as long as I’m assigned to this story, and you’re a player in the piece, I can’t accept any invitations. Do you understand?” she asked, trying to keep the pleading tone out of her voice.

“Ace, you’re something else,” he said. He flashed her a grin. “But
you
have to understand something. This is Louisiana, darlin’… so it’s kinda hard for a poor southern boy like me to follow every single rule you Yankees set down.”

“I’m not a Yankee!” she retorted. “I’m a
westerner
.”

“That’s probably why I like you so much,” he replied, composing his features into a deadpan expression. “I always knew you had that pioneering spirit. Want to meet at the library tomorrow morning, ’bout eleven o’clock? I can show you the ropes.”

Corlis shot him a doubtful look then laughed. “It’s business, right?”

“Absolutely. Just business.” Then he leaned a fraction closer and added, “But right now, we’re both off the clock.”

Without warning he leaned inside the car, cupped her face between his hands, and kissed her soundly on the lips. And instead of pushing against his embrace, she could only marvel at his wickedly sensuous assault on her nervous system. Even worse, her only desire was to open the car door and follow him up to the magnificent bedroom at the top of the stairs.

McCullough, you are certifiable!

King took a step back and stared down at her with an unmistakable gleam of triumph in his eye. “Now you take good care of that cat of yours, sugar pie… and sleep tight.”

Chapter 11

March 12

The next morning Corlis stopped off at the city’s historic records building on her way to her scheduled meeting with King. Once inside the archive, she opened a nearby window and allowed plenty of fresh air to waft through the basement where rows of shelves were bulging with old documents.

She was leaving nothing to chance.

After inhaling deeply she found herself smiling.

Then, once again, she swiftly began to scan the accordion-pleated folder containing papers that chronicled the history of the 600 block of Canal Street. She searched for any documents relating to the original owners and builders of the twenty-three structures that had once been on the site.

“Bingo!” she whispered when she found the signature of one “Ian Jeffries” affixed to the building plans submitted to the city in 1839. Stunned to have located what she was looking for so easily, she stared at the yellowed document for several minutes.

“Glory, glory,” she murmured. Her heart began to race while she fingered the brittle paper. Beneath Jeffries’s sweeping penmanship, the foreman on the project had also signed his name: Randall McCullough.

Corlis leaned back in her chair and slowly shook her head in disbelief. It unnerved her to think that she had somehow accessed her ancestor’s life. Were these signatures proof positive that some sort of system was at work whereby descendants of people with unfinished business got to rub shoulders generations later—as sort of a cosmic joke—just to see what would happen? Or was this evidence that the modern-day Corlis McCullough was going bonkers?

She scribbled the reference to the aged building permit into her reporter’s notebook. Then she returned the file to its proper folder and headed for the exit in order to keep her appointment with King on Chartres Street.

Corlis eased her car into a narrow parking space in the crowded French Quarter and did her utmost not to think about the beautiful balconied house on Dauphine and Ursulines streets—or King’s unexpected ten-alarm kiss. Did she dare tell him about the extraordinary linkages she kept uncovering between people she now knew—or knew of—in New Orleans and long-deceased figures involved in the buildings on Canal Street? For the moment, at least, she decided she would keep what she’d learned this morning to herself lest she stretch King’s faith in her sanity too far.

The Williams Library, where the Historic New Orleans Collection archives were housed, was located in the heart of the Quarter in a turn-of-the-century courthouse built in the beaux arts style. The grand old building had been restored and refurbished as a state-of-the-art specialized repository.

Talk about your adaptive re-use!
Corlis thought admiringly as she reached the second floor and walked through brass-studded, leather-upholstered doors into the main reading room. The lofty chamber was built to a majestic scale, with high ceilings, fanlight windows, and long, mahogany library tables resting on a richly woven, gold-and-navy carpet. She immediately spotted King leaning casually against the reference desk, speaking in a low voice with a middle-aged woman with dark close-cropped hair.

As for Professor Duvallon, today he sported a dark green polo shirt and freshly pressed chinos, a combination that subtly complemented the richness of the library’s decor.

“Hey, Ace… whatcha know?”

I know that I’d better ignore that kiss last night, Mr. Preservation!

King swiftly introduced her to the director of the library. Corlis’s gaze shifted to several bulging files resting on the librarian’s desk. “Have you two found any more documentation about the people who built the 600 block of Canal?” she inquired with a growing sense of excitement.

“I’ve pulled together some material King asked me to research,” the librarian replied. “Perhaps you’ll find something in this folder that will head you in the right direction.” She smiled. “In fact, I think you’re both in for a few surprises.”