Ciji Ware Read online

  In the next instant King pushed the bride into the backseat, speedily stowed her long, lacy train inside as if he were gathering an unwieldy parachute, and climbed in after her, slamming the door. A second later the sleek black Cadillac sped away—destination unknown.

  “Oh… my God!” Corlis exclaimed as she and her crew headed back inside the church in time to see gaggles of dismayed wedding guests leaving their pews. “She did it!” she said in an awed tone of voice. “She blew that two-timing creep right outta the water!”

  ***

  By the time Corlis had broadcast the story of the disastrous Ebert-Duvallon wedding, edited with spine-tingling speed, barely in time to make the late evening news, she’d all but forgotten the strange apparition of the Victorian-era bride and groom at the church. It was nearly eleven, and feeling drained and dead tired, she gathered up her things and left the newsroom.

  In the hallway, Larry, the janitor, stopped dead in his tracks when he saw her. He was toting a poster-sized photograph. Corlis gaped at the glossy color image of herself in full makeup and the requisite lady-broadcaster’s solid turquoise linen blazer.

  “Oh, Miz McCullough,” the janitor said, shaking his head. For a brief two months, her picture had graced the lunchroom wall, along with those of the rest of the WWEZ-TV broadcast team. “I’ve got bad news for you, sugar. Mr. Girard done tol’ me to take this down.”

  “Wha—?” Corlis asked, dumbfounded. The janitor was delivering this news? “How can I be fired? The story just aired ten minutes ago!”

  “Mr. Girard called me on m’cell. Mad as a snake, I’m ’fraid. Tol’ me to go right into the lunchroom tonight and—”

  “But why?” Corlis protested. “That wedding turned out to be an incredible story! The video was fabulous! I thought I wrote it well, and—”

  “But, sugar,” Larry interrupted patiently, “the news editor and the director both done tol’ me they tried to get you to call higher-ups tonight before you went and put that thing on TV.”

  “Oh, Larry, those guys are always a bunch of wusses in situations like this!”

  “Yeah, but sweetheart, if you’d done called the big boss, he’d have tol’ you that he’s Mr. René Ebert’s second cousin on his mama’s side.”

  “You mean Victor Girard, as in the owner of WWEZ-TV?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You’re telling me, then, that the philandering groom’s father—René Ebert—and my boss, Mr. Girard, are kissing cousins?” Corlis exclaimed, and then added in a small, defeated voice, “And so… that’s why we were assigned to cover this particular wedding? Just a family puff piece?”

  “I ’spect that’s right.”

  “And Victor Girard, then, was the person who provided the assignment desk with all that inside information about the two prominent local families?”

  “I ’spect so, sugar,” Larry nodded with a sad, knowing smile.

  “Nobody told me that.”

  “In N’awlings, darlin’… all them other white folks’d figure you already knew.”

  Chapter 2

  December 21

  Just after midnight Corlis stood on the carpeted ramp that led to the deserted newsroom and surveyed the rows of empty reporters’ desks and the news set beyond. The cavernous studio was shrouded in darkness, except for a few lights glowing in the assignment editor’s office, whose large picture window overlooked the open floor plan.

  Fired!

  Again!

  Sensations of mild panic and bubbling rage boiled in her solar plexus as she stood holding in her arms a cardboard file box filled with the contents of her desk. She’d been in New Orleans for less than two months and already she’d been canned. Axed. Deep-sixed. Outplaced!

  What is it with me? she wondered as moisture rimmed her eyes. Do I have some sort of Wage Earner Personality Disorder or something?

  For a long moment she gazed around her and then she turned on her heel and fled the newsroom before the security guard arrested her for stealing her own laptop.

  ***

  By the time she arrived at her brick row house on Julia Street, upriver from the French Quarter, the leaden weight that had pressed against her chest as she drove home had become an emotional volcano, poised to erupt. Fighting a lump in her throat the size of a praline, she trudged up the flight of stairs to her living quarters above the photographer’s gallery that fronted the deserted street. She balanced the cardboard carton full of her office possessions on one knee, while she opened the front door with her key and called out, “Cagney?”

  She was startled by the shaky sound of her voice and distressed when her twenty-three-pound marmalade tomcat didn’t deign to appear in the foyer to greet her.

  But then, Cagney Cat never came when called. It was a little game he played just to show her who was the boss on Julia Street. At times the feline’s red fur, slightly pugnacious attitude, and feisty independence prompted Corlis to think that the four-legged firebrand was the tough-guy actor, James Cagney… reincarnated.

  Forlornly calling out to him one last time, Corlis walked down the hall and dumped the box on the desk in her home office. The small room had been the scullery and broom closet when the building was constructed in 1832, a time when most of the surrounding warehouses had yet to be built. Back then there had been plenty of servants available to scour and clean other people’s parlors. As of tonight, however, she couldn’t even afford her twice-a-month cleaning woman!

  A long soak in a steaming bubble bath did nothing to soothe her soul, nor did the stiff shot of bourbon she downed from a Waterford crystal tumbler before crawling into bed. As she lay in the darkness, unable to sleep, listening to the late-night street noises up and down the old Warehouse District, Corlis had only one thought.

  God almighty, what would Great-Aunt Marge say this time?

  Would Aunt Marge, a celebrated reporter, consider tonight’s broadcast an example of heads-up journalism or another act of professional suicide? Had Corlis shot herself in the foot—again—or merely fired a volley on behalf of great reporting in a town that was too politically conservative and inbred to tolerate such an act of First Amendment freedom?

  Everyone thinks I’m such a tough cookie, a chip off the old block. She reached for a tissue as tears began to spill down her cheeks. Well, I’m not!

  It was nearly 10:30 p.m. in California. Struggling for composure, she turned on the bedside light. After a moment’s hesitation she reached for the phone beside her four-poster plantation bed that no man’s form had yet to grace. Margery McCullough’s number rang four times before her voice mail picked up. At eighty-eight years old, the self-described favorite “sob sister news hen” of the long-deceased newspaper tycoon William Randolph Hearst embraced all the latest electronic gadgets, including a laptop computer that she had purchased for herself when she bestowed a duplicate model on her great-niece as a going-away present.

  “You can leave a message here for Margery McCullough,” announced a strong, vibrant voice. “I’m either writing my memoirs and ignoring this call… or on my other line… or I’m out on the town! Tell me who you are, and I’ll get back to you when I can.”

  What a woman! Corlis thought admiringly, hanging up without mentioning her most recent debacle. She didn’t want her great-aunt to come home to hear about this upsetting news and find it too late to call her back. Exhausted, she turned out her bedside light for the second time and stared woefully at the carved moldings decorating her ceiling, dimly visible in night’s gloom.

  After what had seemed like hours, Corlis reckoned she’d slept only fitfully, or not at all. At length, when the luminous dial on her bedside clock registered 5:30 a.m., the tears finally burst forth in earnest. Her crying soon prompted a few answering shrieks from a family of feral cats that had long made the back alley outside her bedroom window their nocturnal retreat. Embarrassed by her unrestrained outburst, she stifled her weeping, only to suffer alternating waves of anger and remorse that swept over her in unr
elenting succession.

  Aunt Marge and I thought my moving to New Orleans was the perfect solution—and look what happened! No job, looming debts, and now a really rotten résumé!

  She struggled to sit upright in bed and put her head in her hands. She was thirty-four years old. She’d been engaged once, had worked for six different TV stations in five different cities, and had been fired three times in a twelve-year career for telling the unvarnished truth. Not exactly a great track record.

  I bailed out of LA so I could get over that rat, Jay Kerlin. I’d hoped I’d make some really good friends here and maybe even get a life!

  A life? What she had on her hands here was a complete disaster!

  Corlis leaned against the headboard of her mahogany bed and pounded her fists on the mattress in a fit of frustration.

  With sudden determination she threw aside the covers, switched on her bedside light once again, and stood next to her canopied bed. The graceful antique loomed large in a bedroom distinguished by a classic carved marble fireplace and high ceilings. From a drawer in her mahogany highboy, she took out some running clothes, putting on a pair of gray sweatpants and a sweatshirt with the faded blue letters UCLA stamped across her chest. She grabbed a few dollars out of her purse and marched resolutely toward her front door.

  It was nearly six when she emerged from her brick building into the moisture-laden morning air and gazed briefly at the globe of yellow light atop the old-fashioned streetlamp. She knew perfectly well that she was taking her life into her hands walking the streets of the Big Easy at this early hour.

  So what if she got shot? she mused dejectedly, striding down Julia Street toward the river. At least it would solve her current dilemma—finding another job in a town where she’d already become a public pariah among the city’s upper crust.

  Fifteen minutes later Corlis cut across Convention Center Boulevard past the towering World Trade Center. She continued along the riverfront in the direction of Jackson Square in the French Quarter, focusing her gaze on the mist rising from the broad Mississippi on her right. When she reached Decatur Street, twinkling crystal lights winked at her from the magnificent magnolia trees that bordered the city plaza across from the Café du Monde, her early morning destination. Saint Louis Cathedral, the scene of last night’s calamity, stood sentinel over the square. The church’s triple spires soared heavenward and disappeared into the humid blue-gray fog of early morning, a leaden, murky atmosphere that could easily transform itself into a sultry rain at a moment’s notice. A yeasty aroma poured out of a bakery vent nearby.

  December in Louisiana.

  Dank. Disgusting. Decadent. Delicious.

  As she paused to absorb the magnificence of Jackson Square and its gated park, she indulged in a moment to consider how swiftly she’d fallen in love with the physical beauty of New Orleans—an exercise that only increased her gloom. Who would ever hire her in this town again? Victor Girard would hardly give her a glowing recommendation. Nor, obviously, would Jay Kerlin at her former station in LA.

  She caught sight of the café’s green-and-white awnings, also etched in pinpoints of sparkling lights, and was suddenly reminded that it was practically Christmas, a mere three more shopping days till the twenty-fifth. She’d been kept so busy at WWEZ, she hadn’t bought any presents for her few family members in California, to say nothing of shipping them west. And except for Virgil and Manny, she had no one to buy for in New Orleans. At least if she became a fatal crime statistic walking the streets at this hour, it certainly wouldn’t ruin anyone’s holiday around here.

  Get a grip, McCullough!

  Once at the celebrated Café du Monde, she drummed her fingers restlessly on the takeout counter in the courtyard.

  “Thank God this place stays open twenty-four hours a day,” she said to the clerk while she waited for her coffee. She was starved for conversation with somebody.

  “Yes ma’am,” the clerk said mechanically, handing Corlis the paper cup filled with café au lait.

  “Oooh, this feels so nice,” she added inanely, grateful for the cup’s soothing warmth spreading through her fingers.

  “Yes, ma’am.” The clerk nodded patiently, handing her a few silver coins and a small white bag containing an order of beignets, diamond-shaped raised doughnuts without holes that had been deep fat fried only seconds earlier and dredged in a thick layer of powdered sugar. After the night she’d had, beignets were the only antidote she could think of for her downward spiraling funk.

  As she took a sip of her pungent chicory-laced coffee while recrossing Decatur Street toward the park, her gaze traced the trajectory of winter sunlight filtering anemically through the trees that bordered Jackson Square.

  Gingerly, Corlis trod across the slate paving stones, slick with dew that fronted Saint Louis Cathedral, and encircled the park. On her right the Pontalba Building, with its refined red brick and granite four-story facade—along with its twin across the park on St. Peter Street—embodied the architectural essence of New Orleans. Lacy cast-iron galleries, bedecked with Christmas lights and seasonal swags of pine boughs and glittering decorations, ran the length of both blocks. These elegant buildings were thought to be among the oldest apartments in the New World. A place in the Pontalba offered one of the best addresses and most spectacular views in the entire city.

  Well… I’ll never live in one of those. Not now.

  Corlis walked slowly under the Pontalba’s arcade and caught sight of the homeless man with the scuffed boots whom she’d nearly tripped over the previous evening. At this early hour he lay curled up against one of the iron pillars supporting the building’s metal gallery overhead, a large piece of cardboard crimped over his shoulders. He was snoring peacefully.

  A few yards distant, a tarot card reader swathed in a turban and flowing caftan was already setting up her collapsible table, staking out a coveted spot to sell her psychic wares when the tourists arose.

  “Mornin’ sweetheart,” she said in a husky voice, startling Corlis from her reverie. “Let me do a readin’ for you, sugar. Your luck’s bound to change.”

  “No… no thanks,” Corlis replied, walking faster. Farther on, a disheveled young woman, pushing a rusted grocery cart and accompanied by an emaciated hound on a length of rope, wandered in front of the cathedral cheerfully chattering to herself.

  To Corlis’s left, a city groundskeeper was shoving a large metal key into the big padlock that secured the park’s cast-iron gates against intruders at night.

  “Mornin’,” he mumbled.

  “Morning,” Corlis mumbled back, her gaze fastened on the park’s magnificent equestrian statue of New Orleans’s savior, Andrew Jackson.

  In the two short months during which Corlis had lived in Louisiana, she’d become inordinately fond of Old Hickory and the story of his ragtag army. On a mist-shrouded morning like this one, in January of 1815, Andrew Jackson had ordered his motley assemblage of cannon and artillery to attack a superior British force menacing the city and pounded them into ignominious submission.

  The fearless soldier was a man after Corlis’s own heart. Like Don Quixote, Aunt Marge, and other Crusader Rabbits she could name, he hadn’t folded his tent just because the odds were against him.

  A pathetic amount of good it does a person these days to try to do the kind of honest journalism I believe in…

  Moodily she walked down the path and drew closer to the enormous two-story statue that anchored the plaza square. Would she never learn, she wondered, gazing up at Andrew Jackson’s prancing bronze horse? The Ebert-Duvallon nuptials were just another story for pity’s sake, like hundreds she’d done before. Nobody in this town but she cared whether or not it told the absolute, unadulterated truth. And besides, the director and her editor had tried to warn her to check with higher-ups before airing the piece, but she had pulled rank.

  And who’s going to worry except Aunt Marge and me that I no longer have a health plan?

  So. Was it worth it? Was the fabu
lous shot of that twenty-five-foot bridal train and the moment of truth it symbolized worth getting fired over? Or had the story resonated with her… because Jay Kerlin had been such an absolute heel, and she should have blown him off—just like Daphne Duvallon blew off Jack Ebert last night—long before she found out that Jay was two-timing her with Miss Sunny, the weather woman!

  Jeez Louise… was the story she did last night journalism, or had it merely been a case of bizarre revenge?

  Putting such a disturbing thought from her mind, she drank deeply from her paper cup of coffee and wondered how in the world she was going to keep up her mortgage payments on the row house she’d impulsively bought five days after arriving in New Orleans. At the time, the small down payment seemed much more sensible than paying rent, but now…

  Corlis wandered farther down the cement path in the direction of her favorite park bench, clutching her bag of beignets so tightly her knuckles turned white. In the distance the cathedral’s pale facade provided a dazzling backdrop for a community filled with breathtaking side streets and cunning courtyards that made the place terminally charming and one of the least “American” cities in the country.

  Lord, how she’d grown to adore this town! How could she leave New Orleans? But what was she going to do to support her addiction to this city, not to mention pay her outstanding bills?

  Utterly dejected, Corlis sat down on the park bench and immediately felt the seat of her pants soak up the dew like a sponge. “Merde! ” she exclaimed to the pigeons, wondering if after all the years of French colonial influence in New Orleans, the birds actually understood the French word for shit.

  Inside the white paper bag, the beignets had grown cold and unappetizing. The words of her former diet coach suddenly rang in her head.

  “A minute in your mouth. A lifetime on your hips, Corlis!”

  With a sigh she tossed the confections into a trash can nearby and somberly stared at Andrew Jackson’s bronze countenance, wondering what Old Hickory would have done in such dire circumstances.