Deadly Pedigree - By Jimmy Fox Page 0,40

tree-shaded river, Nick remembered some of his students begging him to understand that they needed a few days off to travel here for the filming of Steel Magnolias; they had landed parts as extras. Fiction had nourished fact ever since: the popularity of the movie had revitalized the setting, giving tourists from around the world all the more reason to visit.

A huge gleaming tourist bus lumbered in front of Nick’s car for a few blocks. It leaned from one side to the other as the tourists inside shifted in unison for a better view.

Nick had been to Natchitoches once before, with Una. They and two other couples drove to Arkansas for a canoeing trip, and on the way they detoured for a day to amble along the downtown Natchitoches streets, admire the old riverfront buildings, and stroll through the quiet, oak-lined neighborhoods.

As he searched for his temporary base of operations, he yearned for those carefree, youthful days, when his life had been merely an academic exercise.

Cane Pointe Bed and Breakfast occupied a two-story building of the West Indies/French Creole style, circa 1823, according to a plaque in the lobby. The establishment was on Front Street, with a nice view of the sleepy river and the surprisingly busy old brick street, along which the early settlers had built their exchanges, banks, and stores.

Rebecca Barclay, an outgoing fortyish woman of robust complexion, ample flesh, and seemingly boundless energy, greeted Nick in a booming voice.

“Welcome to Cane Pointe, Mr. Herald! Oh, excuse me a sec. Darlene, honey, carry some more towels to twelve. Sam, here, take this money and go buy some more Shreveport Times–now, how was your trip, Mr. Herald? We have a lovely room waiting for you, with a complimentary basket of fruit and a bottle of champagne–well, sparkling wine.” She laughed at her small gaffe. “Got in beaucoup trouble last year when some French wine merchants heard me say that. Sharla, Sharla! Where is that girl? My daughter will show you up. Sharla!”

A woman who gets up before the alarm clock rings, Nick suspected, standing at the desk as she checked him in. Her unfussy appearance bolstered that idea: she wore a blousy tunic over leggings and had obviously devoted no more than five minutes to her makeup and curly permed brown hair.

Filling out the necessary forms and waiting for Sharla, Nick explained that he was a freelance writer doing an article on genealogical resources in the area. Inside of five minutes he knew just about everything about Rebecca Barclay and Natchitoches, including many local legends; purported illustrious ancestors; her husband, Bob, who “moonlights as a lawyer when I don’t need him to hammer something”; the awkward youths mangling his duffle bag and scrambling his account, who were “hospitality-industry interns” from the state scholars high school located on the college campus; the menu for supper and breakfast; and possibly dangerous eccentricities of the hot water flow in his room. And then came Sharla.

She was a creamy-skinned girl of about twenty-three, with lustrous auburn hair in bangs; freckles bridged her meringue-flip of a nose. Her lips were ripe strawberries. Her eyes were rock-like jewels of speckled green, yellow, and black. Nick had seen cockatiels with beautiful feral eyes like that, eyes that said, Yeah, I’ll come perch on your arm, but it’s going to really, really hurt. She wore demure shorts that were anything but, a prim embroidered cotton blouse that somehow looked lewd on her, sandals, and a straw boater with a red silk ribbon.

While a young fellow sprinted madly with Nick’s bag and briefcase up the several flights of stairs to his room, Sharla and Nick walked at a more leisurely pace. The young fellow soon sprinted past them on the way down.

“You’re from New Orleenz, I hear tell,” she said, looking back at him under the brim of her hat, proudly showing off her white teeth.

Real New Orleanians analyzed pronunciation like a code to determine who you were, and who your family wasn’t. “Orleenz” was something of a desecration; only tourists and singers were allowed to get away with it. Even though Nick was a relative newcomer to New Orleans, he felt an urge to correct her.

Sharla dawdled on each step. “I just love New Orleenz. I been to the Jazz Festival, once. You ever go to that? Goodness! I was wild, let me tell you. Me and a bunch of my girlfriends. I drank a lot of tequila, and got up on the stage and…” she stopped