abruptly in front of Nick and moved closer to whisper in his ear, “took my top off in front of the whole crowd! Thousands and thousands.”
“Sorry I missed that. Did you get arrested?”
“Arrested?!” She grinned and her eyes sparkled in the sunlight streaming through the louvered shutters. “Shoot, no! The cops all asked me out and the crowd loved it. I got all of us into a party at the band’s hotel afterwards, too, down in the Quawta.”
They arrived at the room and Sharla conducted him inside.
“Well, here we are. You staying a while, Mr. Herald? I bet your wife doesn’t want a man like you away too long, though I notice you don’t wear a ring.”
“Oh, I’m not married,” Nick said, startled that he’d made such a personal admission. This woman had some strange siren-like power. He liked it. “Just here for a few days of business.”
“That’s nice, I guess. Well, you just call me if there’s anything I can do for you, okay? Anything at all.”
She took a proprietary stroll around the room, making one last check of the accommodations. Then, waving in her girlish way, she backed out of the door, gently closing it.
After a few deep breaths, Nick was eager to get started. His list of tasks jeered at him like a bully as he reviewed it. But he couldn’t help admiring the room. Rebecca Barclay and her handyman-lawyer husband had done a remarkable job converting the old building into a world-class inn. So what if the service was somewhat provincial. The place oozed character, comfort, and history.
An armoire dominated one wall. A splendid keyhole desk nestled against another. The four-poster, testered king bed made Nick feel like a Lilliputian. These were not repros. The plush ivory carpet was surmounted in half-a-dozen places by wonderful Oriental rugs, each with a couple of centuries of tales in their elaborate weave. There was wainscoting enough for a wing at Versailles, period wallpaper and light fixtures, ceiling fans nearly as big as windmills, and a lavish fireplace Nick regretted not being able to enjoy in the summer heat. He felt already in the midst of the nineteenth century–despite the modern appurtenances like the fax-phone, the television, and the hair dryer in the tastefully refurbished bathroom. He toyed momentarily with the idea of faxing Hawty to compliment her on her choice, but he didn’t know how to work the damn fax machine. And he certainly was dumbfounded by the printed gobbledygook that told the computer-packing guest how to get online via the phone jack.
Maybe he should call Sharla? Bad idea; you’ve got work to do, he reminded himself with a sigh.
First, he needed to learn as much as possible about Hyam Balazar.
Downstairs again, he asked Rebecca about the name, but she drew a blank. She admitted that she, unlike her husband, was not a lifelong resident of Natchitoches, and did not know all of the oldest families. But she knew of a structure called the Balzar Building.
“Balzar,” Nick said. “That may be it. I’ve probably got the spelling wrong.”
“The building is a historical landmark, like everything else in this town. Even me,” she said with a mirthful snort. “Empty now, about to fall to pieces. City can’t tear it down, and nobody seems to have the cash to renovate. My Bob and I are thinking of buying it and opening another B&B, if we can line up some investors. Interested?”
“Not me,” Nick said. “What I know about real estate you can’t dip an oyster in. The Balzar Building. Yes, yes, I remember reading somewhere that it once housed a title company. If there’s something left–old deeds and such–I really should put it in my article as a resource. Important material like that ought to be gathered and safeguarded.” A complete crock, but he hoped he was convincing enough in his preachiness to cover his real intention–stealing all the Balazar genealogical material he could get his criminal hands on.
Rebecca suggested checking with the Chamber of Commerce office to find out how to get in the building. Then she offered to guide him there herself. It was a few streets back from the river. He persuaded her that he was capable of finding the place on his own.
Nick stepped out of the cool lobby and into the prostrating midday heat. He navigated through knots of window-gawking tourists from many nations. Down on the river, packed party boats greeted each other in passing with a few pre-recorded bars of “Dixie.”
Balzar. He felt the