1888,” he told her. “They called him Jack the Ripper.”
“Great,” she muttered, pushing back her smooth blond hair with her hand. “I think I’ll put that in my story tonight. Citizens of New Orleans, there’s hope—London survived Jack the Ripper, we can survive the Werewolf Killer.”
He shrugged. “As long as we aren’t prostitutes or street people, that is. Say, do you have a date for that wingding tonight?”
“Don’t need one. This is business, not pleasure.”
“My tennis partner is getting a divorce, you know, and I’ll bet he’s available on short notice.”
Amy should have seen that one coming. Paul was always trying to fix her up, and his wife was no better. What was it about happily married people that made them incapable of letting their friends be happily single?
She said, “When he actually gets a divorce, let me know. Meanwhile, the party’s black-tie.”
“Oh.”
Paul sounded disappointed, and Amy guessed his friend did not have his own tux.
Then he cheered. “Anyway, Cindy says for you to come to dinner next week.”
“Is the tennis partner going to be there?”
“I guess not, if you’re going to take that attitude.”
“I’ll call Cindy.”
Still Paul hesitated. “You don’t, uh, need a camera for that interview tonight, do you?”
Amy looked up at him and grinned. “You big baby. No. I’m not going to drag you across town to the Governor’s Ball and no, I’m not going to make you put on a tux. Go home to your wife. You’re off duty.”
Paul returned her grin and kissed his fingers to her. “You’re a prince, Fortenoy, an absolute prince. I’ll name an offspring for you.”
“You’d better go before someone sees you hanging around and puts your name on the assignment board.”
“I’m out of here. And be careful crossing Canal to-night—you’ll be hitting the worst of the parade traffic.”
Amy waved him away, smiling, but she was deeply immersed in the editor now and did not look up.
Amy Fortenoy had spent her life laboring under two handicaps: her looks and her family name. Amy was blond, petite and cute in a business that valued tall, svelte and striking. Her shoulder-length hair was the sundrenched color of a three-year-old’s and the texture of satin, her nose a perfect button, her face round and ingenuous. Her eyes were large and fringed with thick dark lashes, and the only thing that kept them from being breathtaking was the fact that they were more hazel than green. She had flawless Fortenoy porcelain skin, and a perfect size-six figure, which was due as much to her own efforts and the demands of the camera as it was to the Fortenoy genes.
In a business that values physical attractiveness at least as much as it did ability, if not more—there were, after all, very few ugly news anchors—being a cute blonde might not be considered a disadvantage. But cute was the operative word, and Amy was a reporter. She was tough, ambitious, alert and perceptive. All she wanted was a chance to prove what she could do, yet she had spent her career fending off advances, fighting the stereotype and being offered jobs as the weather girl by station directors who took one look at her and wondered if she could read…or if it mattered.
But the prejudices she fought in the work force were nothing to the disapproval—indeed, the disappointment—with which she had to contend in her own family. The Fortenoys were a grand old Southern family who bred tradition, snobbery and intellectuals. Amy had two brothers and three sisters, all of whom had earned at least one Ph.D. in suitably exalted subjects like philosophy or mathematics. Two were university professors, one was a doctor like their father, one was a museum curator, one was the director of a major European symphony orchestra. Among her cousins, aunts and uncles were bank presidents, Supreme Court justices, research scientists and poet laureates. Not one of them worked in television. Most of them, in fact, did not even own television sets, and those who did, only brought them out on the occasion of a presidential election or a particularly compelling PBS special.
Amy’s Grandmama Fortenoy still lived in one of those wonderful old antebellum houses on St. Charles Avenue, shaded by creeping ivy and oaks dripping with Spanish moss. On Sunday afternoons she served tea from bone china that had been in the family for three hundred years, and friends and relatives and the social elite would gather in her high-ceilinged parlor with its small brocaded chairs, and speak, in their soft sugared accents, of things lofty and genteel and utterly civilized. The Werewolf Killer would never be among their topics of conversation. And if, by chance, some well-meaning soul asked about “poor little Amy,” throats would be cleared, eyes would be averted and the subject delicately changed.
Amy was a source of bafflement and embarrassment to her family, but no more so than they were to her. Sometimes she felt like a changeling, and she could no more understand how that most carefully regulated Fortenoy family tree had come to produce her than they could.
Amy had wasted far too much time and energy early in her career fighting the tide of other people’s prejudices against her, but when she had finally realized she could do nothing about either her looks or her family, the solution to her difficulties was clear: She simply started using both to her advantage, instead of allowing them to work against her. No one expected a petite, blond, wide-eyed young woman with a sparkling smile and bubbly personality to be a crime reporter. And nobody expected her to be any good at it. Thus she was not only allowed into places a more experienced-looking reporter could never go, she actually, more often than not, had the door held for her as she went in. No one expected Byron Fortenoy’s daughter—Joseph Fortenoy’s granddaughter—to sully her hands with anything as distasteful as the news. She was therefore privy to certain information relevant to scandal, corruption and white-collar crime that would be guarded furiously from an “outsider.”
People expected Amy to be dumb, so she played dumb. They expected her to be helpless, so she acted helpless. They wanted her to be a socialite, a dilettante, a hothouse flower, and she was more than happy to play the part—when it suited her purpose. Only one thing mattered to Amy Fortenoy: success. And she knew that with the werewolf killings, she was as close to that elusive goal as she had ever been, maybe as close as she would ever get.
So, if she was a little obsessed with the case, there was more than one reason. If, like Devereaux had suggested, she had been a little overzealous in reporting the story, she had good cause. After all, the story of a lifetime only came along once, and this was hers.
Amy was on the air at six, giving her report and showing the tape. There was, of course, nothing new at all to report—the full moon was still almost two weeks away—but it was important to keep the story in the public eye. To her credit, she did not make Devereaux look like too much of a jackass on the final edit, and she left in the part about the sick, deranged individual being glorified by the media. She was trained to be fair, after all.
She left the studio at six forty-five, which left just under an hour to get across town, put on her party dress and get back downtown in time to get a quote from the mayor for the eleven o’clock news. She would also love to get a reaction to Devereaux’s remarks this afternoon from the chief coroner, and it was possible she would be able to catch him at home if she didn’t spend too much time at the party. He had been ducking her calls all day.
During Mardi Gras, Amy
