by Sandra Brown
Sighing, Cassidy looked away and seemed to concentrate on the statue of Andrew Jackson astride his rearing horse, which could be seen through the closed gates of the square across the street. Then he propped his forearms on the small round table and leaned across it. “Here’s what I think happened. I think you planned this murder for a long time—from the time you read that Reverend Wilde was bringing his crusade to New Orleans.
“You bought, borrowed, or stole a .38 revolver. You went to the crusade and met face-to-face the man you were planning to kill. By now I know you well enough to know you’d have the integrity to do that. You’d feel like that was the honorable way to kill a man, sort of like your ancestors who met outside the city with pomp and circumstance to duel until one was dead.
“Anyway, you returned home and dismissed Harry. That was a gamble that didn’t pay off, but at the time you figured that if she was asked, she could testify that you were home by ten that night. You went to the Fairmont and, using Andre as an accomplice, managed to get into Wilde’s hotel suite. You shot him, probably while he was asleep. Then you left and returned home.
“But Fate threw you a curve. Mary Catherine had slipped out. You got home, found her gone, and, ironically, had to make a return trip to the Fairmont to pick her up. I’ll bet that wasn’t too comfortable for you, returning to the scene of the crime so soon after committing it.”
“That’s not what happened at all. Do you see how many holes there are in your theory?”
“Hell yes. It’s as leaky as a sieve. That’s why you’re not already in jail.”
It took Claire a moment to recover from that remark. She asked, “How did I get into his suite?”
“Simple. Andre gave you a key. While Wilde was having dinner, you let yourself in. Probably hid in a closet to wait. He came in, showered, and got ready for bed. You waited until you were sure he was asleep, then did him.”
Claire shook her head. “There’s something very basically wrong with that scenario, Cassidy. I would never have involved my friend in a murder plot.”
“You might have utilized him without his knowledge.”
“By sneaking a key from the front desk?”
“No, by familiarizing yourself with the hotel. There are several odd angles in the hallway on the seventh floor. Maybe you made yourself invisible in one of those bends. When the maid went into the suite to turn down Wilde’s bed, you sneaked in behind her while the door was open.”
“Very creative.”
His eyes scanned her face. “Yes, Claire. Characteristically creative.”
She took a sip of cold coffee, willing her hand not to tremble and reveal her nervousness. “How did I know that Wilde would come into the suite alone? Or did I intend to kill Mrs. Wilde, if necessary?”
“That gave me trouble, too. Until Josh and Ariel Wilde told me that they ‘rehearsed’ every night. Andre could have told you what their routine was. You betted on Jackson going to bed alone.”
“Wilde didn’t like what I printed in my magazine so he lambasted me from his pulpit. I didn’t like what he preached, so I killed him. In effect, what you’re saying is that I’m less tolerant and more radical than Jackson Wilde was. You’re placing me on the level of the crazies who’ve been calling and threatening my life.”
Cassidy reacted like he’d been goosed. “You’ve had callers threatening your life? You didn’t tell me that.”
She hadn’t intended to and could have bitten her tongue. “Life threats over the telephone aren’t to be taken seriously.”
He appeared to disagree. His eyes swept the area as though an assassin might be lurking in the shadows. “We’ve been here at least half an hour,” he said, coming to his feet. “Let’s go.” He held her chair for her, then struck off down the sidewalk at a fast clip, but stopped when he realized she wasn’t beside him. “What?” he called over his shoulder.
“I made one more stop before going home that night. Out there,” she said, nodding toward the river.
He returned to her side. “Lead the way.” They crossed the military memorial that connected with the paved part of the levee called the Moonwalk. Below them, the river’s current gently lapped at the crushed rocks, although at present there wasn’t any traffic on the river. The lights from the opposite bank twinkled on the water, which smelled, not unpleasantly, of brine and petroleum and mud. There was a humid breeze, and Claire liked the feel of it in her hair and on her skin. It was soft and gentle, everything that was good about the South.
The Moonwalk was a favorite spot among tourists with cameras, panhandlers, whores, drunks, and lovers. Tonight only a few other pedestrians were taking advantage of the view. When they walked past a couple necking on a park bench, Cassidy’s expression turned irascible. “Why don’t you give me a break and confess.”
“Even if I didn’t do it?”
“Please, no. We get plenty of those as it is. Four crazies have already taken credit for offing Wilde.”
“Your attitude is certainly cavalier.”
“These four guys are chronic confessors,” he said dismissively. “We routinely check them out, but none of them was near the Fairmont that night.” They reached a tacit agreement to pause and gaze out across the river. After a moment he turned to her. Without prefacing it in any way, he said, “There’s a records clerk in the courthouse. Night before last, she invited me over to her house for an evening of spaghetti and sex.”
He looked at her pointedly, awaiting a response. At last she said, “She certainly didn’t mince words.”
“Well, the sex part was implied.”
“I see. Did you go?”
“Yes.”
“Oh. How was it?”
“Terrific. It was smothered in red clam sauce.”
At first taken aback, she then realized that he was attempting a joke. She tried to laugh but discovered she couldn’t be blasé about his sleeping with another woman.
“The spaghetti was sensational,” he said. “But the sex was only so-so.”
“How disappointed you must have been,” Claire said tightly.
He shrugged. “And a few nights before that, I slept with my neighbor. It was raunchy, and I’m not even sure what her name is.”
Claire’s temper snapped. “Are you trying to impress me with your sexual exploits? I’m not a priest. I didn’t ask for a confession.”
“I just thought you might want to know.”
“Well, I don’t. Why would I?”
He roughly pulled her against him and held her head between his palms. “Because we’re in deep shit here, and you know it as well as I do.”
Then he kissed her.
Chapter Thirteen
Kissing Claire was better than fucking a dozen other women. Her mouth was warm and sweet and snug and he wanted to continue making love to it with his tongue for a thousand years. But he couldn’t, so he released her and stepped back.
There was a slight catch in her breath, and her lips were damp and parted, but otherwise her features were composed. She was masterful at concealing her emotions. No doubt she’d developed that trait by having to grow up early. She’d had to deal with adult problems and make adult decisions at an age when most girls were playing with dolls and holding tea parties for teddy bears and imaginary friends.
But, dammit, he’d hoped to provoke more of a response than that unflickering stare. He’d flaunted two lovers, then kissed her intimately. Why didn’t she curse him, slap him, go for his eyes with her fingernails?
He’d slept with the clerk for the same reason he’d beaten a path to his neighbor’s front door—to seek relief from sexual frustration. Both attempts to get Claire out of his system had failed. While the clerk had been almost pathetically eager to share herself with him, he hadn’t found her nakedness as sexy as his fantasies of Claire, unclothed and giving. He’d performed as expected, but only physically. His mind had been elsewhere.
Now, her lack of an overt response angered him. He’d been going through hell t
hese last few days. It was time he spread around some of the misery. “Is this when you got rid of the gun?”
“What?”
Since they hadn’t spoken for several moments, the abrupt question took her off guard. “You heard me. Did you come straight here from the Fairmont and throw the gun in the river?”
“I’ve never owned a gun.”
“That doesn’t answer my question, Claire,” he said, raising his voice. “You’ve got a legion of friends, any one of whom might have acquired a revolver for you.”
“None did. I wouldn’t even know how to fire one.”
“Blowing off a man’s balls at close range doesn’t require sharpshooting skills.”
She folded her arms across her middle and hugged her elbows. “It’s chilly out here. Can we go now?”
He was supremely exasperated with her and the situation. Nevertheless, he slipped off his jacket and placed it around her shoulders. His hands slid beneath her hair and lifted it from the collar, then lingered. He placed his thumbs beneath her chin and tilted her head up.
“If you came here at all that night, Claire, what did you do?”
“I sat on one of these benches and looked at the river.”
“Sat on a bench and looked at the river.”
“That’s what I said.”
Cassidy would have given anything he owned, or ever hoped to own, to know the truth behind her steady amber gaze. But he didn’t. And until he did, he was playing with fire every time he came near her. “We’d better go.”
They walked in silence back to French Silk. When they reached the door, he drew her around. “Claire, I strongly urge you to retain a criminal defense attorney.”
“How close are you to arresting me?”
“Close. Your story is riddled with coincidences. If you’re not outright lying, you’re concealing the truth. Maybe you’re covering for somebody else. I don’t know. But you’re not being straight with me. I know you’re betting against the odds, but there’s no statute of limitations on murder. As long as the case remains unsolved, I’ll keep digging. Sooner or later I’ll turn up the one element that brings everything together.” He paused, giving her ample time to refute him. Disappointingly, she didn’t. “Hire a lawyer, Claire.”
She stared into space for a moment before looking up at him, her expression firmly resolved. “No, I won’t do that. I have a business lawyer who handles French Silk’s contracts and an accountant who takes care of the taxes. Its growth made them necessary, but I didn’t like relinquishing even that much control over something that belongs to me.”
She drew a deep breath. “I won’t entrust my life to a stranger. I trust my instincts over anyone else’s when it comes to what’s right or wrong for me. When I was a child, social workers and judges, so-called experts, told me that the best thing for me was being separated from the people I love. Well, they were either dead wrong or unconscionable liars. So I don’t trust the system, Cassidy.” She shook off his jacket and thrust it at him. “Thank you for the free advice, but I don’t want a lawyer.”
“Have it your way then,” he said impatiently. “But I think you’re making a big mistake.”
“At least it’s my mistake.”
“And don’t leave town.”
“The day after tomorrow I’m going to Mississippi.”
That struck him like a bolt out of the blue. “What in the hell for?”
“The location shoot for the spring catalog.”
“Cancel. Or postpone.”
“Out of the question. This has been scheduled for weeks. The crew has been hired. Yasmine can’t undo those arrangements. Anyway, we have to shoot before fall sets in and while the foliage is still green. You can’t shoot a spring catalog against an autumnal background.”
“Interesting, but the judicial system doesn’t revolve around photography sessions.”
“And I don’t coordinate my business with the judicial system’s schedule. Your choices are limited, Cassidy. Short of arresting me, you’ve got to let me go.”
His hands were tied. She knew that as well as he did. Without any evidence on which to base a charge, he couldn’t detain her any more than he could detain Ariel and Josh Wilde.
Sensing his dilemma, she smiled. “Good night, Cassidy.”
“Damn. You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” His hand shot out and trapped her jaw, his fingers biting into her cheeks. “Listen,” he said, bending close to her face, “up till now, I’ve gone out of my way to give you the benefit of the doubt. No more, you got that?” He leaned in closer, his voice becoming a growl. “Sure, I want to fuck you, but don’t let that go to your head. First and foremost I want to prosecute and convict Jackson Wilde’s killer. Don’t make the mistake of forgetting that, Claire. This may only be a game to you, but from now on, I play dirty.”
She yanked her head free of his grip and shoved him away. “Thank you for the beignets and café au lait, Mr. Cassidy. They should have been my treat.”
She slipped inside French Silk and slammed the door in his face. He cursed expansively as he heard the bolts clicking into place.
Ariel impatiently tossed aside her magazine. It was late and she was perturbed. The man in New Orleans had promised to call her tonight no matter how late. It was now well past midnight.
Downstairs, Josh was playing the piano. He’d been at it for hours. That detestable classical music. She couldn’t find a tune in any of it. Each song sounded like all the rest. They didn’t even have lyrics, so what was the point? She couldn’t figure out how anyone could become so absorbed in it. Yet, when Josh played classical piano, he forgot everything else—eating, sleeping, even sex.
Not that she’d missed the sex. She was focused on more important matters now. The picket line had been a fiasco. She had wanted her people to look like crusaders on a divinely inspired mission. Instead, that crazy old broad at French Silk had made them look mean-spirited and stupid. The media coverage had been extensive, but the story had been reported tongue-in-cheek. Ariel Wilde was not going to be a laughing-stock!
To restore her credibility, she had finagled the CNN interview, which, in her critical opinion, had gone exceptionally well. Without being downright libelous, she’d hinted that Claire Laurent was a coward who refused to debate her, that she was a prime suspect in the murder, and that she and everyone else involved with French Silk were immoral scum. Luckily, a devoted follower living in New Orleans had known about Claire Laurent’s illegitimacy. Ariel planned to continue hammering home the theme immorality begetting immorality.
But Claire Laurent had appeared on CNN today, looking as regal as Princess Grace in her heyday and talking in that honeyed drawl that seemed to have bewitched the interviewer—and probably a majority of the viewing audience. She had been articulate and straightforward without seeming abrasive. She’d dismissed Ariel as being delusional but left no doubt that she would take legal action if the persecution continued.
Twice now she’d made the Jackson Wilde Ministry look like a pack of fanatic fools. Ariel simply wouldn’t have it. Anyone as cool and controlled as Claire Laurent must have secrets. Why else erect such an impenetrable shield of gentility?
So, Ariel had hired someone to keep an eye on her nemesis and make daily reports. When the telephone on her nightstand rang, she lunged for it. It was the call she’d been waiting for.
“We struck gold on the first try,” said the man on the phone, chortling. “For all her denials on TV, she’s still a prime suspect. Cassidy went to see her again tonight.”
Ariel sat up against the pile of pillows at her back. “Really? How long did he question her?”
“They went for a long walk through the French Quarter.”
The more she heard about Claire Laurent’s most recent meeting with the handsome, young, sexy prosecutor, the faster the wheels in her brain whirred. She was so busy analyzing the information, she almost missed the most valuable nugget. “Excuse me,” she said, interrupting. “What did you say? They
what?”
“That’s right, Mrs. Wilde. You heard me. They kissed.”
Eagerly, Ariel listened to the entire account without another interruption. “Thank you,” she said when he’d finished. “Keep me posted on developments. I want to know everything. Remember, you’re my eyes and ears.” As an after-thought, she added, “God bless, and I’ll be praying for you.”
Josh strolled in as she was hanging up. “Who’s calling at this time of night?” He pulled his T-shirt over his head and began undressing.
“The guy in New Orleans who organized the demonstration at French Silk.”
“What a debacle,” he muttered as he wobbled first on one foot, then the other, to remove his sneakers.
Ariel wasn’t familiar with the word debacle but didn’t like the sound of it and took his criticism personally. “How could we predict that Claire Laurent’s daft old mama wouldn’t know any better than to go up against a hostile crowd?”
Josh chuckled as he slid into bed beside her. “You wanted fireworks from them and got Kool-Aid and tea cakes instead.”
“It’s not funny,” she said, slinging off the arm he’d placed across her waist. Throwing back the covers, she left the bed and lit a cigarette, a habit she’d resumed since Jackson was no longer there to forbid it. She ripped open a package of Ding Dongs and stuffed one into her mouth.
“Tomorrow I want to take this show on the road,” she told Josh around the mouthful of devil’s food cake. “We’ll go to several cities and hold only one service in each,” Her mind was clicking furiously now. “We’ll make them special. We’ll call them emergency prayer meetings for the capture and conviction of Jackson’s killer.”
Groaning, Josh laid his arm across his forehead and closed his eyes. “Ariel, these things take time to plan. You’ve got to rent a facility—”
“I don’t care if we conduct them on football fields,” she shouted. “I want a lot of people to attend and a lot of press, and I want you,” she said, turning and aiming her finger at him, “to appear shattered by bereavement.”
