French Silk

by Sandra Brown

  “So are you going to sit there looking like you’ve lost your last friend, or are you going to get your head on straight, your dick under control, your ass in gear, and run with it?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Rain threatened at Rosesharon. The high humidity took its toll on those unaccustomed to it, and tempers were short. During the morning, the clouds became more opaque and the atmosphere grew more sultry. The models who weren’t needed retired to their rooms to rest in air-conditioned comfort. Since the weather was too unstable for outdoor shooting, they decided to do some interior shots utilizing the vanity table in Claire and Yasmine’s bedroom.

  Per Rue’s suggestion, Dana was modeling the backless bra. With it she wore ivory satin tap pants, thigh-high hosiery, and ivory satin high heels. Claire had asked the Monteiths where in the nearest town she might locate a wedding gown to borrow.

  “Why, we have one!” they exclaimed in unison.

  Their niece had used Rosesharon for her wedding several months earlier, and the gown was still stored in their attic. They assured Claire that their niece would be flattered to have it used in the French Silk catalog. It was brought down and removed from its protective hanging bag. Luckily it wasn’t stark white, so it matched the color of the sample lingerie. Rue steamed out the wrinkles, muttering all the while. “Just what we needed. More goddamn humidity.”

  Now the bridal gown was hanging beside the vanity table, suggesting that Dana was a bride preparing for the ceremony. The vanity had been repositioned so that the three-way mirror reflected the French doors opening onto the balcony. It would be a tricky shot to get without Leon and all his lighting equipment being reflected as well.

  “I want Dana holding up her hair,” Yasmine said, “so that we get a full view of the bra’s construction.”

  The makeup artist wasn’t finished with Dana’s body makeup, so Yasmine asked Claire to sit on the stool while they calculated the position of the lighting in conjunction with the mirrors and camera angles.

  Claire sat and faced the mirror. “I hardly look like a bride,” she said, critically assessing her reflection. Her linen shirt had wilted, and she had sweated off most of her makeup. “Maybe the bride of Frankenstein.”

  “Lift your hair off your neck,” Yasmine told her.

  “Gladly.” She swept her hair into a double fist, lifting it to the top of her head and keeping her elbows parallel with her shoulders.

  Her eyes caught movement at the French doors. Cassidy parted the sheer curtains and stepped into the room. He drew up short. Their eyes met in the mirror.

  “Perfect, Claire!” Yasmine cried. “That’s perfect. That’s exactly the expression I want! Did you see that, Dana? Surprised. Expectant. A little breathless.” But when she looked over her shoulder and saw that Cassidy was the cause of Claire’s flustered expression, her enthusiasm quickly cooled. “What are you doing here?” she asked, obviously displeased. She turned back to Claire. “Did you invite him?”

  “No,” she answered, her eyes fixed on the A.D.A.

  Leon left the lighting to his assistant and sidled up to Cassidy, laying a hand on his arm. “And who are you?”

  “He’s a cop from New Orleans,” Yasmine replied.

  Cassidy smiled affably but gently disengaged his arm from Leon’s clutches. “I’m not a cop.”

  Claire stood and motioned the model into place. “We need to get this shot. Everybody ready?”

  Dana took her place on the vanity stool. Rue and the other stylists fussed around her. Yasmine went back to consulting with Leon about ways to vary the shot.

  Claire, trying to hide her anger, drew Cassidy to a corner of the room. “What are you trying to pull, coming here?”

  “I didn’t know I was going to be on center stage when I came through the… uh… the curtains.” He was momentarily distracted by Dana, who looked resplendently bridal and mouthwateringly sexy in the golden light Leon was shining on her.

  “Our photography sessions are strictly off-limits to visitors,” Claire said stiffly, noticing the direction of his gaze. “Parents, boyfriends, even spouses are prohibited. The restriction is enforced to protect the privacy of the models and the creative impulses of everyone else involved.”

  “Sorry, you’ll have to make an exception this time.”

  “Or what?”

  “Or I’ll get a court order.”

  “Another search? Shall I tell my crew to expect a shakedown?”

  He frowned and gave her a retiring look.

  “How did you know where we were going to be?” she asked crossly.

  “I have a whole platoon of investigators at my disposal. Finding you was a snap.”

  “I’m surprised the Monteiths let you in. I thought the house was closed to all but guests.”

  “I am a guest.”

  “What?” she exclaimed. When she realized she’d drawn attention to them, she lowered her voice, but still it conveyed her anger. “We were to be the only ones here. I specified that when I made the reservations.”

  “The Monteiths had one extra room. My credentials persuaded them into letting me have it.”

  “I don’t want you here, Cassidy.”

  “No, I’m sure you don’t. Especially since I’ve come with bad news.”

  She folded her arms across her middle. “That’s all you’ve ever brought me. Well, what is it? Let’s get it over with.”

  He glanced over his shoulder. The others were busy or pretending to be. Like Claire, he must have felt inhibited by them. He drew her out into the hallway for more privacy.

  Staring down at the patterned rug, he whispered her name with what sounded like regret, then raised his head and looked at her. “Did you know she practices voodoo?”

  “Who, Yasmine?” He nodded, and Claire made a small, assenting motion with her shoulders. “A lot of people in New Orleans have a passing acquaintance with it. After spending so much time there, she developed an interest. She’s got some voodoo charms, a few candles that represent—”

  “Her room at French Silk was full of all kinds of black-magic crap.”

  “It doesn’t mean anything. Since I’ve known her, she’s dabbled in every religion from Judaism to Buddhism. She sometimes wears a Christian cross and has a bracelet with an Egyptian ankh on it. Those symbols hold no significance for her.”

  “This goes beyond trinkets and costume jewelry, Claire. They also found a voodoo doll, an effigy of Jackson Wilde.”

  “It’s meaningless!” she cried softly, not wanting to attract the attention of the others. “Is that all they found? You could hardly build a murder case around a silly doll.”

  “They didn’t find anything at French Silk, either in the offices or the apartment, that could directly link you to Wilde’s murder.”

  Slowly, so as not to reveal her relief, she exhaled a pent-up breath. “I could have told you they wouldn’t, but you wouldn’t have believed me.”

  “Wait.”

  “Ah, there’s more,” she said. “The bad news.”

  His eyes seemed to pierce straight through her skull. “The fiber samples from your car’s carpet match some that were vacuumed out of Jackson Wilde’s hotel room. The tests were conclusive. You’ve been lying to me, Claire. Damn you, you were there!”

  Josh taped on the bathroom door. “Ariel, are you all right?” The sound of her retching had summoned him from his adjoining hotel room in Tulsa. “Ariel,” he called, knocking sharply. “Open the door.”

  He heard the commode flush. Seconds later Ariel unlocked the door and pulled it open. “God knows I’ve got precious little privacy, Josh. I would appreciate some while I’m in my own bathroom.”

  Even though he’d watched her deteriorate over the last several weeks, he was shocked by her appearance. Her eyes were ringed with dark circles that he was afraid weren’t makeup. Her cheeks were sunken, making her face look cadaverous. When she turned her back on him, he noticed her shoulder blades poking out the fabric of her dress.


  “You’re making yourself sick.” He followed her to her closet, where she began rifling through the clothes, obviously trying to decide what to wear for the two local television news shows and the newspaper interview that were scheduled for later that day.

  “I’m fine except for a headache, which your lecturing is only making worse.”

  “Eating a well-rounded meal would help your headache.”

  “I ate like a pig last night.”

  “And then came in and threw it up.”

  She shot him an angry glance as she removed a dress from the closet and tossed it onto the bed.

  “Ariel, eat something,” he pleaded. “You need the nourishment. You’ve got a hectic day planned.”

  “Stop nagging me.”

  “You need to eat.”

  “I ate!”

  She flung her hand toward the room-service tray. He inspected it. The salad lunch was intact except for the coffee. “Coffee isn’t a meal.”

  “I’d like to change now,” she said impatiently. “As you said, this afternoon’s schedule is hectic.”

  “Cancel it.”

  She gaped at him as though he’d sprouted horns. “What?”

  “Call off the schedule and spend the remainder of the day in bed.”

  “Are you crazy? I can’t do that.”

  “You mean you won’t.”

  “All right, I won’t. I want that auditorium filled to capacity tonight. I want people outside clamoring to get in so they can pray with us.”

  Josh swore under his breath. “Ariel, this is insane. We’ve been on the road for ten days. Interviews during the day, followed by prayer meetings that last for hours. Traveling all night to the next city so it can start again the following day. You’re running yourself ragged.”

  “This trip is getting results.”

  “It’s physically exhausting us.”

  “If you can’t stand the heat—”

  “This has nothing to do with that mess in New Orleans, does it? You’re not staging these silly prayer meeting to spur the police into action. You’re conducting them for your self-image. This isn’t a holy mission we’re on. This is an ego trip. Your ego trip, Ariel.”

  “So what if it is?” she shouted. “Aren’t you reaping the benefits too? I don’t see you complaining whenever the TV cameras focus on you playing the piano. Would your piddling talent get that kind of media exposure if it weren’t for me and my ingenuity? Huh? Answer me.”

  “I’ve got more than ‘piddling talent.’ ”

  She snorted unflatteringly. “Is that so? That wasn’t Jackson’s opinion. I felt sorry for you whenever he’d start in on his no-talent son. Now I’m beginning to believe he was right.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She turned away. “We’ll be late.”

  “What do you mean?” he shouted.

  Her face turned ugly with malice. “Only that your daddy was embarrassed to have you on the stage with us. I couldn’t count the times he told me that the only reason he kept you up there was because you’re his only son. What else could he do, fire you and hire someone with more flash and charisma like he wanted to do? He always told me that you were virtually worthless to him. You didn’t have a head for business, you weren’t a riveting speaker, and you had no leadership qualities. He was glad you’d taught yourself how to play a few songs on the piano so you wouldn’t have to sack groceries at the Piggly Wiggly for a living.”

  Before he realized what he was doing, his hands were closing around her skinny throat. “You lying bitch. You’re a goddamn liar.” He shook her hard while pressing his thumbs against her larynx.

  Ariel reached up and clawed at his hands, but his long, strong fingers didn’t relax. “Daddy knew I had talent and it scared him. He thought that if I pursued my dreams, I might become greater, more famous, than he was.”

  “Let—me—go,” she choked.

  Suddenly Josh’s vision cleared and he saw his stepmother’s eyes bulging from their darkly ringed sockets. He released her so abruptly that she reeled against the dresser before catching her balance. Coughing and gasping, she stared at him contemptuously. “You’re insane.”

  Josh’s breathing was almost as labored as hers. The latent violence that had unexpectedly erupted frightened him. “He did this to us,” he said in a slow, rasping voice. “He’s still doing it to us. It’s like the bastard isn’t even dead.”

  Again he reached for Ariel and turned her around. With his hand splayed over the back of her head, he pushed her face to within inches of the mirror. “Look! Look at yourself. You look like a ghoul. He’s doing this to you, and you’re letting him. He’s the reason you’re starving yourself to death. Now tell me who’s crazy.”

  Disgusted with himself as much as with her, he left her staring at her skeletal image in the mirror.

  After lunch, the crew set up on Rosesharon’s screened back porch. As a prop, they were using an antique hand-crank ice cream freezer that someone had come across in the Monteiths’ detached garage. The blue paint on the wooden tub was chipped and pealing. The rusty metal strips holding the vertical slats together had stained the exposed wood. The freezer was no longer usable, but everyone agreed that it made a terrific prop.

  The model, Liz, was seated on a milking stool, wearing a long white batiste nightgown that had a row of tiny buttons extending from the scooped neckline to the deep flounce at midcalf. The first several buttons were undone, and the skirt was bunched in her lap, well above her thighs, which were parted to accommodate the ice cream freezer. The impression Claire wanted to convey was that Liz was laboring over the freezer while Kurt reclined in the white macramé hammock in the background.

  “It’s sexist,” Yasmine said.

  “Not if it looks like she’s enjoying it,” Claire argued.

  “It looks like doo-doo,” Leon whined petulantly, as he adjusted the focus rings of his camera. “It’s not hot enough.”

  “It’s the only damn thing that isn’t.” Rue coughed and lit a cigarette. “Jesus, how do human beings survive down here? Have they ever even seen autumn leaves?”

  “Maybe Liz needs some perspiration,” the makeup lady ventured shyly.

  “And I can spritz her hair with water,” the stylist offered. “Make it look sweaty.”

  “Let’s try it.”

  “For God’s sake, hurry. I’m positively melting,” Leon said.

  “It would help if you took off that godawful shirt,” Yasmine told him snidely. He was wearing a long-sleeved flamingo-pink silk shirt.

  “But this is one of my best colors.”

  “The color gives ‘putrid’ a bad name.”

  “You bitch. You wouldn’t know fashion if it—”

  “Please, you two,” Claire said wearily. “Let’s try to get this shot done.”

  “I’m going to have these impressions on my buns for life,” Kurt complained as he shifted uncomfortably in the hammock.

  It had been decided several minutes earlier that he should appear as an indistinct form in the hammock, with only one strong, tanned leg dangling over the side. He was naked, save for his lap, which was covered with a towel that would be removed when they began taking pictures.

  “Bear with us, Kurt.”

  “Did you mean that as a pun?” Rue asked.

  Liz’s hair had been lightly misted and was now clinging to her neck and chest in damp, spiraling tendrils. “I like that much better,” Claire told the hair stylist. “Thanks.”

  The makeup artist was misting Liz’s face and upper body to simulate a healthy sheen of perspiration. “Hmm,” Liz sighed. “That feels good.”

  “Yes, yes, this is much improved,” Leon cried. “This is looking great. Oh, yes. I’m feeling it now.”

  “Give us a glimpse of cleavage, Liz,” Yasmine said.

  The model leaned forward as though applying herself to the hand crank of the ice cream freezer. “Oooh! Perfect!” Leon squealed.

  “Wait,” Claire ordered. “We’v
e got nipples.” The cool misting of water had caused the model’s nipples to peak beneath the fabric of the gown.

  “So what?” Theatrically Leon lowered his camera, annoyed by the interruption.

  “I don’t want them projecting,” Claire said. “Give them time to relax.”

  “You show nipples all the time.”

  “Under the bras, they’re relaxed.”

  “We’ve had projecting nipples before,” Yasmine said.

  “She’s right. You have,” Leon said. “I should know. I took the goddamn pictures.”

  “Under opaque fabrics, jutting nipples are fine,” Claire explained calmly. “But this looks vulgar. I can detect outline and color, and I don’t like it. I don’t want it to look like we photographed a wet T-shirt contest.”

  “You’ve got a naked man there!” Leon protested in a shrill voice that threatened to shatter the Monteith family crystal.

  “But he’s only an illusion. He’s suggestive without being lewd.” Claire kept her voice carefully controlled. “This argument is over.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Leon muttered. “When did you turn into Miss Goody Two-Shoes?”

  “Since Jackson Wilde,” Yasmine said drolly.

  Claire whipped around, confronting her friend with astonishment and anger. “What a ridiculous thing to say, Yasmine! Wilde was never the barometer by which I gauged what was tasteful and what wasn’t. He certainly wasn’t my conscience. You know that.”

  “All I know is, you haven’t been the same since he was found dead. Relax. He can’t point the finger at you any longer.”

  Her friend’s insensitive remarks infuriated Claire, especially since Cassidy was within hearing. She had broken her strict rule and let him watch from the periphery of the sets, thinking that maybe if she revealed to him this aspect of her life, he would stop probing other areas of it. His presence seemed not to faze anyone except her. He kept her nervous and on edge, although she performed her duties as competently as ever.

  She sensed his ears pricking up at Yasmine’s remark, but when she glanced at him, his expression remained impassive and didn’t hint at what he might be thinking.