by Sandra Brown
“None of your damn business.” Executing a hasty sidestep, he parried her attempt to go around him. Seething, Claire glared up at him. “All right, I’ll tell you this much. Yasmine is taking the van to New Orleans tonight to see her lover. She plans to return early tomorrow morning.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“I think they might have quarreled the last time they were together.”
Cassidy gazed at a point beyond her shoulder for a moment. “She’s taking the van?”
“Hmm.”
“Does she ever drive your car?”
“You’re losing your touch, Cassidy.” His eyes swung back to hers. “The reasoning behind that question is amateurish and transparent. You want to know if Yasmine was driving my car the night Jackson Wilde was murdered. You fail to recall that she was in New York that night and that I was driving my car.”
He bore down on her. “I’m relieved that you remember that, Claire. I was beginning to think you’d forgotten that your car connects you to Wilde’s murder.”
“It appears to.”
“Temporarily. Sooner or later a clue is going to mark you as a killer.”
She shuddered, spoke low. “Excuse me. I’m going in now.” She got through the front door without being apprehended, but he caught up with her in the foyer. He covered her hand where it rested on the balustrade.
“Claire, why do you do that? Why do you just turn your back and walk away when I make those kinds of allegations? Why don’t you deny them?”
“Because I don’t have to. I’m innocent until proven guilty, remember? I’ve got nothing to fear from you.”
“The hell you don’t.” He leaned forward, straining the words through his teeth. “You can’t continue to simply walk away. I didn’t follow you to Mississippi on a whim, you know.”
“Then why did you come here? Why impose yourself on me, why interfere with my work? To bully me about nonexistent affairs with Jackson Wilde? To try to place a wedge between Yasmine and me? Divide and conquer? Is that your current strategy?”
“No. I came because I had no choice. The evidence against you is no longer circumstantial. We’ve got something tangible in those carpet fibers. So far I’ve kept you from being formally arrested.”
“Why?”
“Number one, because I don’t want to look like a fool before the grand jury and get you no billed for lack of more solid evidence.”
“And number two?”
The pendulum inside the grandfather clock swung back and forth, ponderously ticking off the seconds they spent staring at each other. Finally he replied, “Because I want to give you the benefit of the doubt. But Glenn and everybody else in a position of authority is getting antsy to close this case.”
“They’re responding to the ranting of a hysterical woman.”
“Who happens to be pregnant.”
Claire’s breath left her body in an audible rush. “Pregnant?”
“Ariel Wilde collapsed last night during a prayer service in Kansas City. If you’d watched the news you would have seen it.” There were no TVs in the guest rooms at Rosesharon. During a guest’s stay, he was virtually incommunicado with the outside world unless he read the local newspaper, which carried very little national or world news.
Claire’s head was spinning. “She’s pregnant?”
“That’s right,” he said tersely. “That practically eliminates her as a suspect.”
“Not necessarily.”
“Not to you, maybe. Maybe not even to me. But to everybody else’s way of thinking, she’s off the hook. Which way do you think public sympathy will swing? To the lady epitomizing motherhood and goodness, or to the woman who publishes dirty pictures?”
“It might not be Jackson’s child,” Claire said, sounding desperate, like someone grasping at a lifeline. “It could be Josh’s baby.”
“I know that. And you know that. But Joe Average Citizen doesn’t. All he sees on his color Panasonic is a saintly, weeping, pregnant widow, who looks like the last thing on her agenda would be adultery with her stepson and the cold-blooded murder of her husband.
“Be prepared, Claire. Ariel will play this for all it’s worth. Twice you’ve experienced the kind of media manipulation she’s capable of. The threat of libel suits doesn’t faze her. She’ll verbally paint the picture of an immoral, opportunistic monster taking her husband’s life and imposing tragedy on her and her unborn baby. Because of the groundwork she’s already laid, whose face do you think that monster will wear in the minds of most people?” He leaned down closer to her. “Are the grim implications of her pregnancy beginning to sink in?”
They weren’t only sinking in—they had found a nesting place in the recesses of her heart where her deepest fears were lodged. It would be folly, however, to let Cassidy see that she was afraid. “What do you want from me?” she asked defiantly.
“A confession.”
She made a scornful sound.
“Then, dammit, don’t let me accuse you without putting up a fight. Stamp. Scream. Beat on my chest with your fists. Become outraged, incensed. Don’t retreat behind that cool facade; it only makes you look guiltier. You can’t remain aloof any longer, Claire. Fight back, for God’s sake.”
“I wouldn’t lower my dignity to such a level.”
“Dignity!” he bellowed. The features of his face turned stiff with rage. “Jail is undignified, Claire. So is a murder trial. So is life in prison.” His breath fell hotly on her face. “Damn you, tell me my suspicions are wrong. Give me something absolute that will shoot down all the facts I have working against you.”
“Until I’m indicted, I shouldn’t have to worry about defending myself. The judicial procedure—”
“Screw procedure! Talk to me!”
“Mr. Cassidy?” The wavering voice came from Mary Catherine, who was hovering in the dining-room archway. “Why are you shouting at Claire? You’re not going to take her away, are you?”
“Of course not, Mama!” Claire exclaimed.
“Because I really can’t let you take her.”
Claire moved quickly to her mother’s side and placed an arm around her shoulders. “Mr. Cassidy and I were just… debating something.”
“Oh.”
Where was Harry? Claire asked herself. Why wasn’t she with her mother? “Everything’s fine, Mama. I promise. Are you feeling well?”
Mary Catherine formed a tremulous smile. “We’re having stuffed pork chops for dinner. Doesn’t that sound delicious? I must ask them to trim all the fat off Aunt Laurel’s. That’s the only way she’ll eat pork, you know. Otherwise she gets indigestion. Oh, forgive me, Mr. Cassidy, for discussing such an indelicate matter in mixed company.”
Cassidy cleared his throat. “Quite all right.”
“Aunt Laurel wants to get some cuttings from the rose-bushes here to plant in the courtyard. Wouldn’t that be lovely, Claire Louise?”
“Yes, Mama. Lovely.”
Mary Catherine walked past Claire to the coat tree near the door, where Cassidy’s sports coat was hanging. She removed something from the pocket of her skirt and slipped it into the breast pocket of the jacket. Without acknowledging her strange action, she continued the conversation. “Claire dear, your face is flushed.”
“It’s hot outside.”
“Are you perspiring, dear? That’s not at all ladylike. Perhaps you should take a bath and change before dinner.”
“I plan to, Mama. I was just on my way up.”
“You work much too hard. Aunt Laurel and I were talking about it this afternoon over tea. You really should take care.” Mary Catherine stroked her cheek lovingly before drifting upstairs and out of sight. The instant they heard her bedroom door close, Cassidy moved to the coat tree and reached into the breast pocket of his coat.
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
“What is it?” He held up a gold fountain pen.
“Is it yours?”
With a rueful smile he said, “I noticed it
missing the afternoon I arrived, after I’d left my jacket hanging here for a while. I figured somebody had stolen it, although I couldn’t imagine who would want to. It isn’t an expensive pen, but valuable to me because it was a gift from my folks, and both of them are deceased.”
Claire pressed her fingertips against her lips and turned her back to him. She leaned against one of the tall, narrow windows that flanked the front door, resting her forehead against the glass, which had retained some coolness during the sweltering afternoon.
Cassidy moved to stand close behind her. “Hey, it’s no big deal, Claire.”
His voice was soft, gentle, confidence inspiring. When he placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him, she was tempted to rest her head against his chest as she had the window. It would be a tremendous relief to finally unburden herself and tell him everything. “Oh, Cassidy, I wish…”
“What?” he probed gently.
She rolled her head across her shoulders. Naturally she couldn’t say what she really wanted to, so she said instead, “I wish it weren’t so hot. I wish it would rain. I wish we were finished here so I could go home and restore my office and home, which I’m certain the police left in shambles.”
She bit her lower lip to stop tears of frustration and fear. “I wish I’d never heard of Jackson Wilde. I wish you’d have told me about your fountain pen. I could have explained days ago.”
“I got it back and that’s all that matters. Forget it.”
But she couldn’t forget it and felt compelled to explain her mother’s actions. “See, sometimes Mama takes things. She’s not stealing because she doesn’t realize she’s doing anything wrong. She’s just ‘borrowing.’ She never fails to return whatever it is she’s taken. It’s harmless and innocent, really.”
“Hush, Claire.” He pushed his fingers up through her hair and whisked a kiss across her lips. “I believe you.”
But when he ducked his head for a deeper kiss, she pushed him away and gazed into his eyes. “No, you don’t, Cassidy.” Suddenly they were no longer talking about her mother or the fountain pen. Claire slowly shook her head. “You don’t believe me at all.”
Chapter Eighteen
Yasmine left before dinner. The empty place at the dining table aroused curiosity, which Claire satisfied without going into details. “Yasmine had an appointment in New Orleans tonight, but she’s making a quick round trip. She’ll be back early tomorrow morning.”
Leon was excited about the photographs he’d taken that day. His enthusiasm, heightened by several glasses of excellent dinner wine, prompted him to wax eloquent throughout the meal. He lavished his captive audience with ribald stories about the famous and would-be famous who frequented Manhattan’s ever-changing hotspots.
“Of course it’s not like in the old days when Studio 54 was in its heyday,” he remarked wistfully. “It’s a shame that, what with AIDS and drug awareness, no one really parties anymore.”
Immediately following dinner, Claire excused herself. A Trivial Pursuit tournament was being organized. She knew from past experience that they invariably turned hostile. Pleading exhaustion, she accompanied Mary Catherine and Harry upstairs, where she lingered in their room, chatting with her mother until Mary Catherine’s sleeping pill took effect. Mary Catherine didn’t mention Cassidy’s fountain pen, nor did she give any indication that she remembered taking it.
In her rush to leave for New Orleans, Yasmine had left their bedroom looking like a storm had hit it. Claire spent a half-hour picking up strewn clothing and reorganizing the vanity table. The bathroom was in no better shape. After straightening it, she languished in a tub of cool water, trying to relax and stop thinking about Ariel Wilde’s pregnancy and what adverse effects it might have on her.
After her bath, she dusted with talcum, and put on a silk thigh-length chemise that was the color of old, expensive pearls. She twisted her hair into a knot on top of her head and secured it with a clip, then stacked pillows against the headboard of her bed and reclined against them. She intended to switch on the bedside lamp, but the darkness was so soothing. More than she needed to review the schedule for tomorrow, she needed sleep.
But her thoughts weren’t restful. Like intractable children, they wouldn’t behave and leave her in peace. Her eyes would remain closed for only brief snatches of time before they stubbornly sprang open. The bed, on which she had spent several restful nights, had metamorphosed into a bunk full of lumps and knots. Her pillow became warm too quickly. She flipped it over several times, growing increasingly impatient with her insomnia. Laughter wafted up the staircase from the parlor where the game was still in progress. She wished everybody would shut up and go to bed.
She blamed her discontent on the mattress, the pillow, and the noise, but she knew that the real source of it, like her jealousy that afternoon, was something deep inside herself. It wasn’t in her nature to be out of sorts with her friends and associates, her environment, and herself. She didn’t like herself this way.
Yet, she was afraid to look too closely for an explanation. She knew intuitively that whatever had brought about this character change was something she’d rather not acknowledge. Avoidance was preferable to confrontation. She didn’t want to deal with whatever was making her crazy. Left alone, maybe it would simply go away.
She heard a noise that sounded like someone moving furniture across the hardwood floors. It was thunder. Vainly willing herself to fall asleep, she listened to the thunderstorm moving progressively closer to Rosesharon. Lightning flashed through the sheer drapes at the French doors. Maybe this time the clouds would deliver a cooling rain. So far all they’d produced was a heightened sense of expectancy to an atmosphere already too thick to breathe.
As the storm came nearer and increased in intensity, so did Claire’s restlessness.
Cassidy declined to join the Trivial Pursuit tournament in favor of a stroll around the grounds. However, the stifling humidity and biting mosquitoes quickly drove him back inside.
He didn’t stop in the parlor to bid anyone good night but went straight upstairs to his room. He paused to listen at Claire’s door, which was next door to his, but could hear nothing. There wasn’t any light showing through the crack beneath the door, either, so he reasoned she must have done as she’d said and gone to bed early.
In his room, he stripped to the skin. God, it was muggy even indoors. He considered going downstairs to get a beer from the bar but decided against it. He might bump into Agnes or Grace, who were wont to engage their guests in lengthy conversations. Southern hospitality only went so far before it became cloying. His present frame of mind wasn’t conducive to chatter. Tonight he wasn’t fit company for anyone except himself, and he was finding himself nearly intolerable.
After taking a quick shower to cool off, he lay down on the bed and lit a cigarette. He’d quit smoking two years earlier, but he was feeling agitated. Besides, he needed something to keep his hands occupied while his mind ran in incessant circles.
Claire had motive. Claire had opportunity. Claire could be directly linked to the crime scene through fibers from her car’s carpet. Claire had no ironclad alibi. Claire was his best shot at getting the conviction that he desperately needed for both professional and personal reasons.
But he didn’t want Claire to be the culprit.
“Goddammit.” The curse seemed to hover in the darkness long after the sound had faded. This was a bitch of a position he had placed himself in. If he followed his conscience and the ethics of professional conduct, he would distance himself from this case. Crowder had already given him a deadline for bringing in a suspect. The number of allotted days was dwindling. If he was summarily replaced, that would be a hell of a thing to live down.
But what if, before the deadline, he asked to be removed? Crowder thought he was too personally involved in the case, so he would probably be relieved by the request. The decision wouldn’t damage their relationship. In fact, it would probably win his mentor’s
favor. Crowder would simply assign the case to someone else.
No, that was no good. That someone else would probably be aggressive and sly and would slap handcuffs on Claire as soon as she returned to New Orleans. She’d be booked for murder two. Fingerprinted. Photographed. Jailed. The thought of it made him sick.
On the other hand, he couldn’t live with the thought that he might let a guilty woman go free because he had the hots for her. Only it wasn’t as simple as that. It never had been. Since he had first walked into French Silk and met Claire Laurent, nothing had been easy or routine.
It was as though he’d been bewitched. French Silk had an ambience that mystified and intrigued him. It wasn’t the old building itself, or even the French Quarter. He’d been there many times since he’d moved to New Orleans. He’d found it charming, but it had never made him feel as though he had gone through a time warp on the other side of which everything moved in slow motion and nothing was what it seemed.
It wasn’t the physical place that had mesmerized him. It was Claire. She exuded a mystique that confounded him. That unnamed quality was dangerously romantic, totally alluring, and potentially disastrous. It had trapped him like an invisible web. The harder he struggled against it, the more ensnared he became. Even now, while he should be plotting a way to catch her, he was devising means to protect her from prosecution.
Crazy, he thought, shaking his head over his own culpability. But he went with it anyway. There was no harm in exploring alternatives, was there? In fact, wasn’t that the sensible, responsible, professional thing to do?
Who else was a viable suspect?
Ariel Wilde. She was pregnant now, but she could have offed her husband for a variety of reasons. Nevertheless, it would be tough to prosecute her and emerge a hero. He could always raise doubt as to who had fathered her child. But a good attorney would object to that line of questioning. The judge might rule in defense’s favor, and that would be that. Nipped in the bud. The jury would never know about Ariel’s affair with her stepson, and Cassidy would be despised for casting aspersions on a saintly expectant mother.
