by Sandra Brown
Claire kept Yasmine’s secrets to herself. She wouldn’t betray her friend’s confidence even now, when it no longer mattered. To mutual friends who had been shocked by the news and needed answers, Claire merely said that Yasmine had been extremely unhappy recently. She didn’t divulge details of her failed love affair or of her financial difficulties.
Since all that remained of Yasmine’s family were a few cousins sprinkled along the East Coast, to whom she had never been close, the responsibility of the funeral and burial had fallen to Claire. Yasmine had left no instructions, so Claire had followed her instincts and had the body cremated. The memorial service had been quiet and private, open to only a few invited guests. Now an urn sealed in a mausoleum was all that remained of her gorgeous, talented, vital friend who had possessed a zest for living until she fell in love with the wrong man.
Reminded of Petrie, Claire turned to Cassidy, who’d been driving in silence. “Petrie’s little girl. Is she all right?”
“From what I read, she’s coping. Still has nightmares, the papers said yesterday. She’s under the care of a child psychologist.”
“I can’t imagine Yasmine doing something that ghastly in front of a child.”
“Petrie was the lover who dumped her, right?”
“Lucky guess.”
“I heard that afterward, they found all sorts of voodoo paraphernalia in her room.”
“Yes.”
“I also heard that you were on the scene, Claire.”
“I found the altar in her room. I thought she was going to harm him. I went after her, but arrived too late.”
“Dr. Dupuis told me that you refused to leave her side and accompanied her body to the morgue.”
“She was my friend.”
“You’re to be commended.”
“I don’t need your praise.”
“You’re determined to alienate me, aren’t you?”
“I thought it was decided the day we met that we couldn’t be friends.” They glanced at each other, then quickly away. After a while, Claire said, “This is bound to put a kink in Petrie’s campaign. What does he have to say for himself?”
“You haven’t read?”
“No. I’ve deliberately avoided reading anything about her suicide or the speculations on why she did it. They were certain to make me ill.”
“Then I don’t recommend the recent issues of any periodical. Everything from The New York Times to the National Enquirer has a theory.”
“I was afraid of that. Give me an idea of what I’m up against.”
“That she was strung out on drugs.”
“I expected that one.”
“That she held a racially founded grudge against Petrie.”
“Yasmine was apolitical.”
“That she was a spurned secret lover.”
“Which I’m certain he’s denied.”
“Actually he hasn’t said much. He’s hiding behind his wife’s skirts and letting her do all the talking. Pretty neat P.R. tactic when you think about it. If the wife’s solidly behind him, he couldn’t have been having an illicit affair, right?”
“Right. So they’ll make Yasmine out to be a nut case.”
“Basically.” Cassidy wheeled his car into its designated parking slot at the side of the district attorney’s office building.
“Why’d you bring me here?” Claire asked resentfully. “I’m travel grimy. I’m tired. I don’t feel up to answering any questions. And I’m furious at you for badgering my mother. Besides, I thought you’d be off the case by now. Hasn’t Crowder replaced you yet?”
“Not since there’ve been some late-breaking developments.”
“Congratulations. But what could these late-breaking developments possibly have to do with me? I haven’t even been here.”
He turned to her, laying his arm across the back of the seat. “We ran a routine ballistics test on the bullet that killed Yasmine. It had the same markings as the ones that killed Jackson Wilde. All of them were fired from the .38 revolver that was removed from Yasmine’s death grip.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Andre Philippi scoured his fingernails with a brush and liquid hand soap. It was the fifth time he’d washed his hands in that compulsive and meticulous manner since waking that morning. When his hands were clean to his satisfaction—temporarily—he rinsed them in water as hot as he could stand and blotted them dry with a fluffy white towel straight from the hotel’s laundry.
He surveyed himself in the mirror over the basin. His clothes were immaculate, nary a speck or a wrinkle. The pink carnation in his lapel was fresh and dewy. There wasn’t an oiled hair out of place. He should have felt splendid and well turned out, like a shiny new car on the showroom floor.
Instead he felt insecure, fearful, and miserable.
Leaving the bathroom and conscientiously switching off the light, he returned to his office. Measured by most standards, it was exceptionally tidy and well organized. To Andre it looked a mess. On his desk were stacks of correspondence that demanded his attention, in addition to employee time sheets, marketing memos, and customer questionnaires. All the paperwork he usually enjoyed sorting through and methodically completing had backed up during his period of mourning for Yasmine. He hadn’t felt like working since he received the devastating news of her suicide. Considering his affinity for his work, this new attitude toward it was tantamount to sacrilege.
When Claire called to notify him of Yasmine’s death, he had outright accused her of lying. The idea of that lovely creature destroying herself in that abhorrent fashion was too appalling to believe and too painful to contemplate. It was woefully reminiscent of the day he’d returned home from school to find his beautiful maman lying naked in an overflowing bathtub, dripping tepid water and warm blood onto the tile floor.
The two women he had loved and revered above all other of God’s creation had chosen to die rather than live. Not only had they preferred a world without him, they hadn’t even thought enough of him to say goodbye. As though it had physical qualities, grief compressed his chest until he couldn’t breathe without experiencing excruciating pain around his heart.
He had declined to go to New York for the memorial service Claire had arranged. He had stood beside his maman’s tomb as it was being sealed, swearing then that he would never again acknowledge the finality of death until he himself died.
In order to cope with Yasmine’s suicide he had tried consoling himself with familiar platitudes. “Extraordinary beauty can be a curse to the one who possesses it.” “One pays a dear price for fame and fortune.”
He had even dipped into some that he’d heard from his mother’s friends when she took her own life. “Some angels,” one well-meaning individual had told him, “are so beautiful that God can’t bear to be separated from them for long. They’re destined to short lives before they’re even born. Impatient with fate, they often hurry it along so they can return to a realm as blemishless as they are.” Traditional of New Orleans, there’d been a parade, complete with a jazz band, through the French Quarter to celebrate his mother’s passing into a world worthy of her.
He hadn’t believed such nonsense when he was a teenager striving valiantly not to weep openly over his mother’s body. He didn’t believe it now. But it made him feel better to pay lip service to it. He’d also gone to mass every day and fervently prayed for Yasmine’s soul.
As if her death weren’t enough to cope with, he was upset by the way she was being maligned in the press. The accusations being made about her seemed grossly unfair, especially since she couldn’t defend herself. He glared at the folded newspaper that he’d angrily stuffed into the wastepaper basket beneath his desk after reading the insulting headlines. Drivel. Lies. Wild speculations.
But Assistant District Attorney Cassidy believed them.
He’d called Andre early that morning. After reading the headlines, Andre wasn’t surprised to hear from him. He had expected to. He’d almost looked forward to it so he
could demonstrate his contempt for the disrespectful way Yasmine was being treated.
“The woman is dead, Mr. Cassidy,” he’d said acidly. “Like a vulture, you’re circling over her corpse. The way you prey on the defenseless is obscene, disgraceful, and abominable.”
“Cut the crap, Andre. I’m a creep and I admit it. Unfortunately, the taxpayers, you included, pay me to be a creep. Now, I’ve got one question for you and you’d better tell me the truth or I’m coming over there and nip your bud right off the stem, and I’m not talking about the flower in your lapel. Was Yasmine in the Fairmont Hotel the night Jackson Wilde was killed?”
“Your language is offensive. I’ve a good mind to report you to—”
“Was she in the frigging hotel?” Cassidy had shouted through the telephone.
Andre collected himself, smoothed a damp palm over his head and said, “You saw the records. Was her name among our registered guests?”
“That’s not what I asked you.”
“I have nothing more to say.”
“Look.” Cassidy had tried another tack, in a much more conciliatory, much kinder voice. “I know Yasmine was your friend. I’m sorry she’s dead. The short time I knew her was time enough for me to develop an admiration for her talent. She was gorgeous. Simply to look at her was like a religious experience. The planet is less beautiful because she’s no longer a part of it. I’m sensitive to your feelings. Truly, I am. Her death was tragic and premature, and one can only speculate why she chose to end her life.
“If you’ve read the newspapers,” he’d continued, “then you know that some of those speculations are way off base. Yasmine wasn’t a dopehead. She wasn’t a militant civil rights activist. She wasn’t any of the things they’ve written about her. So in a very real sense, Andre, by confiding in me, you’ll be sparing her a lot of garbage press. And think what this will mean to Claire.”
“Don’t play one of my friends against the other, Mr. Cassidy.”
“I’m not trying to. But if Yasmine was guilty of killing Wilde, then that means Claire is innocent. Don’t you want to clear her?”
“Not if it means indicting another friend who is equally innocent, who is dead, and who can’t defend herself.”
“Her guilt or innocence will probably be decided at an inquest,” Cassidy had said, his impatience returning. “Just tell me if you saw Yasmine in your hotel that night.”
“You paint a pretty word-picture, Mr. Cassidy, but your motivations are self-serving. You obviously have no case against Yasmine. If it’s up to me, you never will. You tricked me once. That’s one time too many. Goodbye.”
“I can subpoena you,” Cassidy had threatened.
“Do what you must. My responses to your questions will remain the same.”
That’s the way they’d left it. Andre had almost expected storm troopers from city hall to come crashing through his door with a subpoena. However, nothing Cassidy might do would faze him. Even brute force wouldn’t sway him. The notion that Yasmine had killed Jackson Wilde was ridiculous. It was unfounded and untrue. In fact, Andre averred as he got up to wash his hands once more, it was impossible.
“That’s impossible.”
Claire kept trying to dig in her heels, but Cassidy practically dragged her through the side entrance of the district attorney’s building. The front of it was besieged by Jackson Wilde’s disciples, who were holding a prayer vigil. They were on the scent of fresh blood, this time Yasmine’s, even though she was already dead.
Ariel Wilde had undoubtedly picked up the rumor that Yasmine’s suicide and Jackson Wilde’s murder were connected by a matching ballistics report. She had wasted no time in whipping her followers into a spiritual frenzy. Cassidy had remarked sourly to a cohort that she would be valuable to the Pentagon. She was a master strategist who knew how to launch a rapidly organized but highly effective attack. She also had the unshakable loyalty of her followers, who worshipped her right along with Jesus, which in Cassidy’s opinion was the problem with televangelism. It made bigger celebrities of the preachers than of the deities.
“Are you suggesting that Yasmine killed Jackson Wilde?” Claire asked as Cassidy pushed her into an elevator and pressed the button for the second floor.
“Listen,” he said crisply, “I didn’t believe it either, until I studied those test results myself.”
“There’s been a mistake. Somebody made a terrible error.”
“I had them checked and rechecked, Claire. The evidence is indisputable. The same weapon fired those bullets. Why the hell didn’t you tell me Yasmine had a gun? If you had, your friend might still be alive.”
With an injured sound, Claire flattened herself against the wall of the elevator as though to get as far from him as possible. “You’re a mean-spirited bastard, Cassidy.”
The elevator doors slid open. “After you,” he said silkily. He waited, leaving her no option but to step out. “This way. We’re going to sort this mess out once and for all.” Inside the corner office, he slammed the door behind them, shrugged off his coat, and pointed her to a chair. “You’d might as well make yourself comfortable. You’re not leaving here until I get to the bottom of this.”
“You asked my mother if Yasmine could have killed Reverend Wilde. That’s why she was upset.”
“I asked her what she knew about Yasmine owning a gun. I asked her if Yasmine ever talked about shooting Wilde. Stuff like that. I swear to you I was as gentle as possible.” Claire’s expression remained reproachful. “I was only doing my job, Claire.”
“Oh, yes, your bloody job.” She scooped back a handful of hair. Even that reflexive gesture seemed to require a lot of energy. There were deep shadows beneath her eyes, and she appeared to be bone-weary. “May I at least call and check on her?”
He pointed to the telephone, then stuck his head through the door and bellowed an order for two coffees. By the time a scurrying clerk arrived with two steaming Styrofoam cups, Claire was concluding her brief call.
“The gumbo’s on the stove. They’re playing gin. Mama’s winning.”
Her smile would have looked at home on a madonna’s face as she gazed at her sleeping child. Her lips looked soft and beautiful when she smiled that way. Cassidy tried not to think about how they tasted. “Coffee?”
“No, thank you.”
“Drink it. You’ll need it.”
She pulled the cup toward her but didn’t pick it up. She adjusted herself into a more comfortable position in the chair, crossing her legs and clasping her hands in her lap, then looked up at him. “Well? Ask away, counselor.”
“Don’t do this, Claire.”
“Do what?”
“Don’t make my job more difficult than it already is.”
“I think the more difficult it is, the better you like it.”
He leaned over her. “Do you think I enjoy asking you questions about Yasmine, knowing how close you two were, knowing how devastated you must be by her suicide.”
“But that doesn’t stop you, does it? You want a culprit to feed to the lions.”
He slapped the desk with his palm. “Damn right. And I want it to be somebody, anybody, besides you!”
A long, taut moment stretched between them. His eyes conveyed more than he was permitted to speak, but she got the message. Her gaze fell away and with it her defiance.
“Yasmine couldn’t have killed Jackson Wilde,” she said with soft emphasis. “Surely you don’t believe she did.”
“Why shouldn’t I believe it?”
“She didn’t even know him on a personal level. What possible motive could she have had?”
“The same as you. She wanted to shut him up. He was endangering her livelihood and she was in hock with creditors. We discovered that when we checked out her offering to Wilde.”
“Yasmine was having financial difficulties, but Wilde was never a threat to French Silk. She thought it was hysterically funny that his objective had not only been defeated but had backfired. We were flo
urishing because of the publicity he gave us, and that tickled Yasmine. Anyway, whether or not she had motive is academic. She was in New York that night.”
“No, she wasn’t.”
“I picked her up at the airport the following morning.”
“And I subpoenaed the airline records, Claire. Weeks ago. She wasn’t on that morning flight. She arrived the evening before, more than twelve hours earlier.”
Claire stared at him in disbelief. “Why didn’t you tell me this?”
“I saw no reason to blow Yasmine’s secret. I figured she came in early to see her lover and didn’t want you to know because you disapproved of the affair. It was an issue between two friends, and I didn’t want to be caught in the middle of it. But now her lie has taken on new significance.”
He sat down on the corner of his desk, facing her. “Claire, did you know that Yasmine was in New Orleans that night?”
“No.”
“Did she borrow your car?”
“No. I didn’t see her until the next morning.”
“Did you know that she carried a gun?”
She wavered. He could tell she was toying with the idea of lying and was relieved when she answered, “Yes. I knew she owned a gun. She has since I’ve known her. I urged her several times to get rid of it.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about it before?”
“Because… Yasmine said she had mislaid it.”
“You mean lost it?”
“For a while, yes. Later it turned up.”
“You mean it was lost and then suddenly reappeared?”
Claire nodded. “She had to pack it in luggage whenever she flew so it wouldn’t get confiscated by airport security. She said she had apparently overlooked it in a bag.”
“And you still didn’t tell me?”
“Things get lost all the time,” she said with irritation.
“We’re talking about a lethal weapon, Claire. Again, why didn’t you mention Yasmine’s gun to me?”
“Because I didn’t think it was important.”
