by Sandra Brown
“Not too respectable. He was sleeping with his father’s wife.”
She didn’t appreciate the mild rebuke and rushed to her step-brother’s defense. “Josh was another victim of Jackson Wilde’s emotional abuse. Having an affair with Ariel was his way of retaliating.”
“And yours was to kill him.”
“I did the world a service, Cassidy. Ariel pretends to be a grieving widow, but she’s gotten out of Jackson’s death what she wanted—the celebrity previously held by him. Josh has been released from his tormentor.”
“Isn’t that exaggerating it a bit? Wilde didn’t keep Josh on a ball and chain.”
“On an emotional level he did. Josh wanted to be a concert pianist. Wild Jack had other plans. He wanted a musician identifiable exclusively to his ministry, so he scoffed at Josh’s ambition and disparaged his talent until Josh’s self-confidence was in tatters. In the long run, he became what his father wanted him to be.”
“Josh told you all this?”
“He told me that since Ariel has disassociated him from the ministry, he wants to resume his study of classical music, his first love. I filled in the blanks.”
“What about your mother?”
“What about her?”
“Did she ever connect Jackson Wilde to Wild Jack Collins?”
“No. Thank God. His appearance must have changed over the last thirty years. You know she can’t hold a thought for long, so even if recognition flickered, it didn’t register.”
Cassidy frowned, his eyes squinting with skepticism. “Claire, I strongly advise you not to say anything more without an attorney present.”
“I’m waiving my right to an attorney, Cassidy. I’ve made a public confession and a crowd of people witnessed it. I don’t intend to retract it. I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Although,” she added, “you’ve already guessed most of it.”
“What do you mean?”
“You guessed how I got into Jackson Wilde’s room. Remember when we walked through the French Quarter, retracing the route I took the night of the murder?”
“You’re about to tell me that that was an exercise in futility.”
“Actually I did go for a walk that night. Afterward. It was when I returned to French Silk from my walk that I discovered Mama was gone.”
“By a bizarre coincidence, she had wandered to the Fairmont Hotel that night.”
“Yes.”
“That’s quite a hike for her.”
“She might have taken a bus.”
Cassidy declined to comment. “Go on,” he said. “You were about to tell me how you got into Wilde’s suite. Andre to the rescue?”
“No. Never,” she said with an adamant shake of her head. “He’s entirely innocent. I never lied about that. No one knew what I intended to do.”
“Yasmine?”
“Not even her. I did this on my own. I would never compromise a friend.”
“Heaven forbid. But you’d murder a man in cold blood.”
“Do you want to hear this or not?”
Cassidy shot from his chair, rattling teacups. “What the hell do you think? Hell no, I don’t want to hear it,” he shouted. “And if you had an ounce of sense, you would call an attorney, who would insist that you not say ‘God bless’ if I sneezed.”
He had removed his suit jacket when they came into the house, before the windows they’d opened had had a chance to air it out and cool it down. Gray suspenders criss-crossed his back. His shirtsleeves had been rolled to his elbows. Now, he loosened his tie.
Claire watched his nimble fingers working at the Windsor knot, knowing that she would never feel his touch on her skin again. The reminder created an ache in her lower body, a painful, gaping void. Rather than dwell on that yearning, she focused on his anger and used it to make him her adversary.
“While we were at Café du Monde,” she said, “you guessed that the killer was waiting for Wilde when he returned to his suite. You were right.”
“Don’t tell me this, Claire.”
Disregarding his advice, she continued. “I waited in an adjacent hallway. When the maid went in to turn down the beds, I sneaked into Wilde’s suite and hid in a closet. I was there almost an hour before he came in.”
“Alone?”
“Without Ariel, yes. He watched TV for a while. I could hear it from the closet. He showered, then went to bed. When I heard him snoring, I crept out and tiptoed into his bedroom. I shot him three times.”
“Did you ever speak to him?”
“No. I was tempted to wake him. I wanted to see fear in his eyes. I would have liked him to know that he was going to die at the hand of his own child. I would have liked to speak Mama’s name to see if it would elicit any response from him, trigger any memory at all. But he was a large man. I was afraid to wake him up. He could have overpowered me and taken the gun.
“But I stood at the foot of his bed for a long time. I stared down at him, hating him, hating the abuse he had inflicted on people who had loved him. Mama. Josh. Ariel. I did it for all of us.
“He lay there, sleeping so complacently, in a luxurious suite paid for by people who couldn’t afford to send him offerings, but did so because they believed in him. There was a Rolex wristwatch lying on top of his Bible on the nightstand. The symbolism of that made me sick to my stomach. He profited from what martyrs through the centuries had died for, what they’re still dying for.”
Cassidy eagerly returned to his seat across from her. “You shot him three times. Why, Claire? Why three?”
“In the head for the way he deliberately distorted Christianity to serve his own purposes. In the heart to atone for all those he’d broken. In his manhood for the unconscionable way he seduced and then deserted a wholesome young woman who deserved to be loved.”
“You blew him away, Claire.”
“Yes.” She swallowed hard. “It was messy. I didn’t expect… When I saw all the blood, I ran.”
“How’d you get out of the hotel?”
“The same way I got in. No one saw me on that floor because the only people registered to the rooms there were the Wildes. I took the elevator down to the lobby and walked out the University Street exit.” She moistened her lips and glanced at him nervously. “And to help conceal my identity, in case I’d left clues, I dressed like Mama.”
“You did what?”
“I wore one of her dresses, and her elopement hat, and carried her suitcase.”
“Very clever. Later if a witness was asked who they’d seen in the hotel at that time of night, they would describe Mary Catherine. Then she would be immediately dismissed because she’s known to behave strangely, and the hotel staff is accustomed to seeing her wandering through there, dressed that way, carrying a suitcase.”
“Precisely. What I didn’t count on was Mama actually going there that night.”
“Without her hat and suitcase?”
The question threw her off for a moment. “Naturally she had them.”
“I thought you said you had them.”
“I did. But I returned home and changed clothes before going on my walk. That’s when she went out.”
“I’m not sure all that corresponds with the time of Wilde’s death,” Cassidy said, frowning. “If I were your defense attorney, I’d use those time discrepancies to establish reasonable doubt with the jury.”
“There won’t be a jury because there won’t be a trial. I’ve confessed. Once I’m sentenced, that’ll be the end to it.”
“You sound as though you look forward to it,” he said angrily. “Are you that eager to go to prison for the rest of your life? For the rest of my life?”
She looked away. “I just want to get it over with.”
Swearing lavishly, he combed his fingers through his hair. “Why didn’t you dispose of the gun, Claire? Why didn’t you toss it in the river that night while you were on your walk?”
“I wish I had,” she said miserably. “I never expected it to wind up in a police
lab.”
“The only fingerprints on that revolver were Yasmine’s.”
“I had on Mama’s gloves.”
“Which we can test for powder burns.”
“I destroyed them and bought her new ones. You won’t find anything.”
“You’re real smart, aren’t you?”
“Well, my first choice would have been to get away with it!” she snapped. “But you’re so damned persistent.”
He ignored that and asked, “When did you sneak the gun out of Yasmine’s purse?”
“The week before I used it. She came down for a quick overnight trip. She was so flighty and often careless with her possessions, I knew that when her gun turned up missing she’d shrug it off. I replaced it a few days later—after you’d questioned me about the weapon. Just as I expected, Yasmine passed it off as an oversight.”
“That sounds out of character for you, Claire. By using her gun you implicated Yasmine in a murder.”
“I didn’t think the gun would ever be fired again. I certainly didn’t expect Yasmine to take her own life with it.” Tears formed in her eyes. Because of the events that had unfolded so quickly since her return from New York that morning, she still hadn’t had an opportunity to grieve privately over the loss of her friend. “I wish I had disposed of the damn thing. Yasmine was in more emotional distress than I guessed. She was a disaster waiting to happen. I was too busy to notice, too caught up in my own crisis, too involved with—” Suddenly she broke off and glanced at Cassidy, then quickly lowered her eyes. “I was too involved with this murder investigation to realize that she was silently crying out for help. I failed her.”
Cassidy said nothing for a moment. Then he asked, “That night, when you met Jackson Wilde face to face in the Superdome, what did you feel toward him?”
“Interesting,” she said softly. “I didn’t feel the unmitigated hatred that I expected I would. Believing me to be a new convert, he laid his hands on my head. There was no cosmic current. I felt no mystical attachment, either physical or emotional. When I looked into his eyes, I expected to experience a tug of recognition, a biological click, something deep inside me.
“Instead, I gazed into the eyes of a stranger. I felt no magnetic attraction to him. I didn’t want to claim him as my father, any more than he had wanted to claim me thirty-two years ago.” She raised her head slightly. “I’m glad he never knew me. After the heartache and mental illness he inflicted on my mother, he didn’t deserve the privilege of knowing me.”
“Bravo for you, Claire.” He stared at her for a long moment, his gaze full of admiration. He even lifted his hand toward her cheek, but let it drop before touching her. Eventually he scraped back his chair and stood up. “I’ve got to go to my car and call Crowder. He’s probably had a stroke or two by now. Is there anything to eat in the house?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You should eat anyway.”
She shrugged indifferently. “There’s a café around the corner. It doesn’t look like much from the outside, but Mr. Thibodeaux makes good fried-oyster sandwiches.”
“Sounds fine. Let’s go.”
“I’ll stay here.”
“Not a chance. Besides, you promised Harry you’d call.”
Claire didn’t have the energy to argue with him. His mouth was resolutely set, his stance unarguable. Feeling like she weighed a thousand pounds, she preceded him from the house.
“I’m trying to reach Assistant District Attorney Cassidy.”
“You dialed the wrong number. You’ve called the NOPD, sir.”
“I know that, but the D.A.’s office is closed for the day.”
“That’s right, it is. Call ’em tomorra.”
“No, wait! Don’t hang up.”
Andre Philippi was in a tizzy. He’d finally worked up enough nerve to call Mr. Cassidy, but his attempts had been thwarted, first by the time clock, now by an uncaring, dull-witted incompetent at the police station.
“It’s imperative that I reach Mr. Cassidy tonight. There must be some way to contact him after hours. Does he have a pager?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then will you please check with your supervisor?”
“Do you wanna report a crime?”
“I want to speak to Mr. Cassidy!” Andre’s naturally high-pitched voice rose to a full falsetto. Knowing he was reaching hysteria and realizing that his speech was conveying that, he willed himself to calm down. “It’s about the Jackson Wilde case.”
“The Jackson Wilde case?”
“That’s right. And if you refuse to cooperate, you’ll be obstructing justice.” Andre hoped that was the correct term. He’d read the phrase once, and it seemed appropriate to use now. In any event, it was intimidating enough to get results.
“Hold on.”
While Andre waited for the officer to return to the line, he scanned the front page of the evening papers again. According to the latest articles, Yasmine had been cleared of any involvement in the Wilde murder case. But beneath a blurry black-and-white photo of her, the caption suggested that she had participated in subversive activities and was very possibly deranged. The unfairness of the allegations struck Andre like a stinging slap in the face. Like his maman, Yasmine hadn’t been properly appreciated or protected. He could no longer tolerate it.
To add insult to injury, the second headline declared Claire Laurent Jackson Wilde’s confessed killer. Surely the report was inaccurate. Why in heaven’s name would Claire confess to murder? It was preposterous. Moreover, it was untrue. His attempts to reach her for an explanation had gone unrewarded. No one was answering the phone at French Silk.
The entire world seemed to have gone haywire. He alone stood sane amid rampant insanity. To correct these grievous wrongs, he had no alternative but to contact Mr. Cassidy.
“Hey? You still there?”
“Yes,” Andre replied eagerly. “Can you give me Mr. Cassidy’s private number?”
“Sorry, no. I was told he had left for the day and was unavailable until tomorra mawnin’, when he’ll prob’ly make a statement.”
“I’m not media.”
“Sure. If you say so.”
“I swear it.”
“Tell you what, if you want, I’ll give your name and number to a detective, name of Howard Glenn, who’s been working with Cassidy.”
Andre remembered the untidy brutes who had invaded his hotel the morning following the murder. “I’ll speak only with Mr. Cassidy.”
“Suit yourself, fella.”
The policeman disconnected him, leaving Andre feeling adrift and agitated. He stewed over what he should do. He couldn’t concentrate on his work. For the first time in his tenure as night manager, he neglected his responsibilities and his guests. Why wasn’t the telephone at French Silk being answered? Where was Claire? Where was Mr. Cassidy?
And when he finally spoke with him, could he bring himself to tell him what he must?
Chapter Thirty-One
From Cassidy’s car, Claire had phoned her mother at Harry’s house. For the time being, Mary Catherine was out of harm’s way. Cassidy had been unable to reach Crowder and had become extremely upset about it.
“Call that detective you’ve been working with,” Claire suggested after hearing a litany of curses.
“No. I know what he would want me to do.”
“Bring me in handcuffed and shackled?”
“Something like that.” Cassidy shook his head. “It’s imperative that I speak to Tony first. I’m not taking you back until I do.”
So she had been granted one night’s reprieve. They had returned to Aunt Laurel’s house. After eating the supper they had bought at Mr. Thibodeaux’s café, Claire had pleaded exhaustion and retreated to her bedroom upstairs. She undressed and hung her clothes in the closet where some outdated garments were still stored. Now, she scooped cool water from the pedestal sink onto her face and neck.
The bathroom looked exactly as it had the day she move
d from Aunt Laurel’s house. She had designed the art deco bathroom in her new apartment, but she still loved the Victorian quaintness of this bathroom with its claw-footed tub, pedestal sink, and tile floors. She found towels and washcloths stored in the chiffonier. They smelled of floral potpourri.
She used one of the towels to blot her dripping face. When she straightened up, she saw Cassidy’s reflection in the oval framed mirror above the sink. He was standing in the doorway, silent and still, watching her.
The lamplight in the bedroom behind him was dim, so half of his face was cast in shadow, heightening his intense predatory aspect. He was bare-chested, and his suspenders had slipped from his shoulders, forming loops against his hips. One forearm was raised, bracing him against the jamb. The other arm hung at his side. Although he hadn’t moved, his stance conveyed power, strength, and a suggestion of latent violence.
Wearing nothing except an apricot satin bra and panties set, Claire felt more naked than if she’d been nude. She resisted the impulse to grab one of the towels to cover herself. The expression on Cassidy’s shadowed face intimated that any attempt at modesty would be wasted effort. Besides, she didn’t think she could move. His stare had captivated her.
He walked forward until he was a hair’s breadth from touching her. They regarded each other in the mirror, their gazes hungry. He raised his hands, slipped them beneath her hair, and rested them on her bare shoulders.
“I’m going to make love to you.”
Her shoulders slumped forward as though from the weight of his hands. “You can’t. We can’t.” He brushed aside her hair and laid a tender kiss on her shoulder. “Don’t, Cassidy,” she murmured. “Don’t.” Belying her protests, when his lips moved to her nape, her head dropped forward in compliance.
“Claire,” he whispered into her hair, “I’ve fallen in love with you.”
“You can’t say these things to me.”
“I want you. Now.”
“Stop, please. You’ll regret this. I know you, Cassidy,” she said with feeling. “I know how you think. You’ll hate yourself for the rest of your life if you do this.”
