French Silk

by Sandra Brown

  Crowder’s wide fingertips were doing pushups against each other. “It’s all interesting, but it’s not enough. What else have you got?”

  “Petrie’s cunning. He’d be smart enough to place the wounds so it would look like a woman shot Wilde.”

  “It worked. It threw you off from day one.”

  “Yeah,” Cassidy admitted grimly. “Petrie probably thought Ariel would become our chief suspect. He’d been around the Wildes enough to know that they didn’t have a marriage made in heaven. He might even have known about her affair with Josh.”

  “Why’d he come to us yesterday?”

  “He was covering his ass. Our investigation into Yasmine’s involvement would have eventually exposed their affair, but it also could have implicated him in the murder. He confessed to one sin in order to throw up a smokescreen to hide the other.”

  “But he’s got alibis at the Doubletree who will testify that he was there that night,” Crowder reminded him.

  “He was there. He checked in at the registration desk and made certain he was seen. But he spent a good deal of the night at the Fairmont.”

  Crowder stubbornly shook his head. “It’s still guesswork and circumstantial, Cassidy. A defense attorney—and he can afford the best—will chase your ass out of the courtroom unless you can substantiate that Petrie was in the Fairmont Hotel that night.”

  “I can.”

  “You can?”

  “I have an eyewitness.”

  Crowder’s eyebrows sprang up. “Who?”

  “Andre Philippi.”

  “Andre?” Claire gasped.

  Cassidy nodded. “He tried to reach me several times last night, and when he couldn’t, he relented and spoke with Glenn, who hasn’t let him out of his sight since. As soon as I got the message this morning, I joined them. Claire will understand this. You will after you meet him, Tony. He has this thing about safeguarding the privacy of his guests. It’s like a code of honor to him. He’s passionate about it. He kept Claire’s secret until we caught him at it, remember? Likewise, he was keeping Petrie’s. Until this morning.”

  “Why’s he blowing the whistle on Petrie now?”

  “It seems that Andre’s second passion was Yasmine.”

  “That’s true,” Claire said. She told them about Andre’s mother and the parallels between the two women. “Andre grew up resenting the distance his father kept from his mother, even though he supported her financially. A few days before Yasmine’s suicide, he called me, terribly worried about her. He’s sure to have seen the correlation between her tragic ending and his mother’s.”

  Cassidy elaborated. “He knows that Yasmine killed herself over Petrie. And since Petrie’s letting her name be dragged through the muck and circulating vicious lies about her, Andre no longer feels obligated to protect him. He swears on his mother’s grave that Petrie spent the night at the Fairmont with Yasmine. He arrived shortly after eleven and left around seven the following morning, before Ariel discovered Wilde’s body and we sealed the doors. Andre himself called Yasmine a cab. She went to the airport in time to meet Claire at the designated time. I’ll bet no one at the Doubletree can swear under oath that they saw Petrie between eleven P.M. and seven A.M.”

  “Why would a jury believe this Andre fellow?”

  “They’ll believe him,” Cassidy said confidently. “Furthermore, they’d believe Belle.”

  “His wife?” Crowder exclaimed.

  “Right. It wouldn’t surprise me if she knew about the murder. She’s covered Alister’s tracks this far, but somehow I don’t think she’d go out on a limb if it involved murder.”

  “I don’t think so either,” Claire said quietly. “I only met her a few times, years ago, but she impressed me as a woman who values her own skin.”

  Crowder tugged on his lower lip. “Petrie might toss it back and say it was Yasmine who killed Wilde. She had motivation, and the murder weapon belonged to her. He might even accuse Ms. Laurent.”

  “He might.” Cassidy said, grinning craftily. “But he’d still have to answer to spending the night at the Fairmont Hotel with his mistress. Either way, he’s screwed. At the very least, he’s guilty of ducking out when he had information pertinent to the investigation of a murder.”

  Cassidy leaned over Crowder’s desk. “I want the bastard, Tony. I want to launch a full-fledged but covert investigation. He’s got to be puzzling over why Claire made a confession and probably reasons correctly that she’s doing it to protect either Yasmine or Mary Catherine. In any event, he thinks he’s gotten away with murder. He hasn’t.”

  Tony Crowder held Cassidy’s stare for several moments, glanced at Claire, then returned his gaze to his deputy prosecutor. “Proceed with caution and absolute secrecy, but nail the son of a bitch.”

  Ariel Wilde answered Cassidy’s knock with the cordiality of a rattlesnake poised to strike. Whatever she’d been about to say died on her lips when she saw who accompanied him.

  “I thought she’d be behind bars by now.”

  “I asked Mr. Cassidy to arrange this meeting,” Claire said. “May we come in?”

  Radiating a hostile aura, the widow stepped aside and admitted them into her hotel room. Without specifying why, Cassidy had called an hour earlier, telling her that he wanted to see her and Joshua alone.

  Josh, who’d been sprawled on a sofa and looking very unhappy about being there, rose to his feet when they came in. His eyes bounced between them, curious and wary in equal proportions.

  “I’m waiting.” Ariel crossed her arms over her middle. “I’m very busy this afternoon.”

  “Organizing more demonstrations?” Cassidy asked pleasantly.

  “They’re working, aren’t they? They got her to confess.”

  “I didn’t kill your husband, Mrs. Wilde.”

  “What!” Ariel rounded on Cassidy. “You’re sleeping with her, right? So you’re not letting her confession stick. Wait’ll the media gets hold of this. You won’t—”

  “Mrs. Wilde.” Claire spoke softly, but with such authority that Ariel fell silent. “I confessed because I thought I was protecting my mother. I thought she had killed your husband.”

  “Why would you think that? Your mother’s a loony tune.”

  Claire pulled herself up to her full height and struggled to keep a reign on her temper. “My mother has emotional problems, yes. Their origins date back to over thirty years ago, when she fell in love with a young street preacher named Jack Collins, who went by the nickname of Wild Jack. He seduced her, robbed her of money, and deserted her, leaving her pregnant with his baby. Wild Jack Collins was Jackson Wilde. And I was the baby.”

  Ariel barked a harsh laugh. “What the hell are you trying to pull? Do you—”

  “Shut up, Ariel.” the unexpected rebuke came from Josh, who was staring closely at Claire. “I knew there was something… When I met you, I… You’re my half-sister.”

  “Yes. Hello again, Josh.” Smiling, Claire extended her hand. He reached out and shook it, but his eyes never wavered from hers. “I hope you’ll forgive me for testing your character by offering you a bribe. You didn’t disappoint me by refusing.”

  “This is all very touching,” Ariel sneered, “but I’ll be damned before I believe this crap.”

  “This much is true,” Josh said. “Before he married my mother, Daddy was known as Wild Jack Collins. I once overheard my grandfather referring to him by that name, and it made Daddy mad as hell.”

  Claire gave Josh’s hand a light squeeze before releasing it and turning to Ariel again. “I have no intention of disclosing my relationship to Jackson Wilde. Frankly, I’m not at all proud of it, and it would focus attention on my mother, which I hope to avoid.”

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  “To strongly suggest that you forget you ever heard of French Silk or anyone connected to it.”

  “Or what?”

  “Or I’ll reveal to the world the real Jackson Wilde. I’m sure you don’t wan
t your late husband exposed as a seducer of young girls, a fornicator, a thief, a liar, and a child deserter. It wouldn’t be good for the ministry, would it?”

  Ariel’s wide blue eyes blinked rapidly. She was obviously afraid, but not yet ready to concede. “You can’t prove it.”

  “You can’t disprove it. And people always believe the worst, don’t they, Ariel? In fact, you’ve used that human trait to your advantage each time you’ve spoken my name to the media.”

  Ariel opened her mouth, but no words came out.

  “I was certain you’d see the wisdom in my argument,” Claire said. “I think it would be best for both of us if we let this matter drop. I want nothing of Jackson Wilde’s. Not even his hateful name. If I’m allowed to pursue my interests without any further interference from you, your husband’s treachery will remain a secret. However, if you continue your crusade against me and French Silk, I would be forced to reconsider my position.” Claire smiled. “But I’m confident I won’t.”

  She looked at Josh. “Goodbye for now. I’ll be in touch soon.” She turned and moved toward the door.

  Cassidy paused to deliver a parting shot. “I’m continuing my investigation into your husband’s murder, Mrs. Wilde. I have new evidence which I’m certain will result in a conviction. In the meantime, I advise you to stay out of my business, keep out of my way, get your butt back to Nashville, and concentrate on winning lost souls.”

  “I’d like to help Josh further his music career. I know a lot of people in New York. I could introduce him around, get him in the right circles. He should have the opportunity to cultivate his talent as he always wanted to.”

  Claire and Cassidy were cuddled together on the glider in the courtyard of Aunt Laurel’s house. Late that afternoon, news that she had retracted her confession reached the media. Every reporter in the country wanted statements from her and Cassidy. Crowder had told them to “clear the hell out, lay low for a couple of days,” and let him handle it.

  He intended to hold a press conference and announce that Claire Laurent had made a false confession in order to spare herself, her business, and her family any further distress. He planned to dismiss her confession completely, as it had been induced by harassment from the media and the Jackson Wilde Ministry, and bereavement over the loss of her friend and business associate, Yasmine. He would also suggest that the joint investigative forces were in possession of evidence that negated any involvement on Ms. Laurent’s part and that opened up a whole new avenue of investigation. That was stretching it a bit, but Crowder was first and foremost a politician.

  After leaving him, Claire and Cassidy had gone to Harriett York’s house to see Mary Catherine. She had beaten Harry in every game of gin they’d played and proudly showed them the eighty-two cents she’d won.

  “Harry’s a perfect hostess, but when will we be going home, Claire Louise?”

  “Consider this a vacation, Mama. In a few days, we’ll all go home.” She drew her mother close and hugged her tight.

  “You’ve always been such a wonderful daughter,” Mary Catherine said, stroking Claire’s cheek. “When we get home, I’ll bake you one of Aunt Laurel’s famous French Silk pies. Do you like chocolate pie, Mr. Cassidy?”

  “Love it.”

  Her face lit up. “Then we must have one very soon for you to share with us.”

  “I’d like that. Thanks for the invitation.”

  Now, Claire nestled her head on Cassidy’s shoulder, content to be in this quiet retreat. They’d thrown a quilt over the weather-worn canvas cushions of the glider. It squeaked rustily each time it rocked, but Claire had never been as comfortable.

  “Is Josh going to be another of your adoptees?” Cassidy asked with a smile in his voice.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You have a habit of adopting people and assuming their problems as your own. Mary Catherine. To an extent, Andre. Yasmine.”

  “Not Yasmine. She took me on.”

  “Maybe at first. But you were the strong one, Claire. The backbone of French Silk. The creative genius and the one with the business sense to market your product effectively. Her name might have helped to launch you, but she had come to need French Silk more than it needed her.”

  Claire knew that what he said was true, but it seemed disloyal to her friend to agree. “I’m going to miss her. I find myself trying to remember what day she’s coming in from New York before I remember that she won’t be coming.”

  “That’s natural. It’ll take a while.”

  “A long while.”

  They were quiet for a moment, the silence broken only by the squeaking of the glider. Finally Cassidy said, “What about me?”

  Claire raised her head and looked at him quizzically. “What about you?”

  “Are you going to adopt me, too?”

  “I don’t know,” she said airily. “The last thing I need is another adoptee. What would I do with you?”

  “You could acquaint me with the Vieux Carré, which you love, which is as much a part of you as your heartbeat. Teach me French. Talk over ideas for French Silk. Discuss my more interesting cases. Listen to me gripe. Go out for ice cream. Neck in public places.”

  “In other words be your companion and lover.”

  “Exactly.”

  They kissed in the balmy twilight. Several blocks away, a saxophone bleated out the blues. Someone living nearby was cooking with filé and cayenne pepper. The spicy aromas permeated the air.

  Cassidy opened her suit jacket and covered her breast with a possessive hand. Their kiss deepened. Claire rubbed her bent knee against his fly, and he murmured her name with arousal.

  When they paused for breath, he said, “You’re a fascinating woman, Claire Louise Laurent. The most intriguing. The most mystifying.”

  “Not any longer, Cassidy.” She took his face between her hands. “You know all my secrets now. Everything. I hope that you can understand and appreciate why I lied to you so many times. I had to. I had to protect Mama from any more pain.”

  He assumed that darkly intense expression that she associated with him and had come to love. “I’ve never known a woman—or a man, for that matter—who had such a capacity to love that she would sacrifice her life. I know that’s the way it’s supposed to be, but until I met you I thought it was an unattainable ideal. What I want to know is, does that love extend to me?”

  She kissed him softly. “I’ve loved you from the day I met you, Cassidy. I was afraid of you and contemptuous of the system you represented, but I loved you.”

  “I haven’t got much to offer you,” he said ruefully. “What I mean is, I’m not as wealthy as you. I love my work. I’m good at it, but I’m not an entrepreneur. As long as I’m in public service, there’ll be a ceiling on my earning capacity.” His eyes moved over her face, scanning every feature. Then he whispered, “But I love you, Claire. God knows I do. Will you marry me?”

  “How unfair,” she said breathlessly, when he bent his head to her breasts. “You’re asking me at a weak moment.”

  “Will you?”

  “Yes.”

  Anxiously and clumsily, they grappled with clothing until she was astride his lap. When she sank upon his hard shaft, their sighs rose into the evening air.

  The saxophone began another soulful song. Someone named Desiree was called to supper. A blue jay flew into the courtyard, perched on the basin of the fountain, and drank from the puddle of rainwater. On a breath of breeze, the leaves of the clinging wisteria rustled against the ancient brick wall and startled the chameleon into taking cover.

  And the glider’s rhythmic squeaking escalated until, with a shudder and a sweet sigh, it fell silent and settled into repose.

  About the Author

  Sandra Brown is the author of over sixty New York Times bestsellers, including most recently Low Pressure; Lethal; Rainwater; Tough Customer; Smash Cut; Smoke Screen; Play Dirty; Ricochet; Chill Factor; White Hot; Hello, Darkness; The Crush; Envy; The Switch; The Alibi;
Unspeakable; and Fat Tuesday, all of which jumped onto the New York Times list in the numbers one to five spots. There are over eighty million copies of Sandra Brown’s books in print worldwide and her work has been translated into thirty-four languages. In 2008, Brown was named Thriller Master by the International Thriller Writers Association, the organization’s top honor. She currently lives in Texas. For more information you can visit www.SandraBrown.net.

  Journalist Dawson Scott knows well the horrors of war.

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  Prologue

  Golden Branch, Oregon—1976

  The first hail of bullets was fired from the house shortly after daybreak at 6:57.

  The gunfire erupted in response to the surrender demand issued by a team of law enforcement agents.

  It was a gloomy morning. The sky was heavily overcast and there was dense fog. Despite the limited visibility, one of the fugitives inside the house got off a lucky shot that took out a deputy U.S. marshal whom everybody called Turk.

  Gary Headly had met the marshal only the day before, shortly after the law enforcement team comprised of ATF and FBI agents, sheriff’s deputies, and U.S. marshals met for the first time to discuss the operation. They’d congregated around a map of the area known as Golden Branch, reviewing obstacles they might encounter. Headly remembered another marshal saying, “Hey, Turk, grab me a Coke while you’re over there, will ya?”

  Headly didn’t learn Turk’s actual name until later, much later, when they were mopping up. The bullet struck half an inch above his Kevlar vest, tearing out most of his throat. He dropped without uttering a sound, dead before landing in the pile of wet leaves at his feet. There was nothing Headly could do for him except offer up a brief prayer and remain behind cover. To move was inviting death or injury, because, once the gunfire started, the open windows of the house spat bullets relentlessly.