French Silk (17 page)

They were uncomfortable with her bluntness, but none dared rebuke her. She wanted it understood from this moment forward that she was indisputably the one in charge. As Jackson's word had been law, now hers was.

"Brother Raye?"

He sprang upright. "Yes, ma'am?"

"You canceled the Cincinnati crusade. Why?"

"Well, uh, I … I assumed that with the … after Jackson…"

"Don't ever make a decision like that without consulting me. Reschedule it. We'll conduct the crusade as planned."

"But that's only two weeks away, Ariel. You need time to—"

"Reschedule it," she repeated icily.

Brother Raye furtively glanced around the table in a desperate search for support. None was offered. The others kept their eyes averted. He looked at Josh imploringly, but he was staring down at his hands, turning them this way and that as though they were alien appendages recently sprouted from his arms.

Finally Brother Raye said, "I'll reschedule it immediately, Ariel. If you feel up to it."

"By the time we get there, I will. Right now, however, I'm exhausted." She stood. The others followed suit, slowly coming to their feet with the unsure shuffling motions of boxers who'd gone down for the count and were struggling to regain their wits.

"Josh speaks for me and vice versa," she told them as she moved to the door. "However, I prefer that all questions and problems be channeled directly to me. The sooner I assume Jackson's responsibilities, the better. If any of you have a problem with that."

She opened the door and indicated with her head that they were free to walk if they didn't want to play by her rules. No one moved. They scarcely breathed as she made eye contact with each of them. Finally she took their stunned silence for assent.

Her pale face broke into an angelic smile. "Oh, I'm so glad you've all decided to stay on. That's what Jackson would have wanted and expected from you. And, it goes without saying, that's God's will, too."

She beamed another smile, then extended her hand to Josh. Dutifully, he moved to her side and tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. Together they left the boardroom.

"That was quite a performance," Josh said as they moved through the building's exit.

"Performance?" Ariel settled against the plush interior of the limousine awaiting them at the curb.

"We're going home," Josh told the driver before closing the partition. He sat back against the deep upholstery and stared through the tinted window, trying to get a grip on his temper before addressing his stepmother.

At last he turned his head toward her. "You could have discussed it with me first."

"You sound mad, Josh. What are you mad about?"

"Don't play your games with me, Ariel. And stop batting your eyelashes like a goddamn coquette at an afternoon soiree. That innocent act doesn't wash with me. Haven't you learned that by now?"

She pursed her lips in pique. "I assume you're upset because I didn't discuss my plans with you before presenting them to the board."

"Have you totally lost your grip on reality, Ariel?" He was genuinely dumbfounded and it showed. "Do you really think you and I can continue this ministry?"

"I know
I
can."

"Oh, I see. Out of the goodness of your heart, you'll carry me."

"Don't put words in my mouth."

"Why should I?" Josh shot back. "You seem to have all the words you need. But do you know what any of them mean?"

That angered her, because her lack of formal education was a sore point. "You don't think I can hold this organization together?"

"No. Although I believe you've convinced yourself you can." He gave her a long assessing look. "You don't let anything stop you, do you? Not even my father's death."

Seeming unconcerned, she rolled her head around her shoulders, as if to relieve tension in her neck. "Look, Josh, Jackson is dead and there's nothing anybody can do about it. We buried him."

"With more pomp and circumstance than a coronation."

"It got the media's attention, didn't it?"

"Is that why we had to have the choir and orchestra and those fucking, flying doves?"

"The vice president of the United States was there!" she shouted. "Are you too stupid to see what that's worth?"

"To him? About a million votes."

"And to us, a minute and a half on network news. Worldwide exposure, Josh." Her anger was full blown now. "Were you, or any of the men on that board of directors, stupid enough to think I'd squander all that free publicity? Did you think I'd be that big a fool? If so, you're the fools. I'm going to milk Jackson's death for all it's worth. It's like a gift. I didn't ask for it."

He turned his head toward the window again, muttering, "Didn't you?"

"What?"

He didn't respond.

"Josh!"

He stubbornly kept his head averted. She pinched his arm hard. "Dammit!" he shouted viciously as he turned his head around.

"Tell me what you said."

"I just wondered out loud whether you might have asked for his death."

She leveled a cold blue stare on him. "My, my. You're getting awfully self-righteous lately."

"I figure one of us should have a conscience."

"You're also very full of yourself. You think I'd rid myself of Jackson just so I could have you?" she asked scornfully.

"Not me. But maybe your own TV show." He leaned forward and whispered, "What about that segment of time after you left my suite that night, Ariel?"

A flicker of alarm appeared in her eyes. "We agreed never to mention that."

"No, you insisted that I never mention it."

"Because of what the police might make out of it."

"Exactly," he said softly.

"It wasn't worth mentioning," she said breezily, dusting an imaginary speck off her black dress.

"At first I thought so, too. Now I'm not so sure. Maybe it was worth mentioning. You said you were going to your room to look for some sheet music."

"So?"

"So, despite what we told the police, we weren't rehearsing and didn't need any sheet music.

"I wanted it for later."

"You came back empty-handed."

"I couldn't find it."

"You were gone about fifteen minutes."

"I searched through everything, and I was trying to do it quietly because Jackson was asleep."

"Or dead. You had plenty of time to kill him. I think Cassidy would be interested to know about that fifteen minutes."

"You can't tell him without implicating yourself."

Josh, trying to reason it through, continued as though she hadn't interrupted. "You certainly had motivation. Besides Daddy being a tyrant, he was in your way. He got top billing, not you. You were no longer satisfied with taking the backseat; you wanted to be in the driver's chair. You wanted the whole ministry. Beyond your greed, you were tired of his constant browbeating about your mediocre voice, about your weight, about everything. So you killed him and used me as your alibi."

"Listen to me, you shithead," she said, reverting to her pre-Jackson Wilde language. "Sometimes I hated him so much I could have killed him. Easily. But he was also the best thing that ever happened to me. If it weren't for Jackson, I'd still be hustling hash for a living, getting my ass pinched by rednecks, and living off the stingy tips they doled out in exchange for a glimpse of cleavage. I'd only be a lifer's sister instead of one of the most recognized women in America, who gets cards and flowers from the president.

"No, I didn't kill him. But I'll be damned before I'll cry over his death or pass up any opportunities it opens up for me. I'm going to fight like hell to keep what I've got."

The limo turned into the curved driveway leading up to the house. Jackson had been wise enough to know that common folks resented conspicuous wealth, so the house befitted an affluent professional, but it wasn't palatial. Josh despised it. Although large and comfortable, it didn't have the quiet elegance of the home his mother had made for them. This was Jackson's house through and through. His stamp was on every room. Josh had hated every minute he'd spent under its roof.

At the moment, however, he hated nothing as much as he hated himself. For while he was contemptuous of Ariel's cavalier attitude regarding his father's murder, he secretly admired it. He wished he could bounce back as easily and as guiltlessly as she. He resented her resilience and gritty ambition, but he was also jealous of them.

"I know you had your own plans for your life, Josh," she was saying. "They didn't jive with Jackson's. Naturally he got his way, and you're still sulking about it."

"You don't know what the hell you're talking about," he said. "All that happened a long time before you came along."

"But I've heard about it, from you and from Jackson. You had some battles royal over whether you were going to become a concert pianist or join the ministry."

"I don't need you to remind me what the quarrel was over."

"Know what, Josh? Your daddy was right. You and I have cut three gospel albums. All of them have gone gold. The Christmas album we recorded last spring will sell like gangbusters after all this publicity. We won't have to spend one red cent on promotion. It'll walk out of the stores.

"This ministry has made you rich and famous, Josh. It's been a hell of a lot more lucrative than if you'd stuck to playing that classical crap. Think about it." The chauffeur came around and opened the door for her. "I'd like to see you stay on at the Jackson Wilde Ministry for your own sake. But if you decide to split, it makes no difference to me."

With one foot on the pavement, she turned back to add, "Good-looking piano players come a dime a dozen, Josh. And so do lovers."

* * *

As he entered the Fairmont Hotel, Cassidy was keyed up, on edge, and wet. He'd had to park a block away and run through a deluge. Making his way toward the lobby bar, he removed his trench coat and shook rain off it, then combed his fingers through his damp hair.

He was sick of rain. For days New Orleans had been inundated. The weather had been no better in Nashville last week, when he'd attended Jackson Wilde's funeral.

"Just coffee, please," he told the cocktail waitress who came to take his order.

"Regula' o' Nawlins coffee?" she asked in a thick native drawl.

"New Orleans. Black." He'd just as well inject the caffeine intravenously; he wasn't sleeping much these nights anyway, so what the hell. He checked his watch. Still twelve minutes till Andre Philippi reported for work. Cassidy's sources told him you could set your clock by the night manager.

While waiting to see him, he sipped the scalding brew the waitress had brought him. He finally had a lead. He, Glenn, and the police platoon assigned to investigate the case had followed hundreds of tips that had proved worthless. But now he had a bona fide lead.

He hoped to God he did. He needed to produce something.

Crowder was growing impatient. He had balked at letting Cassidy go to Nashville. "If you can't find the killer on your own turf, what makes you think you can find him up there?

I can't justify the expense. Let NOPD send one of their own."

"By his own admission, Glenn's no good with people. Especially with this group, he'd stick out like a sore thumb. He thinks I should go. Let me go, Tony. Maybe I'll pick up some vibes."

That had won him a withering look. "Vibes my ass. You'd just as well consult a clairvoyant."

"I've considered that, too," Cassidy said wryly.

He had continued to badger Crowder until he wore him down and got his permission to go to Nashville. "I still think it's a wild goose chase."

"Maybe so, but I'm spinning my wheels here."

"Remember you're on a budget," he'd shouted as Cassidy rushed from his office.

Regrettably, Crowder had been right. The trip had been a total waste of time. Thousands had attended the evangelist's funeral, which had had a carnival atmosphere. The sideshow had attracted curiosity seekers, mourning disciples, and media from around the globe, all jockeying for a glimpse of the coffin, which had been draped in red, white, and blue bunting and smothered with flowers.

Cassidy's credentials had won him a spot near Wilde's inner circle of associates and confidants. If there was a killer among them, he or she masked his treachery well, for each wore the bleak expression of someone cut adrift from the last lifeboat. None had appeared jubilant or even relieved. Besides, if someone within Wilde's organization had offed him, where was the motivation? They would profit only as long as he was preaching on television and conducting his crusades, and raking in love offerings from both. Jackson Wilde was an industry. The lowliest gofer reaped benefits. Glenn's investigation had uncovered that Wilde had rewarded loyalty well.

Like any other business, there was occasional strife within the organization. Personality conflicts. Jealousy. Bickering and rumblings within the ranks. Even so, if one of Wilde's own had pulled the trigger, the person would be cutting off his or her source of income. That didn't make sense.