French Silk (49 page)

"Will the allegations stick?"

"What do you know about—"

"Please," she said, trying to push through them. But they were like a solid rank of soldiers armed with cameras and microphones. They didn't give an inch. Without a statement, they weren't going to.

"My friend was obviously very unhappy." Claire spoke from behind her large sunglasses and tried to keep her face averted from the bright lights. "I grieve for her, but the contributions she made to me personally and those she made to the fashion industry will keep her memory alive for years to come. Excuse me."

Stoically she proceeded through the airport, refusing to acknowledge any more questions. Finally an airport security guard offered to claim her luggage and assisted her into a cab. When she arrived at French Silk, she was greeted not only by members of the media but by the dedicated disciples of Jackson Wilde who continued to picket. She hastily paid her fare and dashed inside.

She was gratified to see her employees going about their business, although they seemed unnaturally somber. Several murmured condolences, which she graciously accepted. In the elevator, she removed her sunglasses, hastily used a lipstick, and composed herself. She didn't want Mary Catherine to be any more upset by Yasmine's suicide than she already had been. When she had put her mother and Harry on a New Orleans-bound jet at La Guardia following the funeral, Mary Catherine had been vague and disoriented. Claire had been concerned for her mother's mental stability and despaired over the separation, but had felt that Mary Catherine would be better off in familiar surroundings than in New York, where Claire couldn't devote much time and attention to her.

Forcing herself to smile, she opened the main door of the apartment and breezed in. "Mama, I'm home!" She had taken only a few steps when she saw Mary Catherine in the living room, seated in the corner of a sofa, sniffing into a handkerchief. Harry was standing near the windows, rigid and unsmiling with disapproval.

After taking in the scene, Claire's eyes swung back to Cassidy, who was seated beside her mother. "What the hell are you doing?"

"I told him this wasn't a good idea, but he insisted on speaking with her."

"Thank you, Harry. I know how persuasive Mr. Cassidy can be." Throwing daggers at him with her eyes, Claire quickly moved to the sofa and dropped to her knees in front of her mother. "Mama, I'm home. Aren't you glad to see me?"

"Claire Louise?"

"Yes, Mama?"

"Are they coming for you?"

"No. Nobody's coming for me."

"I don't want them to take you away on account of what I've done."

"They can't take me. I'm not going anywhere. I'm home now. We're together."

"I've tried to do better," Mary Catherine said between gentle hiccups. "Really, I have. Ask Aunt Laurel. It's just that…" She raised her hand to her temple and massaged it. "I get so distraught sometimes when I think of my sin. Mama and Papa were so angry with me when I told them about the baby."

Claire drew Mary Catherine against her and whispered. "Don't worry, Mama. I'm here now. I'll always take care of you." Claire held her until her weeping subsided, then pushed her away and smiled into the tear-streaked face. "Do you know what I'd love for supper? Some of your gumbo. Will you make some for me? Please."

"My roux is never as good as Aunt Laurel's," Mary Catherine said shyly, "but if you really want some…"

"I do." She motioned for Harry. "Why don't you start it now so it can simmer all day? Go with Harry. She'll help you." She assisted Mary Catherine to her feet.

Mary Catherine turned and extended her hand to Cassidy. "I've got to go now, Mr. Cassidy, but thank you so much for calling. Bring your folks with you one afternoon for a glass of sherry." He nodded. Harry ushered her into the kitchen.

"I'm not finished questioning her yet."

Claire rounded on him. "The hell you're not! How dare you sneak in here and upset her while I was away. What did you want with her?"

"I had some pertinent questions for her."

"To hell with your pertinent questions."

"As an assistant D.A., I have the right—"

"Right?" she repeated incredulously. "We've had a death in the family, or have you forgotten?"

"I'm sorry about Yasmine."

"I'll bet. That's one less suspect for you, isn't it?"

"You're not being fair. I didn't intend to upset your mother."

"Well, you did. And if you ever bully my mother again, I'll kill you. She doesn't know the answers to your bloody question."

"But you do," he said. "That's why you're going downtown with me."

"What for?"

"I'll tell you when we get there." He took her arm in an inexorable grip.

"Are you going to have me arrested? What did you coerce my mother into saying?"

"Tell them goodbye, Claire, and go peaceably," he said, quietly by firmly. "Another scene will only upset Mary Catherine more."

At that moment Claire hated him. "You bastard."

"Get your purse and say goodbye."

In this skirmish, he was the uncontested winner. For her mother's sake, she wouldn't even compete. He knew that and was using it to his advantage. Claire stared him down, her loathing palpable. At last she said, "Harry, I'm going downtown with Mr. Cassidy for a while. Goodbye, Mama."

When they emerged from French Silk, it caused a furor among the reporters and the demonstrators. A dozen questions were hurled at Claire at once.

"Ms. Laurent has no comment," Cassidy tersely told the reporters.

"Cassidy, what do you think—"

"No comment."

"Do you believe you've found your killer?"

"No comment." Ignoring the microphones being poked into his face, he propelled Claire through the crowd. She was exhausted, bereaved, and confused, so she went docilely. At least Cassidy was a familiar adversary.

Cassidy's long stride soon broke them out of the pack. Two uniformed policemen closed ranks behind them. They started down the sidewalk, wasting no time.

"I'll drive her downtown in my car," Cassidy said to the patrolmen.

"Yes, sir."

"Thanks for your help."

"Yes, sir."

"Try your best to disperse that crowd, and keep a close watch on the place."

"Yes, sir."

The policemen peeled off to carry out his curt instructions. Never breaking stride, he escorted Claire to his car, which was illegally parked at the curb. He opened the passenger door for her and stepped aside. Too weary to war with him now, she slid into the seat.

"How'd you manage to keep the funeral off TV?" he asked once they were on their way uptown.

"I set up a decoy. A hearse with a fake coffin led the media hounds into New Jersey before they realized they'd been duped." She touched the gold bangle she was wearing on her wrist. It had been one of Yasmine's favorites. Claire knew she would have wanted her to have it. "I couldn't have borne it if her funeral had been a carnival attended by strangers."

It had been more than a week since she had arrived at Alister Petrie's house and seen her friend lying dead on his doorstep. In front of him and his daughter, Yasmine had shot herself through the back of the head, totally, almost vindictively, destroying her lovely face with the exit wound. Yasmine was unarguably dead. There were, however, moments when Claire almost forgot it. Then reality landed on her like an avalanche of bricks.

She'd barely had time to grieve. The days since the suicide had been filled with grim activity—forms to sign, arrangements to make, Yasmine's affairs to settle, media to dodge, questions to answer for which there were no answers. How did one explain why a woman who seemingly had everything would destroy herself in such a grotesquely poetic way?

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 26

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A
ndre Philippi scoured his fingernails with a brush 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.