French Silk

Chapter 16

? ^ ?

Rain threatened at Rosesharon. The high humidity took its toll on those unaccustomed to it, and tempers were short. During the morning, the clouds became more opaque and the atmosphere grew more sultry. The models who weren't needed retired to their rooms to rest in air-conditioned comfort. Since the weather was too unstable for outdoor shooting, they decided to do some interior shots utilizing the vanity table in Claire and Yasmine's bedroom.

Per Rue's suggestion, Dana was modeling the backless bra. With it she wore ivory satin tap pants, thigh-high hosiery, and ivory satin high heels. Claire had asked the Monteiths where in the nearest town she might locate a wedding gown to borrow.

"Why, we have one!" they exclaimed in unison.

Their niece had used Rosesharon for her wedding several months earlier, and the gown was still stored in their attic. They assured Claire that their niece would be flattered to have it used in the French Silk catalog. It was brought down and removed from its protective hanging bag. Luckily it wasn't stark white, so it matched the color of the sample lingerie. Rue steamed out the wrinkles, muttering all the while. "Just what we needed. More goddamn humidity."

Now the bridal gown was hanging beside the vanity table, suggesting that Dana was a bride preparing for the ceremony. The vanity had been repositioned so that the three-way mirror reflected the French doors opening onto the balcony. It would be a tricky shot to get without Leon and all his lighting equipment being reflected as well.

"I want Dana holding up her hair," Yasmine said, "so that we get a full view of the bra's construction."

The makeup artist wasn't finished with Dana's body makeup, so Yasmine asked Claire to sit on the stool while they calculated the position of the lighting in conjunction with the mirrors and camera angles.

Claire sat and faced the mirror. "I hardly look like a bride," she said, critically assessing her reflection. Her linen shirt had wilted, and she had sweated off most of her makeup. "Maybe the bride of Frankenstein."

"Lift your hair off your neck," Yasmine told her.

"Gladly." She swept her hair into a double fist, lifting it to the top of her head and keeping her elbows parallel with her shoulders.

Her eyes caught movement at the French doors. Cassidy parted the sheer curtains and stepped into the room. He drew up short. Their eyes met in the mirror.

"Perfect, Claire!" Yasmine cried. "That's perfect. That's exactly the expression I want! Did you see that, Dana? Surprised. Expectant. A little breathless." But when she looked over her shoulder and saw that Cassidy was the cause of Claire's flustered expression, her enthusiasm quickly cooled. "What are you doing here?" she asked, obviously displeased. She turned back to Claire. "Did you invite him?"

"No," she answered, her eyes fixed on the A.D.A.

Leon left the lighting to his assistant and sidled up to Cassidy, laying a hand on his arm. "And who are you?"

"He's a cop from New Orleans," Yasmine replied.

Cassidy smiled affably but gently disengaged his arm from Leon's clutches. "I'm not a cop."

Claire stood and motioned the model into place. "We need to get this shot. Everybody ready?"

Dana took her place on the vanity stool. Rue and the other stylists fussed around her. Yasmine went back to consulting with Leon about ways to vary the shot.

Claire, trying to hide her anger, drew Cassidy to a corner of the room. "What are you trying to pull, coming here?"

"I didn't know I was going to be on center stage when I came through the … uh … the curtains." He was momentarily distracted by Dana, who looked resplendently bridal and mouthwateringly sexy in the golden light Leon was shining on her.

"Our photography sessions are strictly off-limits to visitors," Claire said stiffly, noticing the direction of his gaze. "Parents, boyfriends, even spouses are prohibited. The restriction is enforced to protect the privacy of the models and the creative impulses of everyone else involved."

"Sorry, you'll have to make an exception this time."

"Or what?"

"Or I'll get a court order."

"Another search? Shall I tell my crew to expect a shakedown?"

He frowned and gave her a retiring look.

"How did you know where we were going to be?" she asked crossly.

"I have a whole platoon of investigators at my disposal. Finding you was a snap."

"I'm surprised the Monteiths let you in. I thought the house was closed to all but guests."

"I am a guest."

"What?" she exclaimed. When she realized she'd drawn attention to them, she lowered her voice, but still it conveyed her anger. "We were to be the only ones here. I specified that when I made the reservations."

"The Monteiths had one extra room. My credentials persuaded them into letting me have it."

"I don't want you here, Cassidy."

"No, I'm sure you don't. Especially since I've come with bad news."

She folded her arms across her middle. "That's all you've ever brought me. Well, what is it? Let's get it over with."

He glanced over his shoulder. The others were busy or pretending to be. Like Claire, he must have felt inhibited by them. He drew her out into the hallway for more privacy.

Staring down at the patterned rug, he whispered her name with what sounded like regret, then raised his head and looked at her. "Did you know she practices voodoo?"

"Who, Yasmine?" He nodded, and Claire made a small, assenting motion with her shoulders. "A lot of people in New Orleans have a passing acquaintance with it. After spending so much time there, she developed an interest. She's got some voodoo charms, a few candles that represent—"

"Her room at French Silk was full of all kinds of black-magic crap."

"It doesn't mean anything. Since I've known her, she's dabbled in every religion from Judaism to Buddhism. She sometimes wears a Christian cross and has a bracelet with an Egyptian ankh on it. Those symbols hold no significance for her."

"This goes beyond trinkets and costume jewelry, Claire. They also found a voodoo doll, an effigy of Jackson Wilde."

"It's meaningless!" she cried softly, not wanting to attract the attention of the others. "Is that all they found? You could hardly build a murder case around a silly doll."

"They didn't find anything at French Silk, either in the offices or the apartment, that could directly link you to Wilde's murder."

Slowly, so as not to reveal her relief, she exhaled a pent-up breath. "I could have told you they wouldn't, but you wouldn't have believed me."

"Wait."

"Ah, there's more," she said. "The bad news."

His eyes seemed to pierce straight through her skull. "The fiber samples from your car's carpet match some that were vacuumed out of Jackson Wilde's hotel room. The tests were conclusive. You've been lying to me, Claire. Damn you, you were there!"

* * *

Josh tapped on the bathroom door. "Ariel, are you all right?" The sound of her retching had summoned him from his adjoining hotel room in Tulsa. "Ariel," he called, knocking sharply. "Open the door."

He heard the commode flush. Seconds later Ariel unlocked the door and pulled it open. "God knows I've got precious little privacy, Josh. I would appreciate some while I'm in my own bathroom."

Even though he'd watched her deteriorate over the last several weeks, he was shocked by her appearance. Her eyes were ringed with dark circles that he was afraid weren't makeup. Her cheeks were sunken, making her face look cadaverous. When she turned her back on him, he noticed her shoulder blades poking out the fabric of her dress.

"You're making yourself sick." He followed her to her closet, where she began rifling through the clothes, obviously trying to decide what to wear for the two local television news shows and the newspaper interview that were scheduled for later that day.

"I'm fine except for a headache, which your lecturing is only making worse."

"Eating a well-rounded meal would help your headache."

"I ate like a pig last night."

"And then came in and threw it up."

She shot him an angry glance as she removed a dress from the closet and tossed it onto the bed.

"Ariel, eat something," he pleaded. "You need the nourishment. You've got a hectic day planned."

"Stop nagging me."

"You need to eat."

"I ate!"

She flung her hand toward the room-service tray. He inspected it. The salad lunch was intact except for the coffee. "Coffee isn't a meal."

"I'd like to change now," she said impatiently. "As you said, this afternoon's schedule is hectic."

"Cancel it."

She gaped at him as though he'd sprouted horns. "What?"

"Call off the schedule and spend the remainder of the day in bed."

"Are you crazy? I can't do that."

"You mean you won't."

"All right, I won't. I want that auditorium filled to capacity tonight. I want people outside clamoring to get in so they can pray with us."

Josh swore under his breath. "Ariel, this is insane. We've been on the road for ten days. Interviews during the day, followed by prayer meetings that last for hours. Traveling all night to the next city so it can start again the following day. You're running yourself ragged."

"This trip is getting results."

"It's physically exhausting us."

"If you can't stand the heat—"

"This has nothing to do with that mess in New Orleans, does it? You're not staging these silly prayer meeting to spur the police into action. You're conducting them for your self-image. This isn't a holy mission we're on. This is an ego trip. Your ego trip, Ariel."

"So what if it is?" she shouted. "Aren't you reaping the benefits too? I don't see you complaining whenever the TV cameras focus on you playing the piano. Would your piddling talent get that kind of media exposure if it weren't for me and my ingenuity? Huh? Answer me."

"I've got more than 'piddling talent'."

She snorted unflatteringly. "Is that so? That wasn't Jackson's opinion. I felt sorry for you whenever he'd start in on his no-talent son. Now I'm beginning to believe he was right."

"What do you mean?"

She turned away. "We'll be late."

"What do you mean?" he shouted.

Her face turned ugly with malice. "Only that your daddy was embarrassed to have you on the stage with us. I couldn't count the times he told me that the only reason he kept you up there was because you're his only son. What else could he do, fire you and hire someone with more flash and charisma like he wanted to do? He always told me that you were virtually worthless to him. You didn't have a head for business, you weren't a riveting speaker, and you had no leadership qualities. He was glad you'd taught yourself how to play a few songs on the piano so you wouldn't have to sack groceries at the Piggly Wiggly for a living."

Before he realized what he was doing, his hands were closing around her skinny throat. "You lying bitch. You're a goddamn liar." He shook her hard while pressing his thumbs against her larynx.

Ariel reached up and clawed at his hands, but his long, strong fingers didn't relax. "Daddy knew I had talent and it scared him. He thought that if I pursued my dreams, I might become greater, more famous, than he was."

"Let—me—go," she choked.

Suddenly Josh's vision cleared and he saw his stepmother's eyes bulging from their darkly ringed sockets. He released her so abruptly that she reeled against the dresser before catching her balance. Coughing and gasping, she stared at him contemptuously. "You're insane."

Josh's breathing was almost as labored as hers. The latent violence that had unexpectedly erupted frightened him. "He did this to us," he said in a slow, rasping voice. "He's still doing it to us. It's like the bastard isn't even dead."

Again he reached for Ariel and turned her around. With his hand splayed over the back of her head, he pushed her face to within inches of the mirror. "Look! Look at yourself. You look like a ghoul. He's doing this to you, and you're letting him. He's the reason you're starving yourself to death. Now tell me who's crazy."

Disgusted with himself as much as with her, he left her staring at her skeletal image in the mirror.

* * *

After lunch, the crew set up on Rosesharon's screened back porch. As a prop, they were using an antique hand-crank ice cream freezer that someone had come across in the Monteiths' detached garage. The blue paint on the wooden tub was chipped and pealing. The rusty metal strips holding the vertical slats together had stained the exposed wood. The freezer was no longer usable, but everyone agreed that it made a terrific prop.

The model, Liz, was seated on a milking stool, wearing a long white batiste nightgown that had a row of tiny buttons extending from the scooped neckline to the deep flounce at midcalf. The first several buttons were undone, and the skirt was bunched in her lap, well above her thighs, which were parted to accommodate the ice cream freezer. The impression Claire wanted to convey was that Liz was laboring over the freezer while Kurt reclined in the white macramé hammock in the background.

"It's sexist," Yasmine said.

"Not if it looks like she's enjoying it," Claire argued.

"It looks like doo-doo," Leon whined petulantly, as he adjusted the focus rings of his camera. "It's not hot enough."

"It's the only damn thing that isn't." Rue coughed and lit a cigarette. "Jesus, how do human beings survive down here? Have they ever even seen autumn leaves?"

"Maybe Liz needs some perspiration," the makeup lady ventured shyly.

"And I can spritz her hair with water," the stylist offered. "Make it look sweaty."

"Let's try it."

"For God's sake, hurry. I'm positively melting," Leon said.

"It would help if you took off that godawful shirt," Yasmine told him snidely. He was wearing a long-sleeved flamingo-pink silk shirt.

"But this is one of my best colors."

"The color gives 'putrid' a bad name."

"You bitch. You wouldn't know fashion if it—"

"Please, you two," Claire said wearily. "Let's try to get this shot done."

"I'm going to have these impressions on my buns for life," Kurt complained as he shifted uncomfortably in the hammock.

It had been decided several minutes earlier that he should appear as an indistinct form in the hammock, with only one strong, tanned leg dangling over the side. He was naked, save for his lap, which was covered with a towel that would be removed when they began taking pictures.

"Bear with us, Kurt."

"Did you mean that as a pun?" Rue asked.

Liz's hair had been lightly misted and was now clinging to her neck and chest in damp, spiraling tendrils. "I like that much better," Claire told the hair stylist. "Thanks."

The makeup artist was misting Liz's face and upper body to simulate a healthy sheen of perspiration. "Hmm," Liz sighed. "That feels good."

"Yes, yes, this is much improved," Leon cried. "This is looking great. Oh, yes. I'm feeling it now."

"Give us a glimpse of cleavage, Liz," Yasmine said. The model leaned forward as though applying herself to the hand crank of the ice cream freezer. "Oooh! Perfect!" Leon squealed.

"Wait," Claire ordered. "We've got nipples." The cool misting of water had caused the model's nipples to peak beneath the fabric of the gown.

"So what?" Theatrically Leon lowered his camera, annoyed by the interruption.

"I don't want them projecting," Claire said. "Give them time to relax."

"You show nipples all the time."

"Under the bras, they're relaxed."

"We've had projecting nipples before," Yasmine said. "She's right. You have," Leon said. "I should know. I took the goddamn pictures."

"Under opaque fabrics, jutting nipples are fine," Claire explained calmly. "But this looks vulgar. I can detect outline and color, and I don't like it. I don't want it to look like we photographed a wet T-shirt contest."

"You've got a naked man there!" Leon protested in a shrill voice that threatened to shatter the Monteith family crystal.

"But he's only an illusion. He's suggestive without being lewd." Claire kept her voice carefully controlled. "This argument is over."

"Oh, for Christ's sake," Leon muttered. "When did you turn into Miss Goody Two-Shoes?"

"Since Jackson Wilde," Yasmine said drolly.

Claire whipped around, confronting her friend with astonishment and anger. "What a ridiculous thing to say, Yasmine! Wilde was never the barometer by which I gauged what was tasteful and what wasn't. He certainly wasn't my conscience. You know that."

"All I know is, you haven't been the same since he was found dead. Relax. He can't point the finger at you any longer."

Her friend's insensitive remarks infuriated Claire, especially since Cassidy was within hearing. She had broken her strict rule and let him watch from the periphery of the sets, thinking that maybe if she revealed to him this aspect of her life, he would stop probing other areas of it. His presence seemed not to faze anyone except her. He kept her nervous and on edge, although she performed her duties as competently as ever.

She sensed his ears pricking up at Yasmine's remark, but when she glanced at him, his expression remained impassive and didn't hint at what he might be thinking.

Cantankerously she said, "Just take the pictures, Leon, and wrap this one."

They finished within a half-hour and the subdued group began to scatter. Claire said in an undertone to Yasmine, "I'd like to see you in our room as soon as possible."

Five minutes later, Yasmine opened the bedroom door and strode in. "I know you're pissed."

Claire had passed the intervening minutes sitting against the carved rosewood headboard of one of the twin beds. Behind her back she had stacked pillows stuffed into snowy linen pillowcases that smelled cleanly of Tide and starch. She lowered her clipboard to her lap and removed her eyeglasses.

"Under the circumstances, Yasmine, I thought your remarks about Jackson Wilde's death were uncalled for and in bad taste."

One of Yasmine's perfect eyebrows arched. "Who gives a shit about him or what I said about him?"

"Assistant District Attorney Cassidy gives a shit." Claire tossed her clipboard aside and swung her legs to the edge of the bed. "I wish you hadn't sounded so flippant about Wilde's murder, or so relieved that he's no longer around to hound us."

"You can't possibly think that a remark, spoken as a joke, could influence Cassidy's opinion on your guilt or innocence?"

Claire declined to answer. Finally she looked up at Yasmine and said gravely, "That's not really why I'm angry with you."

Claire then told her about the conversation she'd had with her business attorney the night before she'd left for Mississippi. The instant his name was mentioned, Yasmine's eyes flashed angrily.

"That weasely bastard. I told him not to tell you."

"Then it's true? You asked him to persuade me to let our stock go public so you could sell your shares?"

"It was worth a shot. I've got to unload my stock. That's the only way I can do it."

"The only way?" Claire cried. "You could have come to me."

"Hat in hand, admitting that I'm broke?"

"Dammit, Yasmine, I've known for months that you're broke."

"Oh, great." The former model dropped to the edge of the other twin bed, looking rebellious and hostile.

Claire softened her tone. "It's nothing to be ashamed of. You're overextended, that's all. It happens to everybody at one time or another. I'll gladly loan you some money until things turn around."

"You're the last person I'd ask for money."

"Why?"

"Because you already carry this business. No, don't start throwing up objections. You do, Claire. You brought it from inception to where it is. You do the lion's share of the work. You're the brains behind it."

"And you're the beauty. My small company would have stayed small if not for your endorsement."

Yasmine shrugged as though her contributions amounted to nothing. "This time a year ago, I was rolling in dough. I guess I thought it would never run out. I mismanaged my money, turned it over to 'financial advisers' who probably screwed me out of half of it."

"You threw it away on lost causes like that thousand-dollar offering to Jackson Wilde."

Yasmine raised her hands in surrender. "Guilty. Anyway, I'm down to double zeros. That's why I hoped I could put my shares of French Silk on the auction block."

Claire shook her head. "I'll never go public. If you insist on selling your shares, I'll buy them."

"And obligate me to you."

"I don't look at it that way. It's self-preservation. You know how possessive I am when it comes to my business."

"I know, I know," Yasmine said irascibly. "Jesus, do you think it was easy for me to approach that fat-mouthed lawyer? I never would have except that I'm in dire need of cash. I've sold my last fur coat and all my good jewelry. Those shares are all I have left to liquidate."

"You could use them as collateral to borrow from me."

"I said no, all right?"

"I don't understand—"

Yasmine vaulted off the bed. "Don't harp on me, Claire. I won't borrow from you, but I'll sell you the bloody stocks. Okay? Cam we cap it off now? I'll have some cash, and the company will be saved. Hallelujah and amen! That's the last I want to hear of it because I've got another crisis in my life right now."

"That's no excuse for going behind my back and against my wishes. We've all got problems." She flattened her hand against her chest. "I've been accused of murder."

"By Cassidy?" Yasmine snorted. "He hasn't got anything on you."

"They've matched the carpeting in my car to fibers found in Wilde's hotel room."

Yasmine looked surprised. "Since when?"

"Since they got a warrant to search French Silk."

"What!"

"Yes. They found some nasty voodoo stuff in your room, Yasmine, including a doll that looks like Wilde."

"That was a joke!"

"That's what I told Cassidy. He didn't think it was funny."

"Come to think of it, I didn't see him crack a smile all afternoon."

"He believes that I was in Jackson Wilde's hotel suite the night he died. Those carpet fibers place me there."

"How many cars with carpet exactly like yours are in Orleans Parish? Dozens, if not hundreds, right?"

"I'm sure that's the only reason why Cassidy didn't arrest me this afternoon," Claire told her. "He said a good defense attorney would have statistics about all those Chrysler products and how many potential murderers that adds up to." She walked toward the balcony doors. "I'm afraid, Yasmine."

"Balls. You've never been afraid of anything. Not in the time I've known you."

"I am now."

"Of Cassidy?"

"He's part of it. Mostly I'm afraid of not having control over this situation. That's the scariest feeling there is—that you've lost control of your destiny."

"Relax, Claire. Cassidy's not going to put you in jail."

"Oh yes he will," she said with a mirthless laugh. "When he believes he's got enough evidence to get a grand-jury indictment, he'll have me arrested."

"Before or after he fucks you?" Claire looked at Yasmine with stunned surprise. Yasmine shrugged. "The man wants you so bad he's in pain. At any given moment, he looks ready to pounce."

"And read me my rights."

"Uh-uh," Yasmine said, shaking her head. "He wants you on your back, or whatever, moving with him." Before Claire could offer an argument, she continued, "Look, I had my first man when I was thirteen. When you start that early, you develop a sixth sense about these things. I can smell when a man wants it. I know when a woman is ready to give it to him. And you're both ripe to bursting. He walks into a room, and your aura goes neon … and vice versa. The sex vibes are so thick, they pollute the air."

"Cassidy bid for the Wilde murder case. He was assigned to it because he's good. A conviction will make him a strong contender for the D.A.'s office. The vibes you sensed coming from him are animosity, not lust," Claire argued. "He's irritated with me for not making his job easier. As soon as he turns up something that places me in that room with Jackson Wilde, he'll do everything within his power to prove me guilty."

"But we know you're not, don't we?"

For several seconds they held each other's stare across the room. Inside Claire's head, her heartbeat was as loud as a pile driver. She felt dizzy.

Finally she said, "I'll draft a check for one-fourth of your shares. That'll give you some ready cash, but you'll still retain a partnership in French Silk. If it becomes feasible, you can buy the stock back for the amount I paid."

"Thanks," Yasmine said, unsmiling.

"Thank me by not going behind my back again."

* * *

His fountain pen was missing.

When he put on his jacket for dinner, Cassidy noticed that the gold engraved pen—a gift from his parents upon his graduation from law school—was missing. He kept it in the left breast pocket of his coat and was rarely without it.

He searched the top of the bureau in his bedroom, thinking he might have overlooked the pen lying among the loose change and other pocket accessories. But it wasn't there. He searched through the pockets of his other jackets, to no avail. He was positive he hadn't left it anywhere. He never loaned it and conscientiously returned it to his pocket after each use.

He mentally retraced every place the jacket had been since he had put it on that morning. Because of the stifling, unseasonable heat, he'd left it hanging on a coat tree in the foyer when he went for a walk around the grounds of Rosesharon shortly after lunch.

Had someone stolen his pen? Why? Among the people at Rosesharon, he couldn't think of one who was likely to rifle through another person's pockets in search of treasure. The staff? He couldn't imagine the Monteiths tolerating thievery among their employees, all of whom seemed dedicated to their guests' comfort and contentment.

The pen was only moderately valuable, but he deeply regretted the loss for sentimental reasons. As he descended the staircase to join Claire's group for dinner, he was as upset as he was befuddled.

Two of the models were loitering at the mini wet bar, a twentieth-century addition to the original house. He squeezed between them to pour himself a Chivas on the rocks. "Don't forget to mark it down," the stunning brunette said.

"No, I won't."

"Are you an honest cop or a dirty cop?" her leggy blond companion asked teasingly.

"I'm not a cop." He smiled engagingly.

"Hmm," she hummed skeptically, while tapping her front tooth with her fingernail. Then she pulled her finger through her glossy, pouty lips. "I'd bet you could get dirty."

He clinked his glass with hers. "And you'd be right."

To their disappointment, he excused himself and worked his way toward Yasmine, who was standing at one of the windows, staring out across the veranda to the lawn, where the shadows were long and deep. "Nice place."

He got the full drop-dead treatment from her tiger eyes. "If you're that trite with a jury, it's a wonder you ever win any cases, Mr. Cassidy."

"I was only trying to make polite conversation."

"Spare me."

He sipped his scotch. "Are those bad vibes I get from you intentional?"

"I don't like cops."

He ground his jaw and succinctly repeated, "I'm not a cop."

"Same as."

She was an incredibly gorgeous woman. Even standing this close, he couldn't find a flaw in either her face or her form, and continuing to look for one would be an endless pleasure. But he didn't like her. She had an attitude, the kind of arrogance that couldn't be punctured with threats, cajolery, or flattery, the kind he hated to cross-examine on the witness stand. If she chose to lie, dynamite wouldn't shake the truth out of her.

Using the kind of language he knew would draw a response, he asked, "What burr got up your ass?"

"You, for one. Why don't you lay off Claire?"

"Because she may have killed a man."

"Yeah, right. And I'm one of the Seven Dwarfs."

"You don't think she did it?"

Yasmine made a scoffing sound.

"Then that brings me to you. You had just as much motivation as she. Maybe I'm not here to watch Claire at all. Maybe I'm here to keep an eye on you."

Her beautiful lips broke into a wide smile. Propping one band on her hip, she thrust out her chest and tossed her head like a proud filly. "Well, here I am, sugar. Look your fill."

He chuckled. "You differ from Claire there. She wants me to keep blinders on."

"I don't care if you look till your eyeballs bleed, I just don't want you lurking around bothering Claire. You get on her nerves."

"Did she tell you that?"

"She didn't have to. I know her. Besides her mother, the thing she loves best is French Silk. She's a perfectionist. These shooting sessions are tense and tiresome enough without her getting into a tizzy on account of you."

"Claire doesn't seem to me the kind of woman who gets into tizzies."

"You don't know her the way I do. She never loses her cool. But she simmers, and the coals burn hot until—" She stopped.

He raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Well? Until what?"

"Never mind."

"What was said during your summit conference this afternoon? Did you have words over your remark about Jackson Wilde?"

"Wouldn't you love to know?"

"Yes, I would."

"Go fuck yourself, Cassidy."

He saluted her with his highball glass. "Spoken like you mean it."

"Count on it, sugar. Right now the whole male population is on my shit list."

"Oh? What'd we do?"

"You drew breath." Having said that, she tossed back the remainder of her wine.

"Dinner!" Grace Monteith rang a little bell as she slid open the doors to the dining room.

Cassidy had arranged it so that he was seated across the table from Claire. Although the models were young and lovely and would have made any setting a visual feast, they seemed insubstantial when compared to Claire Laurent—the difference between grape Kool-Aid and the hearty burgundy that Agnes Monteith was pouring into his wineglass.

As he ate his plate of pot roast and vegetables, he assessed his dinner companions, wondering who among them had taken his pen. He was convinced that it had been stolen, probably out of sheer meanness.

Among the three stylists, none looked sneaky enough to pilfer an engraved fountain pen. The models? They'd all been busy that afternoon. It was unlikely that one had had time to rifle through his pockets. And why would one want to?

He had ample opportunity to observe everyone without drawing notice, because Leon dominated the conversation, while his assistant ate neatly and silently at his side.

"I love the old seesaw on the west lawn," Leon said while slathering butter on a yeast roll. "We must do something on the seesaw."

"How about leggings?" Claire suggested.

"Tremendous," Leon gushed. "So good for straddling. The seesaw, that is." He giggled, then sobered while chewing industriously. "Although, I love the idea of contrasting something silk against those rough, rotting boards. Hmm. I'll think about it. While exploring, did anyone else run across that outdoor shower?"

"That was installed for field hands to use after they came in from picking cotton," Grace supplied as she passed around dessert.

"I've got dibs on a shot using that shower," Yasmine announced. "But my idea's a secret."

"I gotta smoke," Rue said, leaving the table to go out onto the veranda. "You girls had better stop stuffing in this rich food or your guts will be poking out tomorrow." No one paid her any attention.

"First thing in the morning," Leon said, "I want the model who's going to wear that long, sheer nightgown—"

"Felicia," Yasmine told him.

"Felicia dear, you get first call tomorrow."

"Shit," Felicia muttered into her caramel custard.

"I want the morning sunlight backlighting her." Leon held his hands in front of his face and formed right angles with his thumbs as though looking through a frame. "We might get lucky and have natural dew. If not, this dear lady has offered to turn on the sprinkler for us." As Agnes poured him a cup of coffee, he caught her hand and kissed the back of it. "Either way, the grass will be wet and sparkly. I see it absolutely glistening. I want the hem of the nightgown to be damp and trailing. Maybe falling off one shoulder. A peek of booby."

"Kurt could be lounging in the background," Yasmine suggested. "Like on the veranda, with his hair down and wearing only a pair of pajama bottoms."

"I love it," Leon squealed. "Don't shave in the morning, Kurt. I just adore those shots that suggest postcoital scenes. Oh, my dear Agnes, your cheeks are positively fiery. Forgive me for being so blunt. Do you think I'm terribly naughty?"

Cassidy, rolling his eyes at the affectation, happened to glance at Claire. She was suppressing her laughter. They exchanged a smile. Even among so many people, it was a private moment.

He immediately squelched the tenderness welling through his midsection. If Claire weren't his prime suspect, he'd be trying his damnedest to get her into his bed. He knew it. So did Crowder. So, probably, did she. Hell, he'd told her as much.

No more private moments, he sternly told himself. Not even shared looks across the dinner table.

The Monteiths encouraged them to take their coffee into the double parlors or out onto the veranda, where it was cooler since the sun had set.

Cassidy followed Claire. She paused at the staircase to speak to Mary Catherine and Harry, who were ready to retire to their room. "I'll be up to say good night when you're tucked in," Claire promised.

"Good night, Mr. Cassidy."

"Good night, Miss Laurent, Miss York."

Smiling sweetly, Mary Catherine turned to go upstairs.

Cassidy held the front door open for Claire and they strolled across the deep porch to the railing. Claire sat down on it and sipped the fragrant coffee. "Well, what do you think of us?"

"Interesting," he said.

"How diplomatic."

He wondered if he should alert her that one among her associates was a thief but decided against it. One allegation at a time. He'd already informally accused her of murder.

"You're staring, Cassidy," she said quietly.

"I'm thinking about something Glenn said last night." He noticed Claire's shudder at the mention of the detective's name, but he forged ahead. "It had crossed his mind that maybe Yasmine was Jackson Wilde's lover."

"What!" Her cup clattered against the saucer. She set them on the railing. "Your friend is losing touch with reality, Cassidy. If you're thinking along the same lines, so are you."

"It's not so farfetched."

She gazed up at him with incredulity. "Do you ever think before you spout this nonsense? Listen to what you're saying."

Now that he had spoken the theory aloud, it did sound ridiculous, but he pursued it so he could assure Glenn that he'd done so. Besides, you never knew where a blind alley might lead.

"Yasmine has men in general on her shit list. She told me so herself."

"So that makes Jackson Wilde her lover?" she said. "He was Yasmine's enemy as much as he was mine."

"On the surface."

"You think they were carrying on in secret?"

"Possibly."

"Ludicrous. Anyway, she was in New York the night he was killed."

"You're sure?"

"I picked her up the following morning at the airport."

"Could be she was acting out a charade."

"You're grasping at straws, Cassidy."

"Does she have a current lover?"

"I don't see what—"

"Does she?"

"Yes," Claire snapped.

"Who? What's his name?"

"I don't know."

"Bullshit!"

"I swear I don't!"

He looked at her hard and decided that she was telling the truth. "Why the secrecy? Is he married?"

"All I know is that she's devoted to him," she said evasively. "So that shoots your harebrained theory about her and Jackson Wilde all to hell. They never even met."

"You're sure about that, too?"

"Absolutely. She would have told me."

"Right. She doesn't lie and keep secrets, like you." He stepped closer to her. "Maybe you had a thing going with Wilde." The features of her face became taut with anger. She tried to stand, but he placed his hand on her shoulder and pushed her back to the railing. "A well-publicized skirmish would be mutually satisfying for him and you. Maybe you got together and cooked up this little scam."

"Who thought of this, you or Detective Glenn?"

Ignoring her question, he pressed on. "You gave Wilde a cause to crusade against, a cause that created a groundswell across the nation and made him a celebrity preacher."

"In exchange for free advertising for French Silk, I suppose."

"Exactly. You admitted to me that his sermons were actually good for your business, not the other way around."

"Then why would I kill him and put a stop to such a good thing?"

"Maybe you found out you weren't the only one he'd worked a deal with. Maybe he had a whole legion of women—a different broad for every sin."

"You're sick."

"Maybe the love affair went sour. Was your "offering' to him a blackmail payment? Did you arrange to meet him while he was in New Orleans and work out a payment schedule? Only you decided to end it then and there." She managed to stand and tried to go around him, but he sidestepped and blocked her path. "Where'd you meet Jackson Wilde?"

Ringing back her head, she glared up at him. "I've told you. I met him only once, during the invitation he extended following his sermon in the Superdome."

"And you lied about that. While he was laying hands on you and granting eternal life, did he whisper his hotel-room number in your ear?" He took her arm in a firm grip. "You had a collection of clippings, Claire, documenting his whereabouts for years. He didn't fart without you knowing about it. That's obsessive behavior."

"I explained those clippings."

"It doesn't wash."

"Well I certainly wasn't his lover."

"You're not sleeping with anyone else."

"How do you know?"

Her question hung between them like the reverberation of clashed swords. The air crackled with animosity and suppressed passion.

Finally Claire said, "Excuse me, Mr. Cassidy."

She went around him and slipped through the screen door.

* * *