Chapter 17
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Ariel collapsed during the prayer service being held in Kansas City's Kemper Arena.
For half an hour she had held the capacity crowd spellbound. Garbed in white and spotlighted in the otherwise darkened arena so that her hair looked like a shimmering halo, her arms raised beseechingly toward heaven, she had created the illusion of a forsaken angel pleading to be called home.
One moment, her voice had been raised in supplication, her body quivering with fervency; the next, she lay crumpled on the stage. At first Josh thought she had taken her act one step beyond her usual theatrics. Mentally he congratulated her on her thespian instincts and skill. The audience, as one voice, gasped when her small form was swallowed by the voluminous white robe that mushroomed around her like a deflating parachute.
But when several seconds passed and she didn't move, Josh stood, scraping back his piano bench. The closer he got to her, the faster he moved. Either the spotlight was leeching all the color from her face or she was alarmingly anemic. He knelt beside her, anxiously calling her name. When he tried to lift her into a sitting position, she lay as limp as a ragdoll in his arms, her head lolling to one side. This was no act.
"She's unconscious! Somebody call 911! Get an ambulance here at once. Ariel! Ariel!" He slapped her smartly on the cheeks. She didn't respond. He searched for a pulse in her absurdly slender wrist. He felt a heartbeat, but it was feeble. "Move back and give her some air," he ordered those who had clambered forward to offer assistance.
Everyone in the arena was on his feet, creating a din so loud that Josh couldn't hear himself think. Some were praying, some were weeping, some were merely gawking. He told one of the program coordinators to order everybody to leave. "The show's over."
All Josh's efforts to revive Ariel failed. She didn't respond until the paramedics arrived and began their preliminary examination. "What happened?" she mumbled as she began to come around.
"You collapsed," Josh explained. "The ambulance is here to take you to the hospital. You'll be all right."
"Ambulance?" She weakly tried to fight off the paramedics when they strapped her onto the gurney. As they wheeled her to the waiting ambulance, she protested that she was fine and didn't need to go to the hospital.
"You have any idea what caused this?" one of the paramedics asked Josh, who insisted on accompanying them in the ambulance. "Is she diabetic?"
"Not that I know of. I think she's exhausted and depleted. She throws up everything she eats."
The paramedic took her blood pressure and reported his findings to the attending doctor in the emergency room of St. Luke's Hospital. The doctor ordered an IV, but by the time they reached the hospital, Ariel still looked near death. She hadn't regained her color, her lips were chalky, and her eyes were deeply sunken into their sockets. She was immediately wheeled into an examination room from which Josh was barred entrance.
He had plenty of responsibilities to occupy him. Videotape of Ariel's collapse had been broadcast as a news bulletin. Reporters, photographers, and sympathizers converged on the hospital in such numbers that a police barricade had to be erected. Unaccustomed as he was to public speaking, Josh made a moving, impromptu speech to the cameras and microphones.
"Mrs. Wilde has been exhausting herself in her efforts to seek justice for my father's murder. The doctors here have given me every reason to be optimistic. As soon as I know more, I'll share it with you. Please pray for her."
As he sipped vending-machine coffee and waited for information on her condition, Josh tried to assimilate his feelings. Only a few days ago, he'd been angry enough with Ariel to try to kill her. Now, he feared she might not survive. What if she was no longer capable of ramrodding the ministry? What if it dissolved? What would he do with the rest of his life?
He supposed he could get a job with a dance band and be condemned for life to playing at bar mitzvahs and VFW dances. He could go on the lounge circuit and make the rounds of the Holiday Inns. On that dismal thought, he pushed his fingers through his hair and bent his head over his knees in a posture of prayer. "Christ."
He hated the circus the ministry had become, but he sure as hell liked the public exposure it provided him. Ariel was right about that. Even though he despised the hypocrisy of the ministry, it had given him an opportunity to play piano almost nightly. It was steady employment, and to a musician that was a luxury. His audience was loyal and generous. Playing for them, hearing their applause, had given him a self-confidence that he hadn't found anywhere else. He thrived on that approval, even if it was token. Without it, he would die. Or wish to.
What would he do if his showcase collapsed along with Ariel?
"Mr. Wilde?"
"Yes?" The doctor was young and attractive and looked like she should be teaching kindergarten students rather than working the emergency room of a large city hospital. "How is she? Is she going to be all right?"
"Mrs. Wilde was beginning to develop an eating disorder called bulimia, but I think we've caught it in time. She seems to have been in good health before she began the binge/vomit cycle. With counseling and a proper diet, the trend can be reversed. I don't believe it'll permanently damage her health or that of the baby."
Josh went very still and stared at her blankly. "Baby?"
"That's right," the doctor said with a smile. "Your stepmother is pregnant."
* * *
Claire Louise Laurent had never experienced jealousy. During her childhood there had never been anything or anyone to make her feel jealous. She'd had no rivals for her mother's love and attention.
She had a healthy self-esteem, which was miraculous considering her unorthodox childhood. She had always been satisfied with her persona and never wished to be someone else. She competed only with herself, always striving for self-improvement without measuring her appearance, possessions, or accomplishments against those of others.
So when this emotion crept up and encompassed her like a fog, she was shocked and shamed by it. Especially since the object of her jealousy was Yasmine.
"This is positively marvelous." Leon breathed the words reverently as though, through his viewfinder, he were witness to a holy miracle. "You're the absolute best, darling. Always were. There'll never be another Yasmine."
"You got it, sugar." She spoke to him over her shoulder while sassily wagging her rear.
The clouds that had threatened rain the day before had disappeared, and, while dark thunderheads were still silhouetted against the horizon, the sun was currently beating down on Rosesharon and the crew collected around the outdoor shower. The temperature was in the high eighties with a humidity to match. Claire blamed her foul mood on the unrelenting, muggy heat, but knew that wasn't the real cause.
Yasmine had kept her brainstorm a secret up to the hour they were ready to shoot. "I want to wear these." She had produced a pair of white, sheer cotton pajamas.
"I wondered what had happened to those," Claire remarked.
"I had them hidden." The two-piece set of white boxers and top didn't look like an item that Yasmine would ordinarily choose. She preferred to model the glamorous garments.
"Aren't they sort of plain for you?"
"Not the way I'm going to use them," Yasmine purred, flashing a wicked grin.
"How's that?"
"Meet me at that old outdoor shower and I'll show you."
Well, her secret is out now, Claire thought sourly as she watched Yasmine strike a series of poses while Leon clicked off picture after picture, keeping his assistant juggling cameras, lenses, and lights.
Yasmine had discarded the pajama top altogether and rolled up the legs of the boxers until they fit tightly around her upper thighs at the crotch. She struck her first pose standing beneath the shower head with her back to the camera. Then she turned on the spout. Water sparkled on her mane of black hair. It glistened on her arms, which she used as gracefully as a ballerina to strike one stunning pose after another. Water trickled down her smooth back in silky rivulets. By now the boxer shorts were soaked and clinging to her taut buttocks. The fabric was plastered to hollows and curves that were sleek, sinuous, and sexy. She was in full command of her body. It was the machine she worked with and was conditioned to perform with optimum precision.
Claire wanted to protest the overt sexiness of the shots, as she had done about the model's prominent nipples the day before. But her motives for wanting to start an argument were different. The fact was, Yasmine looked like a work of art. Such perfection of form could never be labeled obscene. The image she created was erotic, yes, but not pornographic. It was a celebration of human sensuality, not propaganda for moral decay. And since a close-up of the pajamas would be shown in a small box photo beside the large one, Claire couldn't complain that the item would be misrepresented in the catalog.
Not everyone would look as spectacular as Yasmine did in the pajamas, but the fantasy of doing so would sell them by the thousands. Claire would no doubt be applauding Yasmine's inspiration like the rest of the crew were it not for Cassidy, who was gaping at Yasmine like a star-struck, sex-crazed adolescent.
Claire was hot, angry, nervous, distracted, and jealous, and it was all his fault. He was responsible for this unwelcome, juvenile resentment churning inside her.
She should order him to leave the set. But he would demand to know why, and if she said that he was bothering everybody, all the others would deny it, and that would be tantamount to admitting that his presence was aggravating only to her.
Yasmine was undeniably gorgeous, but Claire had never been jealous of her before. Yasmine cultivated her image of savage sexiness, which Claire had always found amusing if she thought of it at all. It certainly had never sparked envy. Yasmine was merely being Yasmine as she stretched and postured for the camera. She was in her element. She wasn't deliberately trying to entice Cassidy.
"You like it, Claire?" Yasmine called over her shoulder.
"Yes," she said dispassionately. "It's very nice."
Yasmine lowered her arms and turned around. She didn't bother to cover her bare breasts. "'Nice'? It's not supposed to be nice."
"What's it supposed to be?"
"Well for damn sure not nice. It's supposed to be attention-getting and arousing. It's supposed to sell these goddamn pajamas, which, frankly, I think are the most lackluster design you've ever come up with. They've got no style, no class, no nothing. I'm trying to put some zing into an item that otherwise would be a major flop."
Yasmine's speech was delivered with such antipathy that it silenced even Leon. A strained hush fell over the set. Even Rue, who collected sarcastic gems to toss out at the most inopportune times, smoked in silence while everyone else found something other than Claire and Yasmine to focus on. They'd heard them clash before, but never to this degree.
Claire's chest felt close to cracking from internal pressure, but she turned to Leon and asked calmly, "Have you got all the shots you need?"
"I think so. Unless you think we need more." He was being uncharacteristically obsequious and soft-spoken, as though afraid he might detonate an explosion.
"I trust your judgment, Leon."
"Then I'm finished."
"Okay. Thanks, everybody. That's it for today. See you at dinner."
Claire turned her back on them and headed for the house. She walked at a fast clip, wanting only to reach the cool, dim privacy of her room, where she could nurse her jealousy in solitude.
She had almost reached the veranda when Cassidy intercepted her. "Why did you do that?" Sweat had made the hair around his face damp. He looked as hot and short-tempered as she.
"I'm in no mood for one of your inquisitions, Cassidy."
"Answer me. Why did you let Yasmine get away with embarrassing you in front of everyone?"
"Yasmine embarrassed only herself. Now, get out of my way." She managed to get around him and made it up several steps before he blocked her path again.
"You didn't approve of erect nipples yesterday, but today Yasmine couldn't have looked more naked if she'd been naked. I don't get it."
"You're not supposed to."
"Why did one set of poses bother you and not the other?"
"Because there's a fine distinction between sensuality and overt titillation. I'm looking for shots that will excite without being offensive."
"You know from experience that it's purely subjective."
"Invariably. But I'm the first judge, and I've got excellent taste," she stated boastfully but confidently. "I trust my judgment on what's quality and what's questionable."
"Did you like Yasmine's poses?"
"I said I did, didn't I?"
"But you didn't sound as though you meant it, and everybody heard that, especially Yasmine."
"My job isn't to stroke Yasmine's ego."
"No, your job is to sell merchandise, and that shot will sell pajamas."
She blew a strand of hair off her forehead. "Is there a point to this, Cassidy?"
"You were suddenly uncomfortable with Yasmine's sensuality. Why?"
"Did you think she was sensual? I don't know why I'm even asking, when it was so apparent that you did. You were riveted." He gave her a strange and quizzical look, which only made her madder. "Well, weren't you?"
"I wasn't particularly mindful of my reaction," he said softly. "But obviously you were."
Claire, realizing that she was dangerously close to revealing too much, averted her head. "Is that all, Cassidy?"
"Not quite. What kind of relationship do you have with Yasmine that allows her to insult you like that? Anyone else would have come back with both barrels loaded."
"Yasmine attacks other people only when she's upset with herself. I understand that."
"She attacked you yesterday with that crack about Wilde. What gives? What reason does she have to be upset with herself?"
"None of your damn business." Executing a hasty sidestep, he parried her attempt to go around him. Seething, Claire glared up at him. "All right, I'll tell you this much. Yasmine is taking the van to New Orleans tonight to see her lover. She plans to return early tomorrow morning."
"Then what's the problem?"
"I think they might have quarreled the last time they were together."
Cassidy gazed at a point beyond her shoulder for a moment. "She's taking the van?"
"Hmm."
"Does she ever drive your car?"
"You're losing your touch, Cassidy." His eyes swung back to hers. "The reasoning behind that question is amateurish and transparent. You want to know if Yasmine was driving my car the night Jackson Wilde was murdered. You fail to recall that she was in New York that night and that I was driving my car."
He bore down on her. "I'm relieved that you remember that, Claire. I was beginning to think you'd forgotten that your car connects you to Wilde's murder."
"It appears to."
"Temporarily. Sooner or later a clue is going to mark you as a killer."
She shuddered, spoke low. "Excuse me. I'm going in now." She got through the front door without being apprehended, but he caught up with her in the foyer. He covered her hand where it rested on the balustrade.
"Claire, why do you do that? Why do you just turn your back and walk away when I make those kinds of allegations? Why don't you deny them?"
"Because I don't have to. I'm innocent until proven guilty, remember? I've got nothing to fear from you."
"The hell you don't." He leaned forward, straining the words through his teeth. "You can't continue to simply walk away. I didn't follow you to Mississippi on a whim, you know."
"Then why did you come here? Why impose yourself on me, why interfere with my work? To bully me about nonexistent affairs with Jackson Wilde? To try to place a wedge between Yasmine and me? Divide and conquer? Is that your current strategy?"
"No. I came because I had no choice. The evidence against you is no longer circumstantial. We've got something tangible in those carpet fibers. So far I've kept you from being formally arrested."
"Why?"
"Number one, because I don't want to look like a fool before the grand jury and get you no billed for lack of more solid evidence."
"And number two?"
The pendulum inside the grandfather clock swung back and forth, ponderously ticking off the seconds they spent staring at each other. Finally he replied, "Because I want to give you the benefit of the doubt. But Glenn and everybody else in a position of authority is getting antsy to close this case."
"They're responding to the ranting of a hysterical woman."
"Who happens to be pregnant."
Claire's breath left her body in an audible rush. "Pregnant?"
"Ariel Wilde collapsed last night during a prayer service in Kansas City. If you'd watched the news you would have seen it." There were no TVs in the guest rooms at Rosesharon. During a guest's stay, he was virtually incommunicado with the outside world unless he read the local newspaper, which carried very little national or world news.
Claire's head was spinning. "She's pregnant?"
"That's right," he said tersely. "That practically eliminates her as a suspect."
"Not necessarily."
"Not to you, maybe. Maybe not even to me. But to everybody else's way of thinking, she's off the hook. Which way do you think public sympathy will swing? To the lady epitomizing motherhood and goodness, or to the woman who publishes dirty pictures?"
"It might not be Jackson's child," Claire said, sounding desperate, like someone grasping at a lifeline. "It could be Josh's baby."
"I know that. And you know that. But Joe Average Citizen doesn't. All he sees on his color Panasonic is a saintly, weeping, pregnant widow, who looks like the last thing on her agenda would be adultery with her stepson and the cold-blooded murder of her husband.
"Be prepared, Claire. Ariel will play this for all it's worth. Twice you've experienced the kind of media manipulation she's capable of. The threat of libel suits doesn't faze her. She'll verbally paint the picture of an immoral, opportunistic monster taking her husband's life and imposing tragedy on her and her unborn baby. Because of the groundwork she's already laid, whose face do you think that monster will wear in the minds of most people?" He leaned down closer to her. "Are the grim implications of her pregnancy beginning to sink in?"
They weren't only sinking in—they had found a nesting place in the recesses of her heart where her deepest fears were lodged. It would be folly, however, to let Cassidy see that she was afraid. "What do you want from me?" she asked defiantly.
"A confession."
She made a scornful sound.
"Then, dammit, don't let me accuse you without putting up a fight. Stamp. Scream. Beat on my chest with your fists. Become outraged, incensed. Don't retreat behind that cool fa?ade; it only makes you look guiltier. You can't remain aloof any longer, Claire. Fight back, for God's sake."
"I wouldn't lower my dignity to such a level."
"Dignity!" he bellowed. The features of his face turned stiff with rage. "Jail is undignified, Claire. So is a murder trial. So is life in prison." His breath fell hotly on her face. "Damn you, tell me my suspicions are wrong. Give me something absolute that will shoot down all the facts I have working against you."
"Until I'm indicted, I shouldn't have to worry about defending myself. The judicial procedure—"
"Screw procedure! Talk to me!"
"Mr. Cassidy?" The wavering voice came from Mary Catherine, who was hovering in the dining-room archway. "Why are you shouting at Claire? You're not going to take her away, are you?"
"Of course not, Mama!" Claire exclaimed.
"Because I really can't let you take her."
Claire moved quickly to her mother's side and placed an arm around her shoulders. "Mr. Cassidy and I were just … debating something."
"Oh."
Where was Harry? Claire asked herself. Why wasn't she with her mother? "Everything's fine, Mama. I promise. Are you feeling well?"
Mary Catherine formed a tremulous smile. "We're having stuffed pork chops for dinner. Doesn't that sound delicious? I must ask them to trim all the fat off Aunt Laurel's. That's the only way she'll eat pork, you know. Otherwise she gets indigestion. Oh, forgive me, Mr. Cassidy, for discussing such an indelicate matter in mixed company."
Cassidy cleared his throat. "Quite all right."
"Aunt Laurel wants to get some cuttings from the rosebushes here to plant in the courtyard. Wouldn't that be lovely, Claire Louise?"
"Yes, Mama. Lovely."
Mary Catherine walked past Claire to the coat tree near the door, where Cassidy's sports coat was hanging. She removed something from the pocket of her skirt and slipped it into the breast pocket of the jacket. Without acknowledging her strange action, she continued the conversation. "Claire dear, your face is flushed."
"It's hot outside."
"Are you perspiring, dear? That's not at all ladylike. Perhaps you should take a bath and change before dinner."
"I plan to, Mama. I was just on my way up."
"You work much too hard. Aunt Laurel and I were talking about it this afternoon over tea. You really should take care." Mary Catherine stroked her cheek lovingly before drifting upstairs and out of sight. The instant they heard her bedroom door close, Cassidy moved to the coat tree and reached into the breast pocket of his coat.
"Well, I'll be damned."
"What is it?" He held up a gold fountain pen.
"Is it yours?"
With a rueful smile he said, "I noticed it missing the afternoon I arrived, after I'd left my jacket hanging here for a while. I figured somebody had stolen it, although I couldn't imagine who would want to. It isn't an expensive pen, but valuable to me because it was a gift from my folks, and both of them are deceased."
Claire pressed her fingertips against her lips and turned her back to him. She leaned against one of the tall, narrow windows that flanked the front door, resting her forehead against the glass, which had retained some coolness during the sweltering afternoon.
Cassidy moved to stand close behind her. "Hey, it's no big deal, Claire."
His voice was soft, gentle, confidence inspiring. When he placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him, she was tempted to rest her head against his chest as she had the window. It would be a tremendous relief to finally unburden herself and tell him everything. "Oh, Cassidy, I wish…"
"What?" he probed gently.
She rolled her head across her shoulders. Naturally she couldn't say what she really wanted to, so she said instead, "I wish it weren't so hot. I wish it would rain. I wish we were finished here so I could go home and restore my office and home, which I'm certain the police left in shambles."
She bit her lower lip to stop tears of frustration and fear. "I wish I'd never heard of Jackson Wilde. I wish you'd have told me about your fountain pen. I could have explained days ago."
"I got it back and that's all that matters. Forget it."
But she couldn't forget it and felt compelled to explain her mother's actions. "See, sometimes Mama takes things. She's not stealing because she doesn't realize she's doing anything wrong. She's just 'borrowing.' She never fails to return whatever it is she's taken. It's harmless and innocent, really."
"Hush, Claire." He pushed his fingers up through her hair and whisked a kiss across her lips. "I believe you."
But when he ducked his head for a deeper kiss, she pushed him away and gazed into his eyes. "No, you don't, Cassidy." Suddenly they were no longer talking about her mother or the fountain pen. Claire slowly shook her head. "You don't believe me at all."
* * *