Chapter 24
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"She—"
"What?" Cassidy demanded.
"I don't know." Josh grimaced with frustration. "If I was staring at her as you say, it's because I wasn't only mad but puzzled."
"About what?"
"About her. She has a way about her, you know?"
"No, I don't know. Explain it to me."
"I don't think I can."
"Try."
"It was like she could see into me," he cried. "But I felt like I was looking at her through a veil. We were speaking the same language, but the words didn't fit the messages I was getting from her eyes. She freaked me out."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
Actually he knew exactly what Josh was talking about. Every time he'd been with Claire, with the exception of those moments when she had openly and freely shared her passion with him, he'd felt totally exposed, while an essential element of Claire always remained masked. It was like looking into the screened face of a fencing opponent. You knew who it was, but you couldn't distinctly see him.
"I knew you wouldn't believe me," Josh mumbled. "That's why I didn't bring it up myself."
Hoping to prize more information out of the troubled young man, Cassidy lied and said, "I think you're feeding me a bunch of bullshit to throw me off track."
Josh cursed and made a gesture as though trying to capture the correct words to express his thoughts. "I had never seen this woman face to face, but I got the eerie feeling that I knew her. Or, more to the point, that she knew me. Hell, I don't know. Daddy had people coming and going all the time. Maybe I bumped into her once and only my subconscious remembers."
He stopped pacing and spun around to face Cassidy. "Something just occurred to me. Maybe Claire Laurent tried the same tactic with my father, and when he refused her bribe, she bumped him off. Had you thought of that?"
Without answering, Cassidy stood and headed for the door, where he turned back and said in a menacing tone, "Josh, if you're lying to me, I'm going to come back and do you severe bodily harm. Then I'm going to pull your lower lip over your head, all the way down your back, and stuff it into your asshole." He aimed an index finger at him. "I'm going to ask one more time—had you met Claire Laurent before tonight?"
Josh swallowed visibly. "No. On my mother's grave, I swear it."
Outside, Cassidy dropped his tough demeanor. It was too exhausting to maintain. He trudged to his car. Fatigue settled over him heavily. During the drive to his condo, his eyes itched and burned, irritated by every pair of headlights he encountered, but he knew that as soon as he lay down to sleep, they would open and remain that way until dawn, when the whole unproductive routine would begin again.
Wearily he let himself into his airless living room, cursorily sorted through his mail, then plodded into the bedroom. As he regarded his haggard reflection in the mirror over the bathroom sink, he realized why he felt as depleted as a marathon runner following an uphill race. Claire had been cleared of one lie tonight, but in the process he had uncovered another possible motivation for her to kill Jackson Wilde.
* * *
Cassidy had left Claire very upset. Long after she had locked the door of French Silk behind him, she remained there, her head resting against the cool metal. She had wanted her meeting with Josh to be carried out in absolute secrecy. From now on, she must be doubly careful. She wouldn't again make the mistake of underestimating Mr. Cassidy's far-reaching arm. His resources outnumbered hers. He probably had plainclothesmen watching her around the clock.
That thought unnerved her for several reasons. First, her privacy was being violated. Second, regardless of the new slant to his investigation, she and everyone associated with French Silk were still suspects. Most upsetting was that a man she had been intimate with exercised tremendous authority over her.
His superiority defiled the tenderness and sweetness of their lovemaking, like a bed of flowers being trampled into the mud by someone uncaring and insensitive. The flowers were still flowers, but their beauty had been irreparably tarnished.
With that dismal thought, she pushed herself away from the door and walked toward the freight elevator. As she approached, she heard its clanking descent and saw Yasmine through the metal accordion doors as it ground to a stop on the first floor. "Hi," she said, trying to inject her voice with more spirit than she felt. Unfortunately, seeing Yasmine didn't cheer her. She was another source of worry. "Are you going out again tonight?"
"Yes, for a while."
"Want some company? I'd enjoy an evening out. I could call Harry to come sit with Mama."
Yasmine was already shaking her head. "I'm sorry, Claire, but I've made other plans."
Claire tried valiantly to keep her smile in place. "I'm glad to see you're putting yourself back in circulation. I was getting worried about you."
"You shouldn't have been. Everything's working out."
"Good. I knew it would. Do you need my car?"
"No, thanks. I'll take a cab."
At the risk of prying, Claire didn't ask where she was going or what her plans entailed. Yasmine's clothing gave her no clues. She was dressed in a semiconservative, plain silk dress. The melon color gave her complexion a special glow. Her hair had dried naturally, encircling her head in glossy, ebony curls. Large gold disks were clipped to her ears. The trade-mark bangles glittered on her slender wrists. She looked exceptionally beautiful and Claire told her so.
"Thank you. I wanted to look good tonight."
"Even on your worst days you look good." Acting on impulse, Claire embraced her.
Yasmine returned the tight hug. "Thanks for everything, Claire."
"No need to thank me. You've been going through a rough time."
"Rut you've stayed my friend when anyone else would have given up on me."
"Never. You can count on that." She squeezed her extra tight. "Take care tonight."
"You know me, sugar." As she broke the embrace, Yasmine winked and clucked her tongue. "Always on top of things."
Claire laughed. This was Yasmine at her sassy best. She wondered briefly if Alister Petrie had called her for a reconciliation. That would account for the special pains she had taken with her appearance tonight. "Shall I worry if you're late?"
"No, don't wait up. 'Bye-bye. I'll set the alarm on my way out."
"Thanks. 'Bye."
Claire waited until she had crossed the warehouse floor. At the door, she turned and gave Claire a jaunty little wave. Even from that distance, Claire could hear her bangles jangling.
Upstairs, Claire checked on Mary Catherine, who was sleeping peacefully. As she was pulling her mother's bedroom door closed, the smell of smoke brought her to a dead standstill.
When she'd had the old building renovated, she'd paid dearly for a state-of-the-art sprinkler system and smoke detectors, knowing that a fire would be costly, in merchandise and possibly in lives. Even with that safeguard, she was paranoid about fire.
She traced the faint whiffs to Yasmine's bedroom. She hadn't been there recently, but before her breakup with Alister, Yasmine had rarely kept the door closed. Claire had no qualms about opening it now to check for the source of smoke.
As she stepped across the threshold and entered the room, she received a shock to her sensibilities and to her nervous system. Reflexively clapping her right hand over her nose and mouth, she moved forward, reluctantly approaching the makeshift altar that had once been an ordinary nightstand.
Encircling the perimeter were smoky, sputtering candles that cast wavering shadows onto the walls. Unidentifiable herbs and oils had been sprinkled over the surface of the nightstand. They accounted for some of the malevolent odors permeating the room. But only some.
In the center of the altar was a crude crockery bowl. It was filled with what appeared to be the entrails of a small animal. At one time, organs might have been discernible. Now it was a mishmash of gore. The odor made Claire gag behind her hand.
Blood had been painstakingly dripped onto the surface to form symbolic patterns. The small effigy of Alister Petrie, the doll that Claire recognized as the one Yasmine had shown her, had been decapitated and emasculated. Like a stake through the heart, a vicious pin thrust up from the center of its chest.
"My God," Claire moaned, backing away from the grisly sight. "Oh my God, Yasmine. No!"
As soon as Harry arrived in response to her frantic call, Claire raced to her car and headed for the exclusive neighborhood along the shore of Lake Ponchartrain where Congressman Alister Petrie lived with his wife and children. She hoped she wouldn't arrive too late.
* * *
"Want me to wait?" The cabbie slung one arm over the back of the seat and gaped at his stunning passenger.
"No, thanks." Yasmine passed him a twenty-dollar bill. "Keep the change."
"Thanks, miss, 'preciate it. Say, uh, do I know you? I mean, should I? Aren't you famous?"
"I was a model. Maybe you've seen my pictures in magazines."
He slapped his forehead with the heel of his hand. "Jesus H! I thought that was you." He grinned, revealing crooked, tobacco-stained teeth in the feeble dome light of his cab. "Who'd've ever thought you'd ride in my cab? The only other celebrity I've ever hauled was that cooking lady on TV. Julia somebody. Say, I'll be glad to come back for you later. I can give you my card. You can call when you're ready to be picked up."
Yasmine shook her head and alighted. "Thank you."
"Well, 'bye. It's been a pleasure."
He dropped the gear shift into drive, saluted her, and pulled away from the curb. Yasmine watched him drive way. She was smiling, glad she'd made his day. He would talk about her for months, maybe years, telling everybody he met that he'd had Yasmine in his cab the night she really made herself famous.
"Good luck to you, sugar," she whispered into the still evening air. Standing on the curb, she regarded the stately house across the street. It would have made a pretty picture for a postcard. Even the Spanish moss hanging from the branches of the live oaks was perfectly placed.
There was no blood on the dining room window, which was dark now. They'd washed it off the morning after she'd paid to have the dead chicken "delivered." She'd driven past the next day to see. There'd been no trace of the terror that she hoped her hex had caused the smug son of a bitch.
He didn't know what terror was. Not yet.
She stepped off the curb and started across the street. Reaching into her large leather shoulder bag, she took out the revolver. Even though she'd checked the cylinders a hundred times during the course of the long afternoon while she waited for nightfall, she checked them once again. All were loaded.
She started up the sidewalk that divided the front lawn into immaculately landscaped halves. Her stride was long and confident, as it had been for years on the runways of fashion houses all over the world. New York, Paris, Milan. No one walked like Yasmine. Her gait couldn't be imitated. Many had tried, but none had been able to combine that sensuous countermotion of hips and shoulders with elegance and grace the way she had mastered it.
She hesitated for only a heartbeat on the bottom step leading up to the porch, then strode to the wide front door and pressed the bell.
* * *
"Daddy, I've got a soccer game on Saturday. Do you think maybe you could come to this one? I'm playing goalie."
Alister Petrie reached across the corner of the kitchen dining table and ruffled his son's hair. "I'll try. That's all I can promise. But I'll try."
"Gee, that'd be great," the boy beamed.
Since the incident with the dead chicken, which had taken ten years off his life. Alister had turned over a new leaf. For days he'd lived in abject terror, venturing out of the house only when absolutely necessary and then only under the protection of the bodyguards Belle had insisted on hiring.
As he delivered his scheduled campaign speeches, his knees had knocked together behind the podiums because he feared an assassination. At night in his dreams, he envisioned a bullet coming at him at an unstoppable velocity and piercing his forehead, exploding his head like a watermelon. He always lived to witness his execution and woke up trembling and blubbering.
Belle was always beside him to render comfort and solace. Drawing his shivering body against hers, she crooned reassurances that his mistress had vented her spleen with that disgusting and savage display, and that was the end of it.
She did, however, manage to get in her sharp, vicious barbs. "You reap what you sow, Alister." "What goes around comes around." "Your sins find you out." She had a litany of adages, all with biblical overtones.
Like fishhooks, they stayed deeply embedded under his skin. It would be a while before he felt courageous enough to screw around. He'd learned his lesson. When he did feel the urge to stray, he'd make damn certain that the broad didn't have an affinity for voodoo. It might be harmless, but it fucked with your mind in the worst way.
Gradually, when it appeared that the dead chicken was indeed an isolated incident and the sum total of Yasmine's vengeance, Alister began to relax. He resumed his normal, hectic schedule. The bodyguards were dismissed. But the familial bliss was a lasting aftereffect. He was at home as frequently as possible now. He kissed both children good-night every night and took the time to exchange a few sentences with each of them at some point during the day.
Belle participated in his campaign more actively than before. They were rarely out of each other's sight. She kept him on a very short leash, which for once he didn't resent, because she had kept her promise not to reduce or suspend the campaign contributions that poured in from her private resources and those of her extensive family.
They had not, however, eaten in the formal dining room since that fateful night.
Tonight the Petries were gathered around the table that was tucked into a cozy nook adjacent to the kitchen. Rockwell couldn't have painted a scene more depictive of domestic harmony. There had been fresh apple pie for dessert. The aroma of cinnamon and baked Granny Smiths wafted through the well-lighted room. They could have been any family in America—except for the uniformed maid, who, at a silent signal from Belle, began clearing away the dishes and carrying them to the dishwasher.
"Daddy?"
"Yes, sweetheart?" He gave his attention to his daughter.
"I colored a picture of you at school today."
"Did you?"
"Hmm. It's of you making a speech in front of the American flag."
"You don't say?" he said expansively. "Well, let's see it."
"Mommy, may I be excused? It's in my school bag up in my room."
Belle smiled indulgently. "Of course, darling."
The youngest Petrie slid from her chair and dashed out of the kitchen. No sooner had she cleared the swinging door than the front-door bell rang. "I'll get it!" Her high-pitched, childish voice echoed through the rooms. They heard the rubber soles of her sneakers striking the hardwood floors, occasionally muted by area rugs.
The telephone rang. The maid answered the kitchen extension. "Petrie residence."
They heard the front door being opened.
"No," the maid said into the receiver. "There's no one here by that name."
"Who was it?" Belle asked as the maid hung up.
"Wrong number. A woman who sounded hysterical was looking for someone named Jasmine."
Alister blanched and surged to his feet. "Yasmine?"
Belle looked at him. Simultaneously the same chilling thought occurred to them. Belle said, "Is that—"
"Yes." Alister bounded through the swinging door.
"What's the matter, Mom?"
"Nothing, son."
"You look funny."
The maid said, "Miz Petrie? Anything wrong?"
"Don't be silly," Belle snapped. "What could be wrong?"
Then they heard the gunshot.
* * *
"No, don't hang up!" Claire shouted into the receiver of the public telephone. When she got a dial tone, she banged the receiver against the box. "I told you not to hang up!"
After becoming hopelessly lost in an area with which she wasn't familiar, she had stopped at a pay telephone to call the Petries. Unsure of exactly how to warn them, she clumsily punched out the number that directory assistance had given her. It had been answered on the first ring, but obviously the housekeeper to whom she had conveyed her hysteria dismissed her as a wrong number or a crank call.
She inserted another quarter and redialed. The line was busy. "Come on, please. Please." She put the quarter in and tried again. This time the phone rang repeatedly, but wasn't answered. Thinking that in her haste she must have misdialed, she repeated the process. It continued to ring.
Moments later, she became aware of approaching sirens. Dread, like a fist inside her chest, clutched at her heart. "Oh, no. Please, God, no."
But her prayers went unanswered. The emergency vehicles sped past, lights flashing. Claire dropped the telephone receiver, ran for her car, and struck out in pursuit. When they reached their destination, she bolted from her car, grabbed the arm of a pajama-clad neighbor, and asked, "Whose house is this?"
"Congressman Petrie's."
Policemen were already scrambling across the lawn and paramedics were rushing with a gurney toward the open door. Claire shoved aside the befuddled neighbor and plunged headlong up the sloping lawn. A policeman tried to halt her, but she ignored his shouted order to stop.
"My friend needs me."
Breathless, she reached the porch steps and ran up them toward the cluster of people huddled in the entrance. From within the house she could hear the hysterical screaming of a child. Behind her, police officers were ordering her to freeze.
Her worst fears were confirmed when she saw a draped from lying across the threshold. She was too late! Yasmine had killed him! She searched frantically for Yasmine among those stomping about in confusion and distress.
Suddenly Claire's eyes connected with Alister Petrie's. She almost laughed with relief. He seemed dazed, but unharmed.
Then she noticed that he was splattered with fresh blood that was not his own. He was standing in a puddle of it that was fed by the river flowing from beneath the plastic sheet.
Claire's eyes dropped to the body once again, and she saw something lying outside the sheet that she had missed the first time—a hand, beautifully shaped, long and slender, the color of café au lait.
And encircling the wrist were bright, gold bangles.
* * *