French Silk

Chapter 33

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"This is getting silly."

Belle Petrie, who was making her bed, gave her husband a quizzical glance. "What's silly, dear?"

Petrie felt an almost overwhelming urge to piss on the carpet, send the étagère full of Baccarat crystal crashing to the floor, or place his hands around her throat and choke the life out of her. He wanted to do something rash to destroy the cool scorn with which his wife had been treating him.

"I'm getting tired of sleeping in the guest room, Belle," he said testily. "How much longer am I going to be condemned to marital Siberia? I've admitted to being a naughty boy, so when will you permit me to sleep in my own goddamn bed?"

"Lower your voice. The children will hear you."

He lunged at her, knocked the decorative bolster pillow from her hand, and took her roughly by the shoulders. "I've apologized a thousand times. What more do you want?"

"I want you to let go of me." The words were as sharp and brittle as icicles. Coupled with the arctic glint in her eyes, they served to dismantle Alister's temper tantrum. He released her and stepped back.

"I'm sorry, Belle. This last month has been a living nightmare."

"Yes. I imagine that having your mistress blow her brains out in front of your daughter could put a wrinkle in your month."

"Christ. You won't give an inch, will you?"

He'd apologized repeatedly for his affair and its ghastly denouement. So far, his apologies hadn't made a dent in Belle's tough armor. The marital harmony that had been briefly reestablished when he broke off the affair with Yasmine had been shattered again by her sensationalized suicide. When her revolver was linked to the Wilde murder, he'd panicked and thrown himself on Belle's mercy, pleading for her help.

"I've done everything you told me to do, Belle," he said now. "I confessed my affair to Tony Crowder and that Cassidy character." Petrie's eyes turned dark. "If I can help it, he'll never get that D.A.'s office. Smug son of a bitch. You should have heard the way he talked to me. He attacked me physically!"

She appeared singularly unsympathetic.

"Okay, so I got myself in a mess. We had to stop Cassidy's investigation before my affair with Yasmine became public. In order to do that, I called in a favor from Crowder. I didn't like standing there in front of them with my pants down, but I did it because you advised me to, and, in retrospect, I think it was good advice. Crowder ordered Cassidy to redirect his investigation, pronto. In a day or two no one will remember Yasmine's suicide because everyone's attention will be on that Laurent broad's confession. Now, can't we drop this subject once and for all? Can I sleep in my own bed tonight?"

"You never told me she was black."

"What?"

"Your mistress was black." Belle's fists were clenched at her sides. Her nostrils flared with indignation and disgust. "It's humiliating to both of us that you had to find your fun outside this bedroom. But to think of the father of my children sleeping with a… Did you kiss her on the mouth? Oh, God!" She rubbed the back of her hand across her lips in a scrubbing motion. "The thought of it makes me sick. You make me sick. That's why I don't want you in my bed."

Alister didn't like being upbraided like a twelve-year-old caught jerking off. He'd suffered enough humiliation yesterday in the D.A.'s office, so he struck back. "If you knew just half the sex tricks Yasmine did, I wouldn't have had a mistress in the first place. Black, white, or any other color."

Belle's eyes drilled into his. She didn't raise her voice, but her soft-spoken tone was more sinister than a shout. "Watch yourself, Alister. You've committed a series of monumental blunders. Left to your own devices, you probably would have dug yourself in so deep you couldn't get out. But thanks to my quick thinking, you walked away from your mistakes unscathed."

She turned and took something from the nightstand drawer. "I'm curious about the misdeeds you've committed that haven't yet come to light." She tossed the small object in the air, flipping it end over end like a coin. "You see, I know that you had words with Reverend Wilde the day of his death. Despite appearances, the two of you weren't on the best of terms when you joined him on the podium that night."

She caught the object in her hand and looked down at it musingly as she continued. "If I discovered your mistress, perhaps the reverend had, too. You're not smart enough to hire someone discreet to do your dirty work for you. You might have been stupid enough to take matters into your own hands, tried to solve your problem without guidance, which we both know you desperately need."

Alister watched as she replaced the matchbook, bearing the logo of the Fairmont Hotel, in her bedside drawer. "I hope I'm wrong, but I suspect that you eagerly grasped my idea to confess to your mistress only to cover up an uglier transgression.

"If that's so, then heed this warning. I'm through with covering up for your mistakes, Mister. For instance, if Mr. Cassidy came to me with questions about that night, I would be forced to tell him that I had called your room at the Doubletree repeatedly and received no answer. To protect myself and my children, I would be pressed to show him that matchbook."

Her voice turned cold. She pointed her finger at him. "I'm giving you fair warning—if you get out of line again, I'll divorce, disgrace, and disinherit you. Once my family and I are finished with you, you'll be lucky to get a job skimming out cesspools.

"You're being placed on probation, dear," she said with saccharine sarcasm. "In public, you'll be the shining example of truth, justice, and the American way. You'll be a devoted husband and a doting father, a smiling, sterling pillar of virtue and integrity.

"After awhile, you might earn back your place in my bed. Until the time I deem you worthy, don't even ask to rejoin me there. I can't bear the thought of having your hands on me. Do I make myself clear?"

"As a bell," he replied flippantly. "No pun intended."

He marched from the room, slamming the door behind him. Who needed her arid, sterile bed, he asked himself angrily as he returned to the guest room to finish dressing. She was so stiff and dry, he'd just as soon fuck a corn husk.

He relished his anger. It kept him from acknowledging his fear, which was insidiously lurking in the dark shadows of his mind like a rat, waiting for an opportune time to dart out and seize him.

Not for a single second did he doubt Belle's threat of exposure and desertion if he messed up again. Nor did he question her ability to ruin him if she so desired. She had not only the impetus of a woman scorned to motivate her, she had the muscle and the money behind her to make good her threats.

She liked being a congressman's wife. It elevated her, gave her prestige. But, hell, with her fortune, she could buy herself a judge or a governor or even a senator if she wanted one. In other words, Alister Petrie could be replaced. What if Cassidy hadn't bought his story? What if he did question Belle?

That possibility made his knees weak and his bowels loose. He stumbled to his unmade bed and sat down on the edge of it, holding his throbbing head in his hands. Belle had him by the short and curlies, and she damn well knew it. The bitch.

What could he do about it?

For the time being, nothing except wait. He'd had several close calls. Belle was still on his side, but for how long? Only as long as her cushy position in the world wasn't threatened. God forbid it ever was.

All he could do now was hope to sweet Jesus that Claire Laurent's phony confession stuck.

* * *

Cassidy's stunning statement brought Crowder to his feet. "Have you lost your frigging mind? Pardon me, Ms. Laurent."

Claire didn't notice his crude language. She was in shock, coupled with profound relief. Her mother wasn't a suspect! But Alister Petrie?

"I know it sounds crazy," Cassidy said, "but when I lay out all the facts, you'll begin to see, as I did, that Petrie is guilty of killing Jackson Wilde."

"You're just pissed off at him," Crowder said. "A word of advice, Cassidy—don't mess with him. He's poison."

"You're making my case for me, Tony."

"Petrie's got enough money supporting him to float a battleship."

Cassidy held up both hands. "His wife has the money. And Petrie was using it to pay off Wilde."

Crowder resettled his bulk in his chair. "Pay off Wilde? You mean Wilde was blackmailing him?"

"Look at this." Cassidy produced the list of Wilde's contributors. "Glenn gave this to me yesterday right before all hell broke loose. I forgot about it when Claire confessed and didn't have an opportunity to look at it until early this morning. But by then it only proved what I'd already figured out."

"It doesn't prove a damn thing," Crowder said, grouchily flicking his hand at the sheets of paper.

"Listen to me, Tony. Several people, and more than a handful of companies, were funneling 'offerings' into Wilde's ministry. Glenn has found several who'll testify that it was hush money."

"Joshua virtually admitted to me that his father took bribes in exchange for absolution," Claire told Crowder.

"He admitted it to me, too," Cassidy said. "This Block Bag and Box Company is a pissant business owned by Petrie's wife's family. Right after they married, he was made president of the corporation, but it's a figurehead position from which he draws a handsome monthly salary. It also gives him access to the company books and the authorization to sign checks."

Cassidy pointed to the printed material lying on Crowder's desk. "Why in hell would Block Bag and Box Company contribute over a hundred thousand dollars to a televangelist's ministry, Tony? It started with a check for five thousand dollars, dated almost a year ago. The amounts increased in increments."

"Somebody else would have reviewed the books."

"If anybody questioned him about it, Petrie probably passed off the contributions as needed tax deductions. Who's going to cross the owner's son-in-law?"

Crowder gnawed his lower lip. "What was Wilde blackmailing him for? They kissed each other's ass."

"Publicly. Because it behooved both of them. My guess is that Wilde knew about Petrie's affair with Yasmine and threatened to expose it."

Claire said, "Yasmine told me several times that Petrie secretly disliked Jackson Wilde. He only used him to win votes."

"Petrie had access to Yasmine's gun, Tony. He could have taken it, used it that night, and then replaced it during a rendezvous. I'm sure he'd be smart enough to wear gloves or wipe off the fingerprints."

"How'd he get into Wilde's suite?"

"Maybe Wilde was expecting Petrie to deliver another 'offering,'" Cassidy said caustically. "He would have had no qualms about admitting Petrie to his room late at night."

"Naked?" Claire asked.

"It was documented in the newspapers that they had exercised together at a local health club that afternoon. Wilde wouldn't have been self-conscious about his nudity." Cassidy turned to Crowder. "Yesterday, I moved to that window," he said, pointing. "I watched as Petrie left the building. His entourage hustled him into a van. It's white with blue interior. It's a Chrysler van, Tony."

Claire's mind was clicking along faster than Crowder's. "The carpet in that van would match my LeBaron's," she said excitedly.

"Most probably. Petrie had been in that van the night Wilde was killed. He tracked the fibers into Wilde's bedroom. If we get carpet fibers from that van, I'm betting they'll match those taken from the scene."

Crowder's wide fingertips were doing pushups against each other. "It's all interesting, but it's not enough. What else have you got?"

"Petrie's cunning. He'd be smart enough to place the wounds so it would look like a woman shot Wilde."

"It worked. It threw you off from day one."

"Yeah," Cassidy admitted grimly. "Petrie probably thought Ariel would become our chief suspect. He'd been around the Wildes enough to know that they didn't have a marriage made in heaven. He might even have known about her affair with Josh."

"Why'd he come to us yesterday?"

"He was covering his ass. Our investigation into Yasmine's involvement would have eventually exposed their affair, but it also could have implicated him in the murder. He confessed to one sin in order to throw up a smokescreen to hide the other."

"But he's got alibis at the Doubletree who will testify that he was there that night," Crowder reminded him.

"He was there. He checked in at the registration desk and made certain he was seen. But he spent a good deal of the night at the Fairmont."

Crowder stubbornly shook his head. "It's still guesswork and circumstantial, Cassidy. A defense attorney—and he can afford the best—will chase your ass out of the courtroom unless you can substantiate that Petrie was in the Fairmont Hotel that night."

"I can."

"You can?"

"I have an eyewitness."

Crowder's eyebrows sprang up. "Who?"

"Andre Philippi."

"Andre?" Claire gasped.

Cassidy nodded. "He tried to reach me several times last night, and when he couldn't, he relented and spoke with Glenn, who hasn't let him out of his sight since. As soon as I got the message this morning, I joined them. Claire will understand this. You will after you meet him, Tony. He has this thing about safeguarding the privacy of his guests. It's like a code of honor to him. He's passionate about it. He kept Claire's secret until we caught him at it, remember? Likewise, he was keeping Petrie's. Until this morning."

"Why's he blowing the whistle on Petrie now?"

"It seems that Andre's second passion was Yasmine."

"That's true," Claire said. She told them about Andre's mother and the parallels between the two women. "Andre grew up resenting the distance his father kept from his mother, even though he supported her financially. A few days before Yasmine's suicide, he called me, terribly worried about her. He's sure to have seen the correlation between her tragic ending and his mother's."

Cassidy elaborated. "He knows that Yasmine killed herself over Petrie. And since Petrie's letting her name be dragged through the muck and circulating vicious lies about her, Andre no longer feels obligated to protect him. He swears on his mother's grave that Petrie spent the night at the Fairmont with Yasmine. He arrived shortly after eleven and left around seven the following morning, before Ariel discovered Wilde's body and we sealed the doors. Andre himself called Yasmine a cab. She went to the airport in time to meet Claire at the designated time. I'll bet no one at the Doubletree can swear under oath that they saw Petrie between eleven P.M. and seven A.M."

"Why would a jury believe this Andre fellow?"

"They'll believe him," Cassidy said confidently. "Furthermore, they'd believe Belle."

"His wife?" Crowder exclaimed.

"Right. It wouldn't surprise me if she knew about the murder. She's covered Alister's tracks this far, but somehow I don't think she'd go out on a limb if it involved murder."

"I don't think so either," Claire said quietly. "I only met her a few times, years ago, but she impressed me as a woman who values her own skin."

Crowder tugged on his lower lip. "Petrie might toss it back and say it was Yasmine who killed Wilde. She had motivation, and the murder weapon belonged to her. He might even accuse Ms. Laurent."

"He might." Cassidy said, grinning craftily. "But he'd still have to answer to spending the night at the Fairmont Hotel with his mistress. Either way, he's screwed. At the very least, he's guilty of ducking out when he had information pertinent to the investigation of a murder."

Cassidy leaned over Crowder's desk. "I want the bastard, Tony. I want to launch a full-fledged but covert investigation. He's got to be puzzling over why Claire made a confession and probably reasons correctly that she's doing it to protect either Yasmine or Mary Catherine. In any event, he thinks he's gotten away with murder. He hasn't."

Tony Crowder held Cassidy's stare for several moments, glanced at Claire, then returned his gaze to his deputy prosecutor. "Proceed with caution and absolute secrecy, but nail the son of a bitch."

* * *

Ariel Wilde answered Cassidy's knock with the cordiality of a rattlesnake poised to strike. Whatever she'd been about to say died on her lips when she saw who accompanied him.

"I thought she'd be behind bars by now."

"I asked Mr. Cassidy to arrange this meeting," Claire said. "May we come in?"

Radiating a hostile aura, the widow stepped aside and admitted them into her hotel room. Without specifying why, Cassidy had called an hour earlier, telling her that he wanted to see her and Joshua alone.

Josh, who'd been sprawled on a sofa and looking very unhappy about being there, rose to his feet when they came in. His eyes bounced between them, curious and wary in equal proportions.

"I'm waiting." Ariel crossed her arms over her middle. "I'm very busy this afternoon."

"Organizing more demonstrations?" Cassidy asked pleasantly.

"They're working, aren't they? They got her to confess."

"I didn't kill your husband, Mrs. Wilde."

"What!" Ariel rounded on Cassidy. "You're sleeping with her, right? So you're not letting her confession stick. Wait'll the media gets hold of this. You won't—"

"Mrs. Wilde." Claire spoke softly, but with such authority that Ariel fell silent. "I confessed because I thought I was protecting my mother. I thought she had killed your husband."

"Why would you think that? Your mother's a loony tune."

Claire pulled herself up to her full height and struggled to keep a reign on her temper. "My mother has emotional problems, yes. Their origins date back to over thirty years ago, when she fell in love with a young street preacher named Jack Collins, who went by the nickname of Wild Jack. He seduced her, robbed her of money, and deserted her, leaving her pregnant with his baby. Wild Jack Collins was Jackson Wilde. And I was the baby."

Ariel barked a harsh laugh. "What the hell are you trying to pull? Do you—"

"Shut up, Ariel." The unexpected rebuke came from Josh, who was staring closely at Claire. "I knew there was something… When I met you, I… You're my half-sister."

"Yes. Hello again, Josh." Smiling, Claire extended her hand. He reached out and shook it, but his eyes never wavered from hers. "I hope you'll forgive me for testing your character by offering you a bribe. You didn't disappoint me by refusing."

"This is all very touching," Ariel sneered, "but I'll be damned before I believe this crap."

"This much is true," Josh said. "Before he married my mother, Daddy was known as Wild Jack Collins. I once overheard my grandfather referring to him by that name, and it made Daddy mad as hell."

Claire gave Josh's hand a light squeeze before releasing it and turning to Ariel again. "I have no intention of disclosing my relationship to Jackson Wilde. Frankly, I'm not at all proud of it, and it would focus attention on my mother, which I hope to avoid."

"Then what are you doing here?"

"To strongly suggest that you forget you ever heard of French Silk or anyone connected to it."

"Or what?"

"Or I'll reveal to the world the real Jackson Wilde. I'm sure you don't want your late husband exposed as a seducer of young girls, a fornicator, a thief, a liar, and a child deserter. It wouldn't be good for the ministry, would it?"

Ariel's wide blue eyes blinked rapidly. She was obviously afraid, but not yet ready to concede. "You can't prove it."

"You can't disprove it. And people always believe the worst, don't they, Ariel? In fact, you've used that human trait to your advantage each time you've spoken my name to the media."

Ariel opened her mouth, but no words came out.

"I was certain you'd see the wisdom in my argument," Claire said. "I think it would be best for both of us if we let this matter drop. I want nothing of Jackson Wilde's. Not even his hateful name. If I'm allowed to pursue my interests without any further interference from you, your husband's treachery will remain a secret. However, if you continue your crusade against me and French Silk, I would be forced to reconsider my position." Claire smiled. "But I'm confident I won't."

She looked at Josh. "Goodbye for now. I'll be in touch soon." She turned and moved toward the door.

Cassidy paused to deliver a parting shot. "I'm continuing my investigation into your husband's murder, Mrs. Wilde. I have new evidence which I'm certain will result in a conviction. In the meantime, I advise you to stay out of my business, keep out of my way, get your butt back to Nashville, and concentrate on winning lost souls."

* * *

"I'd like to help Josh further his music career. I know a lot of people in New York. I could introduce him around, get him in the right circles. He should have the opportunity to cultivate his talent as he always wanted to."

Claire and Cassidy were cuddled together on the glider in the courtyard of Aunt Laurel's house. Late that afternoon, news that she had retracted her confession reached the media. Every reporter in the country wanted statements from her and Cassidy. Crowder had told them to "clear the hell out, lay low for a couple of days," and let him handle it.

He intended to hold a press conference and announce that Claire Laurent had made a false confession in order to spare herself, her business, and her family any further distress. He planned to dismiss her confession completely, as it had been induced by harassment from the media and the Jackson Wilde Ministry, and bereavement over the loss of her friend and business associate, Yasmine. He would also suggest that the joint investigative forces were in possession of evidence that negated any involvement on Ms. Laurent's part and that opened up a whole new avenue of investigation. That was stretching it a bit, but Crowder was first and foremost a politician.

After leaving him, Claire and Cassidy had gone to Harriett York's house to see Mary Catherine. She had beaten Harry in every game of gin they'd played and proudly showed them the eighty-two cents she'd won.

"Harry's a perfect hostess, but when will we be going home, Claire Louise?"

"Consider this a vacation, Mama. In a few days, we'll all go home." She drew her mother close and hugged her tight.

"You've always been such a wonderful daughter," Mary Catherine said, stroking Claire's cheek. "When we get home, I'll bake you one of Aunt Laurel's famous French Silk pies. Do you like chocolate pie, Mr. Cassidy?"

"Love it."

Her face lit up. "Then we must have one very soon for you to share with us."

"I'd like that. Thanks for the invitation."

Now, Claire nestled her head on Cassidy's shoulder, content to be in this quiet retreat. They'd thrown a quilt over the weather-worn canvas cushions of the glider. It squeaked rustily each time it rocked, but Claire had never been as comfortable.

"Is Josh going to be another of your adoptees?" Cassidy asked with a smile in his voice.

"What do you mean?"

"You have a habit of adopting people and assuming their problems as your own. Mary Catherine. To an extent, Andre. Yasmine."

"Not Yasmine. She took me on."

"Maybe at first. But you were the strong one, Claire. The backbone of French Silk. The creative genius and the one with the business sense to market your product effectively. Her name might have helped to launch you, but she had come to need French Silk more than it needed her."

Claire knew that what he said was true, but it seemed disloyal to her friend to agree. "I'm going to miss her. I find myself trying to remember what day she's coming in from New York before I remember that she won't be coming."

"That's natural. It'll take a while."

"A long while."

They were quiet for a moment, the silence broken only by the squeaking of the glider. Finally Cassidy said, "What about me?"

Claire raised her head and looked at him quizzically. "What about you?"

"Are you going to adopt me, too?"

"I don't know," she said airily. "The last thing I need is another adoptee. What would I do with you?"

"You could acquaint me with the Vieux Carré, which you love, which is as much a part of you as your heartbeat. Teach me French. Talk over ideas for French Silk. Discuss my more interesting cases. Listen to me gripe. Go out for ice cream. Neck in public places."

"In other words be your companion and lover."

"Exactly."

They kissed in the balmy twilight. Several blocks away, a saxophone bleated out the blues. Someone living nearby was cooking with filé and cayenne pepper. The spicy aromas permeated the air.

Cassidy opened her suit jacket and covered her breast with a possessive hand. Their kiss deepened. Claire rubbed her bent knee against his fly, and he murmured her name with arousal.

When they paused for breath, he said, "You're a fascinating woman, Claire Louise Laurent. The most intriguing. The most mystifying."

"Not any longer, Cassidy." She took his face between her hands. "You know all my secrets now. Everything. I hope that you can understand and appreciate why I lied to you so many times. I had to. I had to protect Mama from any more pain."

He assumed that darkly intense expression that she associated with him and had come to love. "I've never known a woman—or a man, for that matter—who had such a capacity to love that she would sacrifice her life. I know that's the way it's supposed to be, but until I met you I thought it was an unattainable ideal. What I want to know is, does that love extend to me?"

She kissed him softly. "I've loved you from the day I met you, Cassidy. I was afraid of you and contemptuous of the system you represented, but I loved you."

"I haven't got much to offer you," he said ruefully. "What I mean is, I'm not as wealthy as you. I love my work. I'm good at it, but I'm not an entrepreneur. As long as I'm in public service, there'll be a ceiling on my earning capacity." His eyes moved over her face, scanning every feature. Then he whispered, "But I love you, Claire. God knows I do. Will you marry me?"

"How unfair," she said breathlessly, when he bent his head to her breasts. "You're asking me at a weak moment."

"Will you?"

"Yes."

Anxiously and clumsily, they grappled with clothing until she was astride his lap. When she sank upon his hard shaft, their sighs rose into the evening air.

* * *

The saxophone began another soulful song. Someone named Desiree was called to supper. A blue jay flew into the courtyard, perched on the basin of the fountain, and drank from the puddle of rainwater. On a breath of breeze, the leaves of the clinging wisteria rustled against the ancient brick wall and startled the chameleon into taking cover.

And the glider's rhythmic squeaking escalated until, with a shudder and a sweet sigh, it fell silent and settled into repose.