Chapter 4
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Claire was surprised by the request. "Why?"
"I tried buying one at several newsstands and couldn't find it."
"The catalog isn't sold at retail stores. It's mailed to subscribers only."
"What's in it that had Reverend Wilde so hot and bothered?"
"You should have asked him."
"Well, since he's unavailable for comment," he said dryly, "I'd like to see it for myself."
She had thought that once the media stopped hounding her for a statement, her worries regarding the murder would be over. Never had she expected a visit from an assistant D.A., although she congratulated herself on handling the situation well so far. But now she desperately wanted him to leave so that she could collect her thoughts. Conversely, she didn't want to appear hostile or, more to the point, as though she had something to hide. He had only asked to see the catalog, after all. As long as his questions didn't become too personal, she felt there was no danger in humoring him.
"By all means, Mr. Cassidy. Sit down." She handed him the latest quarterly issue of French Silk's catalog. To avoid looking nervously at him, she gazed through the windows. The sky was streaked with the brilliant colors of sunset. The river had turned the color of molten brass. "It's officially the cocktail hour. Would you care for a drink now?"
"Does it have to be sherry?" he asked.
"Wine or something stronger?"
"Scotch, if you have it."
"Rocks, water, or soda?"
"Rocks."
She prepared his drink and poured herself a glass of blush wine. When she returned to the divan, he was thumbing through the catalog. He let it fall open across his lap, blinked, and yanked his head back as though he'd been clipped on the chin. He released a stunned breath. "Wow!"
Looking at the page upside down, Claire remarked on his assessment. "We try to appeal to feminine fantasies."
With his eyes still fixed on the glossy pages, he smiled with self-derision. "Well, I'm sure as hell not feminine, but I'm close to fantasizing. Forgive me for noticing that this model's practically naked."
"She's clothed."
"In a—"
"Teddy."
"That leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination."
"That's our stock and trade, Mr. Cassidy. We sell lingerie and boudoir accessories. And we want our customers to feel pampered, lovely, and desirable when they wear our garments."
"Hey, I'm not Jackson Wilde. You don't have to defend your product or your marketing strategy to me. In fact, how can I subscribe to the catalog?"
When he looked across at her and grinned, an odd sensation flurried in Claire's midsection. She wasn't flirted with often because most of the men she knew were strictly business associates. There were occasional flirtations on airplanes or in elevators, but they rarely went beyond eye contact and a casual greeting. She discouraged anything more. So her reaction to Cassidy's roguish grin was unexpected and startling. She sipped her wine in an attempt to quell it.
"Actually the catalog is Yasmine's bailiwick," she explained. "Not the subscriptions, of course. We use a telemarketing service for that. Yasmine produces it, you could say. She begins with a concept and then designs the layout."
"And models."
He turned the magazine toward Claire. A full-page ad for silk pajamas featured all seventy-two inches of Yasmine reclining on a rumpled bed. The unbuttoned pajama top revealed nothing except the inside curves of her breasts. The bottoms rode about an inch below her navel. Respectable enough. But wet, slightly parted lips and the hungry-tigress look in her eyes made the photograph provocative.
"She sells," Claire said.
He studied the photo for several seconds. "I can see why."
"She's also smart. She began modeling to pay for art school," Claire explained. "Even after her modeling career took off, she continued studying. When we formed our partnership—"
"How and when did that come about?"
"Six years ago. I had a small, local business, making specialty lingerie, mostly for trousseaus. I wanted to expand, so I took my designs to New York in the hope of finding someone to manufacture and market them for me. I wasn't successful," she said ruefully, recalling all the polite but firm no-thank-yous she had received on Seventh Avenue.
"Quite by accident I met Yasmine in one of the showrooms. In friendly conversation she asked what had brought me to New York. Naturally I was star-struck and flattered when she complimented me on my samples. She even ordered some of the items for herself. We hit it off and had several long lunches together. She's gorgeous, no question. But she's also an astute businesswoman who knows that a model's career is short-lived. And she understood what I wanted to do."
"Which was?"
"Which is to design and manufacture a line of unique lingerie and sell it at a price the average woman can afford. Each season we feature new fabrications and designs that we hope will spark the buyer's imagination. We offer goods that are different and exciting but affordable. Women can buy bras, panties, and slips at Penney's. French Silk sells them fantasy garments. We've made sexy lingerie respectable."
"Jackson Wilde didn't think it was respectable."
"I didn't respect him either."
Cassidy indicated with a slight nod that her point was well taken. "Back to Yasmine. When did you cut her in?"
"A week following our initial meeting."
"That soon?"
"I knew it would work. She was looking for a new enterprise where she could utilize her artistic talents. I needed her professional know-how. In exchange for a piece of the business, she introduced me to insiders who could bankroll us. After the first catalog went out, we couldn't fill the orders fast enough. By our third year, we had paid off all our investors. The business continues to flourish."
"A real success story."
"Thank you."
Cassidy turned another page. "Hmm. You use men, too."
"That's a recent innovation. Yasmine broached the idea with me; I liked it, and designed some intimate apparel for men."
"I'll bet Wilde had specific objections to this." The ad featured a woman leaning over a handsome young man who was lounging in a wingback leather chair. Her hands, braced on the arms of the chair, were supporting her. Her satin robe was hanging open. "Is there any doubt at all where the guy's left hand is?"
"Do you think it's erotic, Mr. Cassidy?"
"Hell yes," he said thickly. "Don't you?" He glanced up at her, and Claire felt like she'd been nipped on the belly by sharp but playful teeth.
She lowered her eyes to the ad. "I'm stimulated in a different way. The price of the model's robe is one hundred twenty-five dollars. That's the high-ticket item in that issue. The garments are made in Hong Kong. They cost us a fraction of the sale price. Even figuring in the processing, packaging, shipping, and handling it takes to get the piece to the consumer, our margin of profit is tremendous. I look at that photograph and hope that every woman who sees it is enticed to place an order."
"In the hopes of luring a guy with sapphire eyes and corrugated abs."
Claire laughed. "Why, Mr. Cassidy! You're a disgruntled sexist exercising the double standard."
Her laugh only deepened his frown. "Am I? I don't like to think so."
"But you'd just as soon the young man not be in the picture."
"He's a lot to live up to."
"Now you understand how a woman feels when her lover ogles an airbrushed centerfold. We appeal to our subscriber's fantasy by making her feel that she can be just as lovely as that. The message we convey is that any woman can be beautiful and desirable. 'Wear this and be adored.' Perhaps her only fantasy is to lure a couch potato away from Monday Night Football."
After listening carefully to her explanation, he returned his attention to the catalog. Claire lapsed into silence, watching his gray eyes move across the pages. Occasionally he raised his drink to his lips. His mouth was wide, narrow, masculine, softened only by a fuller lower lip and a vertical dimple in his left cheek.
From a purely objective point of view, he was very good-looking. The sprinkling of gray in his sideburns was attractive. His chestnut hair feathered over the tops of his ears in an appealing fashion. Few men were taller than Yasmine, but when Cassidy had shaken hands with her, Claire had noticed that he topped her by two or three inches. He had a trim physique, yet the forearm resting on his knee looked powerful, and there was strength in his heavily veined hand.
After looking at every page, he closed the catalog. "Thanks."
"You're welcome. Do you think Jackson Wilde was justified? Do you think it's smut?"
"Off the record, hell no. It's sensual, erotic, but hardly porno. On the record, I have to be impartial."
It pleased her to know that he wasn't ready to stone her. She placed her glass of wine on the table and stood up. "Take that copy with you. You might decide to order something."
Picking up the catalog, he too came to his feet. "I doubt it. I'm strictly the white cotton Fruit of the Loom briefs type."
"You might enjoy a pair of the silk boxers for lounging."
"I might. Do you own a gun?"
The question stunned her, following so closely behind the disarming statement. "No, I don't, Mr. Cassidy."
"Do you have access to one?"
"No."
"Back to my original question: where were you the night Jackson Wilde was killed?"
She bit back an angry retort and answered calmly, "I don't recall going out. I believe I spent a quiet evening at home."
"Can someone corroborate that?"
"Does it need corroboration? Do you think I'm lying?"
She held his stare even though it stretched out interminably and made her want to squirm.
Finally he said, "Thanks for the drink." He reached for his jacket and slung it over his shoulder, hooking it with his index finger.
"You're welcome."
The wall of windows caught his eye. Twilight had fallen. From this side of her building, one had an unrestricted view of the river. Lights on the levee and the bridge spanning the river sparkled in the glow that ranged from deep purple to shimmering gold. "Great view."
"Thank you."
She'd guaranteed retaining the coveted view by purchasing the property that extended from her corner to the levee and turning it into a parking lot. It was profitable, and it was a safeguard against her view being blocked by a high-rise hotel or shopping center. The land had appreciated a thousand times over since she had bought it, but she wouldn't part with it for any price.
"I'll show you out."
She preceded him out the door, past the glitzy reception desk, and into the elevator. Once they were on their way down, he asked, "What's on the third floor?"
"My apartment."
"Not many people hold to that quaint custom, living above their place of business."
"They do in the Vieux Carré."
"Spoken like someone who knows."
"I was born here and have never lived anywhere else. I even went to college here, commuting every day by trolley to Tulane."
"Happy childhood?"
"Very."
"No major upheavals or crises?"
"None."
"Not even with your mother?"
Claire shrugged. "Because I never knew her to be any other way, I adapted to her illness as any child with a handicapped parent does."
"What about your father?"
"He died when I was a baby. Mama never remarried. We lived with her aunt Laurel. Shortly after she died, we moved here."
"Hmm. Your mother still lives with you?"
"That's right."
"No one else?"
"Yasmine, when she's in town."
"Who's Harry?"
"Miss Harriett York, our housekeeper and mother's nurse. She doesn't sleep over unless I go out of town."
"How often is that?"
"Twice a year I travel to Europe and the Orient to buy fabrics. I'm also required to make several trips a year to New York."
"How often does Yasmine come to New Orleans?"
"That depends."
"On what?"
"Several things."
"Like?"
"Like where we are on the next catalog." There was no need to inform him that Yasmine's trips to New Orleans had recently become more frequent or why. Volunteering information to him would be foolhardy. As a child Claire had learned not to trust authority figures. They could turn information against you whenever it better served the bureaucracy. For all his manly hands and vertical dimple, Mr. Cassidy was a bureaucrat.
"Is there anything else, Mr. Cassidy?"
"Lots. What's Yasmine doing in New Orleans this time?" Claire released a sigh of resignation. "We're consulting on the next catalog. She's developed the concept and has already picked a location for the shoot. Together we're deciding which items to feature and which models to use."
"What about the rest of the time? When she's not in New Orleans."
"She lives in New York."
"Modeling?"
"Until last year, she bad an exclusive contract with a cosmetics company. She was bored with it, so now the only modeling she does is for the French Silk catalog. Between her responsibilities here and keeping track of her investments, she stays very busy."
Claire was relieved when they reached the first floor. The ride had never seemed so lengthy, the elevator so small and confining. His penetrating gaze made her want to pull a protective cloak around herself.
He slid open the heavy doors. She muttered a hasty thank-you and stepped into the cavernous warehouse. It was silent, still, and dark now. The fans in the windows stood motionless. The warehouse had acted as a combustion chamber, storing the oppressive heat all afternoon until it now seemed to have texture. It not only settled against the skin but seeped into it and stifled the lungs.
Only strategically placed security lights had been left on. They formed pools of light on the smooth, shiny concrete floor. Claire didn't pause in those circular islands of light. They reminded her of prison movies, of sinister searchlights seeking out doomed escapees.
She unbolted the main door and held it open for her unwelcome visitor. "Goodbye, Mr. Cassidy."
"Are you eager to get rid of me, Ms. Laurent?"
Claire could have kicked herself for being so transparent. She groped for a logical explanation. "Mama's on medication. She has to eat at certain times. I don't want dinner to be delayed on my account."
"Very neat."
"What?"
"That excuse. I'd have to be a real bastard to challenge it, wouldn't I?"
"It's the truth."
His sly grin said he knew she was lying but that he chose to let it drop. "One more question and I'll go. Promise."
"Well?"
"Have you ever been in trouble with the police?"
"No!"
"Ever been arrested?"
"You said one question, Mr. Cassidy. That's two."
"Are you refusing to answer?"
Damn him. She hated giving anyone in authority the upper hand, but refusing to answer would only complicate matters. "I've never been arrested, but I take umbrage at your asking."
"Exception noted," he said unrepentantly. "Good night, Ms. Laurent. We'll be seeing each other again soon."
She was glad she was standing in shadow so he couldn't see her alarmed expression. "I've already told you everything I know."
He subjected her to another deception-flaying stare. "I don't think so." He had rolled the catalog into a tube, which he now used to tip his forehead in a mock salute. "Thanks again for the drink. You stock very good whiskey."
Claire slammed the door in his face, hurriedly clicked the bolts into place, and leaned against the cool metal. She gasped for each breath as though she'd been running for miles. Her heart was beating so wildly that it ached. Her skin was covered with a fine sheen of perspiration, which she attributed to the heat … even though she knew better.
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