Chapter 7
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"It's yours, isn't it, Miz Laurent?"
"Where did you get it?" Claire asked the unpleasant man who confronted her with the stance and glower of a gladiator.
"One of my men found it in the garbage dumpster a few blocks from here. Didn't you figure on us checking the contents of the garbage bins located near anyone involved in the Wilde case?"
"I'm not involved," Claire said evenly.
"This indicates otherwise." He brandished the incriminating folder an inch from her nose. She batted it aside.
"Glenn, back off," Cassidy said abruptly. The odious man frowned at him, but took a couple of steps backward. Cassidy turned to Claire. "Frankly, I thought you were smarter than this. Why didn't you just throw the folder in the river along with the murder weapon?"
She had thought that the rooms in her apartment, which had been designed for maximum light and spaciousness, would make her feel less claustrophobic. But the moment she'd admitted Cassidy, the walls had seemed to start closing in, especially since he was accompanied by the detective, whom she regarded with unconcealed distaste. He was repugnant to her, not so much because of his unkempt appearance but for his mean, suspicious smirk.
When she spotted what they'd brought with them, her heart had lurched and her palms had grown damp. She felt trapped, afraid, but she was determined not to show it.
"Come clean, Miz Laurent. What about this?" Detective Glenn dropped the folder onto the bar in her kitchen. Dozens of clippings spilled out and scattered across the glossy surface.
Claire hated being backed into a corner by someone in authority. Her instinct was to fight back, as she had done as a five-year-old. But she was no longer a child. She couldn't kick and claw and bow her back. It would be futile to lie. They had her. They knew it. She knew it, too. The best she could do was brazen it out.
"It was mine," she admitted. "Considering that Reverend Wilde was murdered, I thought it would be imprudent for me to keep the file."
"Imprudent?" Glenn snorted. "Is that a fifty-cent word for fuckin' crazy?"
Claire's eyes snapped furiously. Her back went rigid.
Cassidy stepped between her and the detective. "Excuse us." He pushed the detective toward the door. After a whispered but heated discussion, Glenn shot her a dirty look before going out, soundly pulling the door closed behind him.
"Thank you," she said to Cassidy as he came back around. "I don't believe I could have stood him for another second. He was thoroughly obnoxious."
"I didn't do it for you. I did it for me. I've got a lot of questions to ask. It was obvious that Glenn was going to get nowhere with you, so I asked him to give me a shot."
"What questions?"
"What questions! We've got incriminating evidence on you, Ms. Laurent."
"A collection of clippings?" she asked scoffingly. "Hardly, Mr. Cassidy. I was about to make myself a sandwich for lunch. Would you like one?"
Never taking his eyes off her, Cassidy flipped back his suit jacket and propped his hands on his hips. He gazed at her as though trying to figure her out. "You're a cool customer, aren't you," he said tightly. "As well as a liar."
"You never asked me if I kept a file on Jackson Wilde."
"I'm surprised you didn't deny ever having seen these." He gestured at the pile of clippings on the bar.
Claire rounded the bar and moved toward the refrigerator. "Denying it would have really made me look guilty, wouldn't it? Is shrimp salad all right?"
"Fine."
"Wheat bread or white?"
"Christ," he muttered, raking his fingers through his hair. "Don't you ever stop with the southern hospitality?"
"Why should I?"
"Because Glenn is downstairs waiting to arrest you, and you're talking wheat or white."
"I won't be arrested, Mr. Cassidy, and we both know that." Having taken all the ingredients from the refrigerator, she kept her back to him while she made the sandwiches. She hoped he wouldn't notice that her hands were trembling.
In hindsight, disposing of the file seemed like a desperate measure taken by someone with bloodstained hands. She'd been foolish to toss it into the dumpster. Nothing should have been left to chance. Why hadn't she done as he quipped and thrown it in the river? Of course, on the day following the murder, things had happened so quickly that she hadn't been thinking clearly. She'd made an error in judgment, and it was proving to be a costly one.
She'd also underestimated Cassidy and the seriousness of his initial interrogation. His questions had made her uneasy and cautious, but they hadn't been cause to panic. Finding the folder had changed everything. Now he was more than mildly curious about her feelings toward Wilde. He actually suspected her of killing him. He would be watching her, looking for the slightest scrap of evidence. But Claire had had plenty of practice at thwarting authority figures. The first lesson she had learned was never to be intimidated.
She turned to face him. "You haven't got enough evidence to make an arrest stick, Mr. Cassidy. I had collected a few articles relating to Jackson Wilde. That's hardly a smoking gun."
"The gun's in the Gulf by now," he said as he picked an olive off the plate she handed him. "Carried away by the river's current."
"More than likely." Since the bar was covered with the clippings, she nodded him toward the glass-topped table in the dining room. "Tea or a soft drink?"
"Tea."
"Sugar?"
"Nothing."
After returning with two glasses of mint-sprigged iced tea, she sat across from him. He picked up half of his sandwich and took off a corner in a strong bite. "Some of those clippings are years old."
"My interest dates back several years."
"You have that much interest in religion?"
"No, Mr. Cassidy," she said with a retiring smile. "I'm Catholic by birth, but have never embraced any organized church. I certainly wasn't enamored of charismatic televangelists. Wilde attracted my attention because I believed him to be one of the most dangerous men in America."
"So you considered it your civic duty to ice him?"
"Do you want to hear my explanation or not?" she snapped.
He gestured for her to go ahead.
"You're very rude, Mr. Cassidy."
"Yes, I know."
Their stares locked and held for several seconds. Claire wasn't about to back down, so she began speaking. "Unlike some of the other TV preachers, Wilde threatened to rob people, not of their money but of something much more valuable—their rights guaranteed by the First Amendment. About the time French Silk's first catalog went out, he began his crusade against everything he considered pornographic. From the beginning, his message bothered me tremendously."
"Because his influence could hamper your business?"
"No, because I never wanted to be placed in a position of having to defend my work. I saw that as a very real possibility, and as it turned out, my prediction was right. French Silk's catalog has nothing in common with child pornography and bondage magazines, but it was being lumped in with them and lambasted in the same breath. Reverend Wilde was waging war against freedom of the press."
"You can't have carte blanche freedom, Ms. Laurent. Hand in hand with freedom goes responsibility."
"I agree." She laid down her sandwich and leaned slightly forward. "The thought of men, women, and children being exploited for profit makes me sick to my stomach, but that crime won't be solved by banning quality erotica from museums and bookshelves.
"Censorship belongs in one's mind and heart and conscience. If you don't approve of R-rated movies, spend your seven dollars on something else. If you oppose a television show's scripts, switch channels and don't buy the products that sponsor it. But give those who don't share your views the opportunity to watch whatever they like.
"It's not the privilege of the government, or an appointed committee of so-called experts, or one preacher to dictate what people—adults—should or should not be permitted to see. When Hider came to power, one of the first things he did was burn the books that he deemed unsuitable."
"So everybody who has a hang-up over The Catcher in the Rye is a neo-Nazi?"
"Please, Mr. Cassidy. Don't be insulting. I only meant that it's fascist for those who don't approve of something to forcibly impose their opinion on everybody else." Claire felt a heated flush rising in her cheeks. She was so close to this issue that sometimes she sounded as dictatorial and uncompromising as Wilde.
"I didn't enter this war willingly, Mr. Cassidy. Given the choice, I would never have been a part of it. I was drafted into it when Wilde began name-calling from his pulpit. I chose to ignore it as much as possible and declined his repeated invitations for a public debate, but one probably would have been inevitable."
"You were arming yourself by keeping those clippings."
"Exactly. The only thing that file proves is that I had thoroughly researched my opponent so I'd know what I was going up against if and when the time came."
"Why didn't you show me your collection of clippings and explain this the other night?"
"I had already thrown it away."
"You could have mentioned it."
"I could have, yes. But you're under pressure from city hall to bring in a viable suspect. Wilde's followers are demanding a culprit to bring to trial. I didn't want to be your scapegoat, even temporarily. If all you'd done was taken me downtown for formal questioning, it could have adversely affected my business and family."
"I still might do that."
"You'd be wasting your time. I've told you everything I know."
He regarded her closely. "So that red ink mark underlining the date that Wilde would appear in New Orleans was merely coincidence."
Color and heat rushed to her face again. "I remember underlining that, yes. I can't explain why I did. I was holding a red pen while I was reading the article," she said with a shrug. "It was reflexive."
He'd eaten quickly and cleaned his plate. He wiped his mouth with his napkin and laid it next to his plate. "On the surface, that all sounds so damn reasonable. It's almost too reasonable an explanation, Ms. Laurent. It's as though you rehearsed what to say just in case that folder turned up to haunt you."
"Would you care to have some coffee with your delusions?"
His lips tilted into a half-smile. "No, thanks." She carried their plates from the table into the kitchen. "I thought Harry would do that for you," he said conversationally, following her as far as the bar that divided the two rooms.
"Ordinarily she would. She took Mama out this afternoon."
"How convenient."
"What do you mean? What do my mother's outings have to do with you?"
"I needed her corroboration on where you were the night Jackson Wilde was killed."
Claire drew a quick breath. "I won't have my mother interrogated, Mr. Cassidy. Understand that and spare yourself the time and effort. Mama wouldn't remember the events of this morning, much less what happened a few weeks ago. If pinned down, she couldn't possibly give you a credible answer, and any attempts to force one out of her would only cause her distress, which I won't allow."
"You can't expect Glenn and me to take your flimsy answer to that all-important question as a concrete alibi."
"You've got no choice," she replied, shuddering at the mention of the detective's name. "You'll have to take my word for it. I was at home that night."
"You didn't go out at all?"
The hard glint in his eyes caused her to hedge. Nervously, she pushed back her bangs. "Perhaps I did. It would have been a brief errand, because I can't leave Mama alone for extended periods of time, especially at night. Frankly, Mr. Cassidy, I don't remember. The date held no significance for me."
He gave her an extended stare, then asked, "Where's Yasmine?"
"She went back to New York yesterday."
As she had known would happen, the morning following their spat, Yasmine had been contrite and apologetic. They'd hugged, made up, and worked hard to finalize the layout for the next catalog. Yasmine had dashed to her bedroom to answer her telephone several times. Twice before returning to New York she had spent the night out, returning the following morning looking depressed and dispirited. But Yasmine's affair with her married lover was her business. She would have to deal with it.
Claire had enough problems of her own, all of them sparked by the man who kept staring at her in the same penetrating way as the Human Resources personnel once had, as though she were a case study and they were looking for irregularities in personality or behavior.
"What's this?" He gestured toward a framed item on the kitchen wall.
"That's Aunt Laurel's recipe for French Silk." Cassidy angled his head quizzically. "I'd had trouble coming up with a name for the lingerie," she explained, smiling at the memory. "Yasmine and I had deliberated over it for months and couldn't agree on anything. One cold afternoon, I got in the mood for chocolate pie and began thumbing through Aunt Laurel's recipe box. 'French Silk', " she said, pointing out the name written in a spidery cursive. "That was it. I knew it the minute I saw it. Aunt Laurel was so pleased when I told her I was naming my company after her recipe. It made her feel a part, as if she'd contributed to it." Her expression turned wistful. "She died only a few weeks after that."
Leaning nearer the frame, Cassidy read the ruled card. "'Gradually cream sugar into the mixture of butter and melted chocolate, add vanilla, beating constantly on low.' Sounds delicious."
"It is. It's rich and sensual and feels on your tongue the way I want my lingerie to feel against bare skin. The very name implies self-indulgence."
When she stopped talking, Claire realized how still they had become, how close, how soundless. He was looking at her mouth, then into her eyes, and if his hearing was as keen as his eyesight, he could hear her heartbeat.
He cleared his throat and put space between them, as though he too had found the long silence uncomfortable. "That's all interesting, but back to the reason I'm here. Your only beef with Jackson Wilde was this First Amendment issue, right?"
"That's right."
"Nothing else?"
"What are you driving at, Mr. Cassidy? Is your method of investigation to shoot in the dark until you hit something? That's not a very economical way to spend the taxpayers' money. Your time would be much better spent hunting down the actual murderer. And my time would be—"
"Are you and Yasmine lovers?"
The question was as unexpected as a falling star and rushed at her with about as much impetus. She stared at him, aghast, her lips parted, her eyes wide. "Whatever gave you that idea?"
"Well, are you?" When she began to laugh, his expression grew darker. "Wilde also stirred up a lot of homophobia in this country. The gay activist groups were on his ass about several issues."
"I see. You figured that he was my enemy on two accounts?" she asked with amusement. "Honestly, I'm not laughing at you, Mr. Cassidy. I'm only imagining how Yasmine would react to your question. Don't you read the tabloids? She's had scores of lovers over the years, all men, and has diligently cultivated a reputation as a femme fatale."
"That could be a pose."
"She'd be crushed to hear you say that. Even if you believed I'm inclined toward lesbianism, how could you possibly think that Yasmine is anything but heterosexual?"
"Because this setup is a little out of kilter, that's why."
"Setup?"
"Your business here."
"How so?" Claire asked, genuinely curious.
"I've been here twice and have yet to see a man. I know cutthroats on death row who would run from that amazon you've got guarding the door downstairs. Every employee I've seen is female, from those folding tissue paper into boxes, to those driving the forklifts. What have you got against men?"
"Nothing."
"Are you married?"
"No."
"Ever been?"
"No."
"Engaged?"
She hesitated. "No."
He raised his index finger as though to snag the lie on the tip of it. "Try again."
Claire felt her temper ignite like kindling. "Have you been prying, Mr. Cassidy?"
"I've been doing my job. Tell me about your relationship with David Allen."
"Damn you! Did you bother him?"
"I didn't have to, but I will if you don't start talking."
Claire was seething, but he'd won the contest of wills. "It was a long time ago," she said curtly. "Before French Silk. He wanted to marry me."
"What happened?"
She started to tell him that it was none of his damn business, then thought better of it. Any hostility on her part would only make matters worse. Yasmine, who had more experience handling men, had doubted that Cassidy would take any crap from a woman. Claire thought she was probably right. Besides, this wasn't really dangerous territory. They could traverse it without mishap.
"David expected me to commit Mama to an institution," she said softly, lowering her eyes. "I wouldn't hear of it. He issued an ultimatum, so I returned his engagement ring."
"You didn't love him as much as you love your mother?"
"Obviously not."
"No serious affairs since then?"
"Don't you know?"
"Not yet. I can keep digging, or you can spare me the manpower and yourself the embarrassment and just tell me."
"Is my personal life pertinent to your investigation?"
"Maybe. Let's go with it and see where it leads." He sat on a barstool and folded his arms.
Demonstrating her dislike for the topic, she finally said, "I've had a couple of emotional entanglements, but nothing really serious since my breakup with David. Does that satisfy you?"
"For the time being." He turned away and for several moments dallied with the clippings scattered across the bar. "Where's your father, Ms. Laurent?"
Claire shifted her weight. "I told you before. He died shortly after I was born."
"You don't remember him?"
"No. I was too young."
"What'd he die of?"
"Heart attack. I believe."
Watching her, he eased off the barstool and advanced on her slowly, until he was standing inches from her and she had to tilt her head back in order to look into his incisive eyes.
"You're lying to me again. On your birth certificate there's a big fat question mark in the space for the father's name."
"You son of a bitch." She drew her hand back to slap him, but he caught her wrist, stopping her hand inches from his cheek. Tears of rage and frustration formed in her eyes. "You have no excuse for delving into my private life."
"A corpse with three bullet wounds gives me a damn good excuse."
Claire wrenched her wrist from his grip, then drew her crossed arms close to her body and hugged her elbows. "Well, since you're so smart, Mr. Cassidy, what else did you learn on your nasty little fact-finding mission?"
"The Laurents, your grandparents, were the crème de la crème of New Orleans society, an old family with lots of old money. The apple of their eye was their only child, Mary Catherine. She attended the finest parochial schools and was being groomed to assume her place in society.
"But following one of those cotillions she mentioned to me the other day, she was seduced by one of the rich young gentlemen in attendance. She became pregnant. When she acknowledged her condition and told her parents, she refused to name her partner. Unfortunately, he never came forward to claim responsibility for the child she was carrying. Her parents did what they believed was justified—they disowned and disinherited her. Only her aunt Laurel, her father's maiden sister, took her in.
"The scandal knocked society on its proper ass and took its toll on the family. Within two years Mary Catherine's parents were dead, shamed to death some said. Before he died, her father altered his will and left his considerable estate to the Church."
"Which also treated my mother like an outcast even while espousing mercy, grace, and forgiveness," Claire added.
"But they obviously allowed her illegitimate daughter to attend catechism school."
"No, Mr. Cassidy. I learned Christianity from Aunt Laurel. She was a dotty old maid. Most people considered her life pointless. But she loved my mother and me unconditionally. During Mama's spells, it was Aunt Laurel who reassured me during thunderstorms, nursed me when I was sick, and helped me through the trials and tribulations of childhood. She was the only person I ever knew who actually lived Christianity the way Jesus intended it to be. She didn't preach. She exemplified."
"But my account of your mother's history is accurate?"
"Very. Her cousin Charles was thorough to the nth degree."
"How do you know my information came from him?"
"Because he's the only one left from that branch of the Laurents."
"Do you have contact with him?"
She laughed bitterly. "No, Thank God. Never. He's as stiff-necked and pompous as the rest of them. From what Aunt Laurel told me about them, I'm not surprised that they banished my mother when she needed them most."
"She was just a kid."
"Seventeen." She cocked her head to one side. "You're slipping, Mr. Cassidy. You sound almost sympathetic."
"It was the early sixties, for Christ's sake."
"Actually the late fifties. Eisenhower was still president. America hadn't lost its innocence. Proper young ladies didn't have erogenous zones."
Cassidy shook his head with misapprehension. "But even then, families didn't disown their daughters for getting pregnant."
"The Laurents did. My grandparents never spoke to my mother again. As far as they were concerned, she ceased to exist and so did I."
"She never disclosed who your father was?"
"No."
"And he never acknowledged you, even secretly?"
"No. I'm sure he was afraid of the consequences. He was a member of the same social circle and apparently enjoyed the benefits. He saw what happened to my mother and didn't want the same to happen to him. I don't blame him really."
"Bullshit."
"Excuse me?"
"You wouldn't be human if you didn't hold him accountable."
Claire, feeling like an insect pinned to a corkboard, took a cautious step backward. "Are you trying to make a point, Mr. Cassidy?"
"Whoever killed Wilde had a grudge against men."
"You've deduced that? How clever."
"Not so clever. It was an obvious case of overkill. He was shot one extra time."
"You're referring to the shot to his groin."
"How'd you know?"
"It was in all the newspapers that Wilde had been shot in the testicles." She shook back her hair and faced him defiantly. "So, because I was born on the wrong side of the blanket and have numerous women on my payroll, you've leaped to the brilliant conclusion that I'm the one who pulled the trigger on Jackson Wilde."
"Don't be cute."
"Then don't be ridiculous," she said, raising her voice. "I've freely admitted that I abhorred everything that man stood for. I disagreed with virtually everything he said. So what? Many did."
"True. But only the livelihoods of a few were being threatened, so that places your name high on the list of suspects."
"You're wasting your time investigating me."
"I don't think so. I've caught you in too many lies."
"I explained about the clippings."
"I'm not talking about that."
"I lied to you about my father only to protect my mother. Surely you'll concede that she's suffered enough humiliation without my sharing her past with you."
"I'm not talking about that lie, either," he said.
"Then what? The suspense is killing me."
He turned his back on her and stalked to the door. He wore his dark suit well. The tailored vest snugly fitted his trim torso, and there was no wasted fabric in his trousers. It would have been a luxury if she could have concentrated on his considerable attractiveness as most women would.
But Claire saw him through the eyes of a frightened child. She couldn't separate the man from the bureaucracy he represented. She'd learned at an early age to fear, loathe, and strike out against it. She projected her antipathy for it onto him.
How dare he dig into her mother's sorrowful past? It had caused Mary Catherine so much grief that, in order to survive, she had barricaded herself inside a dream world. Her delusions were rose-colored but as protective as iron gates. They had guarded her against heartache and scorn for three decades. It was unfair that her misfortunes should be exposed for strangers to scrutinize again.
He had reached the door. His right hand was on the knob. Claire knew she was about to test the limits of his patience, but she couldn't help herself. She charged him, taunting, "You're bluffing."
He came around quickly. "You told me that you'd never met Jackson Wilde." He raised his free hand and crushed a handful of her hair in his fist, tugging her head back. Lowering his face close to hers, he spoke rapidly and softly, with emphasis and urgency.
"You didn't spend a 'quiet evening at home' the night he was killed. I got several videotapes from the local cable company, which had been hired to document Wilde's New Orleans crusade. One of the tapes was a recording of the last service he conducted. It was recorded in its entirety.
"When Wilde extended an invitation at the conclusion of the service, hundreds of people flocked to the podium from every tier of the Superdome. Among the first to reach him was a young woman who clasped his hand and spoke to him face to face."
He stared at her hard, as if to imprint the image of her face on his brain. Then he released her hair and opened the door, adding as he went out, "It was you, Claire."
When his telephone rang, Andre Philippi jumped guiltily and slammed shut his desk drawer. The bell was like a conscience, reminding him that he was gazing at his beloved's photograph on company time.
He answered the telephone and, with crisp and businesslike enunciation, identified himself. "How may I help you?"
"Bonsoir, Andre."
"Bonsoir," he replied in a warmer tone, instantly recognizing the caller, although the voice was soft and muffled. "How are you?"
"Still shaken by what happened week before last."
Andre's small mouth formed a moue of sympathy. "It was a ghastly night."
"I called to thank you again for your discretion."
"I assure you, no thanks are necessary. I felt no obligation to the police. They herded my guests together like cattle and questioned them like criminals."
"You took care of the details for me?"
"No need for concern. There's no record of your having been here that night."
"Has anyone interrogated you about … about it?"
"The police," Andre replied with distaste. "I also spoke with a man named Cassidy."
"Cassidy's questioned you?"
"Twice. But don't worry. I answered only specific questions and didn't elaborate."
"Did my name come up?"
"No! And, naturellement, I wouldn't mention it."
"I'm certain you didn't," the caller said. "It's just that … well, no one needs to know I was there."
"I understand."
"I rely on your confidentiality. It's enormously valuable to me."
"That's the highest compliment you could pay me. Merci."
"I need to ask one more favor, Andre."
"I would consider it an honor."
"If Cassidy, or anybody else, asks about me directly, will you notify me?"
"Certainement. Immediately. Although I assure you, your fears are unfounded."
Almost inaudibly, the caller replied, "I hope so."
* * *