French Silk

Chapter 8

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Ariel Wilde had a captive audience in the board members of Jackson Wilde Ministry. They were bound by deference to her recent widowhood, by reverence for the man who had been interred only yesterday, and by their own fear that a very lucrative enterprise was about to collapse following the demise of its leader.

Ariel was holding court from the head of the long conference table in the boardroom on the top floor of the ministry's office complex in Nashville. Garbed in black, she looked thin and wan, almost incapable of lifting the translucent china cup of virtually colorless herbal tea to her chalky lips. Her weepy eyes, which had contributed largely toward making her the patron saint of the hopeless, seemed to have receded into her skull. They were surrounded by violet shadows of fatigue and despair.

No one except Ariel knew that these evidences of grief washed off with soap and water.

She replaced her cup in its saucer. That tiny clink of china against china was the only sound in the room. The indirect lighting, dark paneling, and plush carpeting encouraged a hushed atmosphere similar to that of the funeral home where Jackson Wilde had, for two days, lain in state inside a sealed casket. Those seated around the conference table waited in breathless anticipation for the widow to speak, sympathizing with her while at the same time trying to conceal their personal anxieties.

"Gentlemen, let me begin by thanking you, individually and collectively, for the support you've given me—and to Josh, during these dark and troublesome days following Jackson's death. You're a living tribute to him. The way you've rallied around me is … well…" Emotionally overcome, she dabbed at her eyes, letting her tears speak for themselves.

Recovering her composure, she continued, "When Jackson was at the helm, he expected you to give one hundred percent of yourself in dedication to him and to doing the Lord's work. In his absence, you've maintained that tradition. I know I speak for him when I say how proud you've made me."

She gave each of them in turn a gentle smile, then took another sip of tea before cutting to the heart of the matter.

"Unfortunately, none of us expected Jackson's tragic demise. It's caught us unprepared. Who could have predicted that a madman would silence one of God's most effective messengers?"

That earned her a few mumbled amens.

"The Devil expects us to surrender and retreat to lick our wounds. He expects us to buckle beneath the burden of our grief. When he silenced Jackson, he figured he'd silenced us all." As rehearsed, she paused strategically. "But the Devil underestimated us. We're not going to be cowed and silent. The Jackson Wilde Ministry will continue as before."

A dozen dark-vested chests relaxed. The escaping tension was as palpable as steam rising from a simmering kettle. Sweat began to evaporate off furrowed brows. Sighs of relief were sensed if not heard.

Ariel could barely contain her smug smile. She now had them in the palm of her hand. They might consider themselves men of God. No doubt a few 'of them genuinely believed in their mission. But they were still men, subject to the foibles of every descendant of Adam. They had feared for their futures. Fully expecting her to announce the dissolution of the ministry, they had prayed for a miracle. She'd just handed them one.

Of course, there was always at least one skeptic.

"How, Ariel?" the doubting Thomas asked. "I mean, without Jackson, how can we possibly continue? Who's going to preach?"

"I am."

Everyone gaped at her, flabbergasted. It was obvious that they all doubted her abilities. She gave her head a small shake that sent her platinum hair rippling across her shoulders. It was a gesture of resolution and supreme confidence.

"I—that is, we … we thought we'd bring in another evangelist."

"Well, you all thought wrong," she said sweetly. "That's why I called this meeting. So I could explain my plans to everyone at once and save having to repeat myself."

She clasped her hands together on the edge of the table. Her recent frailty had been supplanted by a quivering vitality. The spark of life in her eyes, so faint just minutes ago, had grown into a conflagration.

"Our followers will be curious to know my feelings regarding Jackson's death. He died unexpectedly, violently. That's fodder for at least a dozen sermons. And who better to deliver those sermons than his widow?"

The board members glanced at one another, stupefied and speechless.

"Brother Williams wrote all Jackson's sermons. Now, he'll write mine," she said, nodding to the gentleman sitting to her left about midway down the table.

He coughed uncomfortably but said nothing.

"Gradually we'll fade out the emphasis on Jackson's murder and move into other areas. We'll take up where Jackson left off on the pornography issue because it's become so identified with the ministry. I'll continue to sing. Josh will continue to play piano. Occasionally we might bring in a guest preacher, but the reason all those folks tune in week after week is to see Jackson and me, right? He's gone. I'm not. And if you thought he preached hellfire and damnation, wait till you hear me."

They were uncomfortable with her bluntness, but none dared rebuke her. She wanted it understood from this moment forward that she was indisputably the one in charge. As Jackson's word had been law, now hers was.

"Brother Raye?"

He sprang upright. "Yes, ma'am?"

"You canceled the Cincinnati crusade. Why?"

"Well, uh, I … I assumed that with the … after Jackson…"

"Don't ever make a decision like that without consulting me. Reschedule it. We'll conduct the crusade as planned."

"But that's only two weeks away, Ariel. You need time to—"

"Reschedule it," she repeated icily.

Brother Raye furtively glanced around the table in a desperate search for support. None was offered. The others kept their eyes averted. He looked at Josh imploringly, but he was staring down at his hands, turning them this way and that as though they were alien appendages recently sprouted from his arms.

Finally Brother Raye said, "I'll reschedule it immediately, Ariel. If you feel up to it."

"By the time we get there, I will. Right now, however, I'm exhausted." She stood. The others followed suit, slowly coming to their feet with the unsure shuffling motions of boxers who'd gone down for the count and were struggling to regain their wits.

"Josh speaks for me and vice versa," she told them as she moved to the door. "However, I prefer that all questions and problems be channeled directly to me. The sooner I assume Jackson's responsibilities, the better. If any of you have a problem with that."

She opened the door and indicated with her head that they were free to walk if they didn't want to play by her rules. No one moved. They scarcely breathed as she made eye contact with each of them. Finally she took their stunned silence for assent.

Her pale face broke into an angelic smile. "Oh, I'm so glad you've all decided to stay on. That's what Jackson would have wanted and expected from you. And, it goes without saying, that's God's will, too."

She beamed another smile, then extended her hand to Josh. Dutifully, he moved to her side and tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. Together they left the boardroom.

"That was quite a performance," Josh said as they moved through the building's exit.

"Performance?" Ariel settled against the plush interior of the limousine awaiting them at the curb.

"We're going home," Josh told the driver before closing the partition. He sat back against the deep upholstery and stared through the tinted window, trying to get a grip on his temper before addressing his stepmother.

At last he turned his head toward her. "You could have discussed it with me first."

"You sound mad, Josh. What are you mad about?"

"Don't play your games with me, Ariel. And stop batting your eyelashes like a goddamn coquette at an afternoon soiree. That innocent act doesn't wash with me. Haven't you learned that by now?"

She pursed her lips in pique. "I assume you're upset because I didn't discuss my plans with you before presenting them to the board."

"Have you totally lost your grip on reality, Ariel?" He was genuinely dumbfounded and it showed. "Do you really think you and I can continue this ministry?"

"I know I can."

"Oh, I see. Out of the goodness of your heart, you'll carry me."

"Don't put words in my mouth."

"Why should I?" Josh shot back. "You seem to have all the words you need. But do you know what any of them mean?"

That angered her, because her lack of formal education was a sore point. "You don't think I can hold this organization together?"

"No. Although I believe you've convinced yourself you can." He gave her a long assessing look. "You don't let anything stop you, do you? Not even my father's death."

Seeming unconcerned, she rolled her head around her shoulders, as if to relieve tension in her neck. "Look, Josh, Jackson is dead and there's nothing anybody can do about it. We buried him."

"With more pomp and circumstance than a coronation."

"It got the media's attention, didn't it?"

"Is that why we had to have the choir and orchestra and those fucking, flying doves?"

"The vice president of the United States was there!" she shouted. "Are you too stupid to see what that's worth?"

"To him? About a million votes."

"And to us, a minute and a half on network news. Worldwide exposure, Josh." Her anger was full blown now. "Were you, or any of the men on that board of directors, stupid enough to think I'd squander all that free publicity? Did you think I'd be that big a fool? If so, you're the fools. I'm going to milk Jackson's death for all it's worth. It's like a gift. I didn't ask for it."

He turned his head toward the window again, muttering, "Didn't you?"

"What?"

He didn't respond.

"Josh!"

He stubbornly kept his head averted. She pinched his arm hard. "Dammit!" he shouted viciously as he turned his head around.

"Tell me what you said."

"I just wondered out loud whether you might have asked for his death."

She leveled a cold blue stare on him. "My, my. You're getting awfully self-righteous lately."

"I figure one of us should have a conscience."

"You're also very full of yourself. You think I'd rid myself of Jackson just so I could have you?" she asked scornfully.

"Not me. But maybe your own TV show." He leaned forward and whispered, "What about that segment of time after you left my suite that night, Ariel?"

A flicker of alarm appeared in her eyes. "We agreed never to mention that."

"No, you insisted that I never mention it."

"Because of what the police might make out of it."

"Exactly," he said softly.

"It wasn't worth mentioning," she said breezily, dusting an imaginary speck off her black dress.

"At first I thought so, too. Now I'm not so sure. Maybe it was worth mentioning. You said you were going to your room to look for some sheet music."

"So?"

"So, despite what we told the police, we weren't rehearsing and didn't need any sheet music.

"I wanted it for later."

"You came back empty-handed."

"I couldn't find it."

"You were gone about fifteen minutes."

"I searched through everything, and I was trying to do it quietly because Jackson was asleep."

"Or dead. You had plenty of time to kill him. I think Cassidy would be interested to know about that fifteen minutes."

"You can't tell him without implicating yourself."

Josh, trying to reason it through, continued as though she hadn't interrupted. "You certainly had motivation. Besides Daddy being a tyrant, he was in your way. He got top billing, not you. You were no longer satisfied with taking the backseat; you wanted to be in the driver's chair. You wanted the whole ministry. Beyond your greed, you were tired of his constant browbeating about your mediocre voice, about your weight, about everything. So you killed him and used me as your alibi."

"Listen to me, you shithead," she said, reverting to her pre-Jackson Wilde language. "Sometimes I hated him so much I could have killed him. Easily. But he was also the best thing that ever happened to me. If it weren't for Jackson, I'd still be hustling hash for a living, getting my ass pinched by rednecks, and living off the stingy tips they doled out in exchange for a glimpse of cleavage. I'd only be a lifer's sister instead of one of the most recognized women in America, who gets cards and flowers from the president.

"No, I didn't kill him. But I'll be damned before I'll cry over his death or pass up any opportunities it opens up for me. I'm going to fight like hell to keep what I've got."

The limo turned into the curved driveway leading up to the house. Jackson had been wise enough to know that common folks resented conspicuous wealth, so the house befitted an affluent professional, but it wasn't palatial. Josh despised it. Although large and comfortable, it didn't have the quiet elegance of the home his mother had made for them. This was Jackson's house through and through. His stamp was on every room. Josh had hated every minute he'd spent under its roof.

At the moment, however, he hated nothing as much as he hated himself. For while he was contemptuous of Ariel's cavalier attitude regarding his father's murder, he secretly admired it. He wished he could bounce back as easily and as guiltlessly as she. He resented her resilience and gritty ambition, but he was also jealous of them.

"I know you had your own plans for your life, Josh," she was saying. "They didn't jive with Jackson's. Naturally he got his way, and you're still sulking about it."

"You don't know what the hell you're talking about," he said. "All that happened a long time before you came along."

"But I've heard about it, from you and from Jackson. You had some battles royal over whether you were going to become a concert pianist or join the ministry."

"I don't need you to remind me what the quarrel was over."

"Know what, Josh? Your daddy was right. You and I have cut three gospel albums. All of them have gone gold. The Christmas album we recorded last spring will sell like gangbusters after all this publicity. We won't have to spend one red cent on promotion. It'll walk out of the stores.

"This ministry has made you rich and famous, Josh. It's been a hell of a lot more lucrative than if you'd stuck to playing that classical crap. Think about it." The chauffeur came around and opened the door for her. "I'd like to see you stay on at the Jackson Wilde Ministry for your own sake. But if you decide to split, it makes no difference to me."

With one foot on the pavement, she turned back to add, "Good-looking piano players come a dime a dozen, Josh. And so do lovers."

* * *

As he entered the Fairmont Hotel, Cassidy was keyed up, on edge, and wet. He'd had to park a block away and run through a deluge. Making his way toward the lobby bar, he removed his trench coat and shook rain off it, then combed his fingers through his damp hair.

He was sick of rain. For days New Orleans had been inundated. The weather had been no better in Nashville last week, when he'd attended Jackson Wilde's funeral.

"Just coffee, please," he told the cocktail waitress who came to take his order.

"Regula' o' Nawlins coffee?" she asked in a thick native drawl.

"New Orleans. Black." He'd just as well inject the caffeine intravenously; he wasn't sleeping much these nights anyway, so what the hell. He checked his watch. Still twelve minutes till Andre Philippi reported for work. Cassidy's sources told him you could set your clock by the night manager.

While waiting to see him, he sipped the scalding brew the waitress had brought him. He finally had a lead. He, Glenn, and the police platoon assigned to investigate the case had followed hundreds of tips that had proved worthless. But now he had a bona fide lead.

He hoped to God he did. He needed to produce something.

Crowder was growing impatient. He had balked at letting Cassidy go to Nashville. "If you can't find the killer on your own turf, what makes you think you can find him up there?

I can't justify the expense. Let NOPD send one of their own."

"By his own admission, Glenn's no good with people. Especially with this group, he'd stick out like a sore thumb. He thinks I should go. Let me go, Tony. Maybe I'll pick up some vibes."

That had won him a withering look. "Vibes my ass. You'd just as well consult a clairvoyant."

"I've considered that, too," Cassidy said wryly.

He had continued to badger Crowder until he wore him down and got his permission to go to Nashville. "I still think it's a wild goose chase."

"Maybe so, but I'm spinning my wheels here."

"Remember you're on a budget," he'd shouted as Cassidy rushed from his office.

Regrettably, Crowder had been right. The trip had been a total waste of time. Thousands had attended the evangelist's funeral, which had had a carnival atmosphere. The sideshow had attracted curiosity seekers, mourning disciples, and media from around the globe, all jockeying for a glimpse of the coffin, which had been draped in red, white, and blue bunting and smothered with flowers.

Cassidy's credentials had won him a spot near Wilde's inner circle of associates and confidants. If there was a killer among them, he or she masked his treachery well, for each wore the bleak expression of someone cut adrift from the last lifeboat. None had appeared jubilant or even relieved. Besides, if someone within Wilde's organization had offed him, where was the motivation? They would profit only as long as he was preaching on television and conducting his crusades, and raking in love offerings from both. Jackson Wilde was an industry. The lowliest gofer reaped benefits. Glenn's investigation had uncovered that Wilde had rewarded loyalty well.

Like any other business, there was occasional strife within the organization. Personality conflicts. Jealousy. Bickering and rumblings within the ranks. Even so, if one of Wilde's own had pulled the trigger, the person would be cutting off his or her source of income. That didn't make sense.

Perhaps there had been a contributor with a grudge, someone who had gone sour on Wilde. Cassidy had subpoenaed the records; Glenn had a couple of guys plowing through them, but there were tens of thousands of people and organizations who had contributed to the ministry over the years.

The only viable suspects at the funeral had been Ariel and Joshua. Cassidy had scrutinized their every move. Josh had appeared composed to the point of catatonia. Unblinking, he'd stared at the casket. It was impossible to gauge whether he was stunned by, indifferent to, or bored with the whole affair.

The widow had been pious and pathetic in equal proportions. She had asked God's blessings on everyone with whom she spoke. She solicited their prayers. Cassidy pegged her as a butterfly with a steel backbone. Beneath the angelic packaging, the woman was cold and hard and probably capable of murder. The problem was, the only evidence he had on her was circumstantial. He couldn't prove her affair with her stepson, and by all appearances, she had adored and now mourned her husband.

Perhaps the most viable suspect hadn't been at the funeral. Following his last interview with Claire Laurent, he and Detective Glenn had discussed her at length. All they could positively derive was that she was a liar.

Initially she'd lied about the depth of her interest in Jackson Wilde. The discovery of the folder proved that, but only that. She'd tried to keep hidden the unsavory aspects of her past, but that proved nothing except her abiding concern for her mother.

As to the videotape of the crusade service, it proved she'd lied about ever having met Wilde and about being at home the night he was murdered. But it didn't place her in the Fairmont suite with the victim. It didn't connect her to a weapon. Cassidy and Glenn knew that a grand jury wouldn't indict on such circumstantial evidence.

Besides, Glenn was still lukewarm on her. "She's a snotty, condescending bitch, but I doubt she's a killer. I still say it's the wife and son. We know they were there. We don't know that about her."

But the evidence that the detective had turned up that afternoon might be the missing clue that would change his mind about the owner of French Silk. "That little twerp over at the hotel has been lying through his teeth," he'd told Cassidy.

"Looks like. Want me to take it?" He was itching to.

"Be my guest. If I get near him, I might throttle the little shit. Never did trust a guy with a flower on his lapel."

Cassidy hadn't spared a second racing to the Fairmont in time to intercept Andre Philippi.

Cassidy spotted him briskly approaching the registration desk. He tossed a couple of bills on the table to cover his coffee, picked up his trench coat, and crossed the lobby in long, purposeful strides.

Andre wasn't pleased to see him. His face crinkled with distaste. "What is it, Mr. Cassidy? I'm very busy."

"I appreciate that, but so am I."

"Perhaps you could call tomorrow and set up an appointment."

"I'm sorry, but I really need to see you now. I apologize for the inconvenience and promise it won't take but a minute. Do you have an audio cassette player handy?"

"A cassette player?" Andre regarded him suspiciously. "There's one in my office. Why?"

"May I?"

Cassidy didn't wait for compliance. He headed toward Andre's office, trusting the little man to follow, which he did—rapidly. Upon entering the office, Cassidy went straight to the machine, turned it on, and inserted the cassette. "This is highly improper, Mr. Cassidy. If you wanted to see me—"

Andre fell silent when he heard a telephone ring on the tape. He heard his own voice answer, then the start of a conversation that began with, "Bonsoir, Andre."

He recognized the voice, all right. Apparently he remembered the conversation, too. As Cassidy watched, he seemed to wilt inside his impeccable black suit. Beads of perspiration popped out on his shiny forehead. His pursed lips went slack. He backed up to his desk, groping for the corner of it before plopping down.

"Mon Dieu," he whispered as the tape continued to play. He removed a handkerchief from his hip pocket and blotted his forehead. "Please, please, Mr. Cassidy, turn it off."

He didn't turn if off, but he reduced the volume. He'd expected a reaction, but not one so drastic. Obviously he had more here than he'd originally thought. His impulse was to grab the man by the lapels and shake the information out of him. It took some effort to play it cool.

"Why don't you tell me about this, Andre? I'm giving you the opportunity to explain."

Andre wet his lips and nervously picked at the monogram on his handkerchief. If he'd just been sentenced to death row, he couldn't have looked more distressed. "Does she know that you have this?"

Cassidy's heart was drumming. He was on the brink of learning the identity of the woman on the tape. Philippi assumed he already knew who she was. Don't blow it! Cassidy gave a noncommittal shrug. "It's her voice, isn't it?"

"Oh, dear. Oh, my," Andre moaned, crumpling even more. "Poor, poor Claire."

* * *

Claire had been talking to Yasmine via long distance for almost an hour. Yasmine was depressed. Claire suspected that she'd had more than a couple of drinks.

"He's always in a rush," she whined.

Selfishly, Claire wished that Yasmine had kept her lover a secret. Since the night she had acknowledged him to Claire, most of their conversations revolved around him and the star-crossed affair.

"He's dividing his time between his family and you, Yasmine. You don't have him all to yourself. That's just one of the consequences of being involved with a married man. You must accept that or end the affair."

"I accept it. It's just that … well, in the beginning, our time together seemed more leisurely."

"Now it's slam-bam-thank-you-ma'am."

Claire expected that crack to annoy her volatile friend. Instead, she gave one of her throaty laughs that called to mind jungle felines. "Hardly. This past weekend, he worked me over so good…"

"Then I don't understand what you're complaining about."

There was a tearful catch in Yasmine's voice. Claire had never known her to cry over anything, even when the cosmetics line chose another model to replace her. That had been the beginning of Yasmine's financial troubles. Yasmine wasn't aware that Claire knew about her present difficulties. She'd debated broaching the subject with her and offering assistance in the form of a loan. But knowing Yasmine's temper and pride as she did, she'd refrained. She hoped Yasmine would come to her of her own accord before her situation became desperate.

"Sometimes I wonder if that's the only reason he wants me," Yasmine said in a small voice. "You know, what we do in bed."

Claire saw the wisdom of holding her silence.

"I know it's not that way," Yasmine hastened to say. "There's much more to our relationship than the physical part. The shitty circumstances have me upset, that's all."

"What happened?"

"He was in Washington on business this week and told me he could pad the trip to include two days in New York. But his business went longer than expected and he got held up. We were only together for one day.

"When he got ready to leave this afternoon, I thought I was going to die, Claire. I did what I know better than to do. I begged him not to go. He got angry. Now, I can't even call him and apologize. I have to wait for him to call me."

Sitting at her drawing board, Claire rested her forehead in her hand and massaged her temples. She was both concerned and irritated. The only thing to be had from this love affair was a broken heart. Yasmine should be smart enough to see that. She should cut her losses now and stop making a fool of herself. But she wouldn't welcome hearing that or any other unsolicited advice.

"I'm sorry, Yasmine," Claire said, meaning it. "I know you're hurting, and I hate that. I want to see you happy. I only wish there were something I could do."

"You're doing it. You're listening." She sniffed. "Listen, enough of that. I got with Leon and finalized the schedule for the shoot next week. Ready to take it all down?"

Claire reached for a pad and pencil. "Ready. Oh, wait," she said impatiently when she heard the call-waiting beep. "There's the other line. Just a sec." She depressed the button and said hello. Seconds later, she clicked back to Yasmine. "I've got to go. It's Mama."

Yasmine knew better than to prolong the conversation. "Tomorrow," she said quickly and hung up.

Claire dashed from her office and chose the stairs in favor of the elevator. She'd been in the apartment less than a minute before running down the two flights to the ground level. As she raced across the darkened warehouse, she pushed her arms through the sleeves of a glossy black vinyl raincoat and pulled the matching hat over her hair.

Since the bolts had already been unlocked and the alarm system disengaged, she flung open the door—and came face to face with Cassidy.

His head was bent against the downpour, which had already plastered his hair to his head. The collar of his trench coat had been flipped up; his shoulders were hunched inside. He was reaching for the bell. When they saw each other, one was as surprised as the other.

"What do you want?" Claire asked.

"I have to see you."

"Not now." She set the alarm, pulled the door closed, and locked it behind her. Sidestepping Cassidy, she dashed through the rain toward the rear of the building. Her upper arm was manacled by his hand, and she was brought up short. "Let me go," she cried, struggling to release her arm. "I've got to go."

"Where?"

"On an errand."

"Now?"

"Now."

"I'll drive you."

"No!"

"Where are you going?"

"Please, don't bully me now. Just let me go."

"Not a chance. Not without some kind of explanation." A lightning bolt briefly illuminated his strong features and the resolution carved on them. He wasn't going to take no for an answer, and they were wasting time. "All right, you can drive me."

Still with a firm grip on her arm, he wheeled her around. His sedan was parked in a loading zone at the curb. After depositing her in the passenger seat, he jogged around the hood and got in. Rain dripped from his nose and chin as he started the engine. "Where to?"

"The Ponchartrain Hotel."

* * *