French Silk (19 page)

"Okay. I'll buy that."

"Good."

"If only it weren't for the other."

"Other?"

"You also lied about being in the Fairmont that night."

Claire had a dozen denials poised on the tip of her tongue, but one look at his face stopped her from vocalizing any of them. He seemed too confident that he had trapped her. Until she knew what she was up against, it would be safer to say nothing. Otherwise, she might only dig herself into a deeper pit.

As soon as there was an opening in the traffic, he drove through the intersection, turning left toward Canal Street. Steering with his left hand, he used his right to remove something from the breast pocket of his trench coat. He inserted a cassette into the tape player and adjusted the volume.

Claire's heart jumped to her throat when she heard her voice say, "
Bonsoir
, Andre." She stared straight ahead through the rain-splattered windshield. As they drove up Canal, she listened to a recording of a recent telephone conversation she'd had with Andre Philippi.

When it was over, Cassidy ejected the tape and returned it to his pocket. He concentrated on getting around Lee Circle before continuing out St. Charles Avenue. "I didn't know you spoke French."

"Fluently."

"That threw me off. I didn't recognize the voice as yours. Not until your old pal Andre identified you for me."

"Andre would never betray a friend."

"He assumed I already knew it was you."

"In other words, you tricked him." Cassidy shrugged an admission. "Why did you tap his telephone?"

"I knew he was holding something back and needed to know what it was. It's done all the time."

"That doesn't excuse it. It's a gross invasion of privacy. Does Andre know you trapped him?"

"I didn't trap him. He got trapped in his own deception."

Claire sighed, knowing how devastated he must be feeling. "Poor Andre."

"That's exactly what he said about you. Poor Claire. You two certainly have a cozy relationship, always thinking of each other, looking out for each other. How nice it is that you can go to the penitentiary together. Maybe we can arrange neighboring cells."

She gave him a sharp glance, which he responded to with an abrupt bob of his head. "Well, hallelujah. I finally got your attention. Are you getting the picture now? Murder two carries a mandatory life sentence in Louisiana. Now how do you feel about being a prime suspect?"

To Claire Louise Laurent, threats had never been an effective deterrent. They didn't make her quail or concede; they only made her more determined to stand her ground. "Prove that I'm guilty of murder, Mr. Cassidy. Prove it."

He held her stare a dangerously long time. Claire turned her head away as the car approached the hotel. "Just let me out at the curb. I won't be a minute."

"Uh-uh. We're going in together."

"I was only thinking of you. You're already drenched."

"I won't dissolve."

He turned on his emergency blinkers and got out of the car. After helping Claire alight, they ducked for cover beneath the canopy extending over the sidewalk. The doorman tipped his hat to Claire.

"Evenin', Miss Laurent."

"Hello, Gregory."

"It sure is wet out tonight. But don't worry none. She got here before it started coming down too bad."

Claire preceded Cassidy into the landmark hotel where suites were named for the celebrities who had resided in them. The narrow lobby was gracious and very European, furnished with antiques and oriental rugs, redolent of courtly charm and southern hospitality.

Mary Catherine Laurent was seated against the marble wall in a striped chair with gilded swans for arms. Her printed voile dress was dotted with water spots that hadn't quite dried. The brim of her pink straw hat drooped from having absorbed too much moisture. Wearing a pair of snowy white gloves, she sat with her hands clasped in her lap, her legs pressed together from instep to groin, feet flat on the floor. She looked like a young girl on her way to confirmation who'd been caught in an unexpected downpour. A suitcase stood within easy reach near her feet.

The clerk on duty was a woman with a straight bob hairdo and horn-rimmed glasses. She rounded the concierge's desk at the rear of the lobby. "I called as soon as she got here, Miss Laurent."

"Thank you very much." Claire removed her rain hat and squatted down in front of her mother. "Hi, Mama. It's me, Claire."

"He'll be here soon." Mary Catherine spoke in a thin, faraway voice. Her eyes were looking into another time and place that no one else could see. "He said to meet him here this afternoon."

Claire took the sad straw hat from her mother's head and smoothed the damp hair away from her cheeks. "Maybe you got the days mixed up, Mama."

"No, I don't believe so. I'm certain I got the day right. He said he was coming for me today. I was supposed to be packed and ready. I was supposed to meet him here." Obviously flustered and disoriented, she raised one of her gloved hands and pressed it against her chest. "I'm not feeling well."

Claire glanced up at Cassidy. "Could you get her a glass of water, please?"

Thoroughly baffled, he was staring down at the two women while his trench coat dripped water onto the floor. At Claire's request, he asked the hovering night clerk for a glass of water.

"Mama." Claire gently placed her hand on Mary Catherine's knee. "I don't think he's coming today. Maybe tomorrow. Why don't you come home with me and wait for him there, hmm? Here. Mr. Cassidy has brought you a glass of cool water."

She folded Mary Catherine's fingers around the glass. Mary Catherine raised it to her lips and sipped. Then she looked up at Cassidy and smiled. "You've been very kind, Mr. Cassidy. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

She noticed his wet coat. "Is it raining out?"

He glanced over his shoulder toward the entrance, where the doorman was exercising admirable sensitivity in trying to appear inconspicuous. It was still raining torrentially. Cassidy replied, "Yes, I believe it is."

"Can you imagine that? It was so hot when I came in. Maybe I'd best go home now." She extended her hand up to him. He took it and helped her from her chair, then helplessly looked to Claire for further instructions.

"If you want to go on," she told him, "I can call a cab for Mama and me."

"I'll drive you."

She nodded and returned the glass of water to the night clerk. "You have my gratitude. I appreciate your understanding."

"It's no bother, Ms. Laurent. She never causes any trouble. It's just so sad."

"Yes, it is." Placing an arm around her mother's shoulders, Claire guided her toward the door, which the doorman was holding open for them. "Don't forget her suitcase, Ms. Laurent," he reminded her kindly.

"I'll get it," Cassidy said.

Mary Catherine was impervious to the peels of thunder and flashes of lightning as they waited beneath the canopy for Cassidy to stow the suitcase in the car trunk. Knowing that her mother was in another realm and virtually helpless, Claire assisted her into the backseat and buckled her in.

During the return trip, only Mary Catherine spoke. She said, "I was sure we were supposed to meet today. The Ponchartrain Hotel."

Claire bowed her head slightly and pinched her eyes shut, keenly aware of Cassidy and his rapacious interest in what was taking place. When they arrived at French Silk, he carried the suitcase while Claire ushered Mary Catherine inside and up to the third floor. In the elevator, Claire accidentally made eye contact with him. She looked away quickly, refusing to acknowledge the unasked questions in his intense, gray eyes.

Once inside the apartment, she steered Mary Catherine toward her bedroom. "I'll be back shortly if you want to wait," she said to him over her shoulder.

"I'll wait."

She helped Mary Catherine undress and carefully replaced the outdated clothes in the closet. After seeing that she took her medication, she tucked her in. "Night-night, Mama. Sleep well."

"I must have the days confused. He'll come for me tomorrow," she whispered. Smiling prettily, peacefully, she closed her eyes.

Claire leaned down and kissed her mother's cool, unlined cheek. "Yes, Mama. Tomorrow." She switched out the lamp and left the room, softly closing the door.

She was exhausted. Her shoulders ached with tension. It seemed a long way from her mother's bedroom door to the large, open living area. Like a firing squad, Cassidy was waiting for her there, armed and ready. She had no choice but to face him. Steeling herself, she moved down the hallway.

She didn't immediately see him when she entered the room. Thinking that perhaps he'd changed his mind and left, she experienced an instant of relief—and several heartbeats of disappointment.

Despite her denials to Yasmine, and to herself, she found Cassidy attractive. Physically, certainly. But there was something else … his dedication, tenacity, determination? She was attracted to the same qualities as those which repelled her. She feared him, yet he had demonstrated unusual kindness and sympathy toward her mother. As her eyes sought him through the darkness, all she knew for certain about her feelings for Cassidy was that they were ambiguous.

Through the shadows, she spotted him at the sideboard, in his shirtsleeves. In an oddly intimate way, his trench coat was hanging on the coat tree along with her raincoat and hat. When he turned around, Claire saw that his hair was still wet and that he was holding two snifters of Remy Martin. He joined her in the center of the room and extended one of them to her.

"Thank you, Mr. Cassidy."

"It's your liquor."

 
"Thank you anyway."

Claire was glad that he hadn't turned on any lights. There was light enough coming through the wall of windows. Occasionally the swollen clouds were illuminated by a flash of lightning that made the entire sky look like the negative of a photograph. But for the most part the storm's temper was spent, leaving in its wake a heavy but nonthreatening ram. Silver streams of it ran down the windows, squiggly rivulets that cast wavering shadows across her as she moved toward the windows. The river was discernible only as a wide dark band lined by lights on both levees. An empty barge was chugging upstream.

The first sip of cognac seared her esophagus. The second spread a soothing warmth through her, starting with a slight sting to her lips and ending with a tingle in her toes. "At times like this, I wish I smoked," she remarked.

"Pardon?"

She listened to his footsteps as he approached her. "I said sometimes I wish I smoked. This is one of those times." Turning, she found him standing closer than she had expected. His eyes were the same color as the rain slashing the windows, and they were focused on her with a breath-stopping intensity.

"Smoking's bad for you."

"Yes, I know. I guess I envy the immediate relaxation it gives the smoker." She ran her fingers up the bowl of the snifter. "Have you ever seen a cigar smoker blow smoke into his brandy snifter before taking a sip?" He shook his head. "It's pretty, the way the smoke swirls around inside the crystal. The smoke is inhaled when the liquor is swallowed. It's provocative, sensual. I think it must make the brandy taste better. Or maybe the cigar. I don't know."

"Who have you seen do that?"

"No one, actually. I saw it in a movie about Sir Richard Burton. Maybe that was a habit unique to him. Maybe it was the vogue in the nineteenth century."

His disturbing gaze remained fixed on her face. "What made you think of that, Claire?"

She shrugged self-consciously. "The rainy night, the cognac."

"Or were you just trying to distract me?"

"Could you be that easily distracted?"

He hesitated a moment too long before giving her a curt no. Then he tossed back the remainder of his drink and returned his empty snifter to the sideboard. When he rejoined her at the windows, he was all business. "What went on tonight?"

"You were there. You saw."

"And I still don't know what happened. She flipped out, right?"

"Yes. She flipped out."

"Look, I didn't mean that to sound—"

"I know you didn't."

"How often does she… How often is she like that?"

"It varies. Sometimes there's a buildup. Sometimes it occurs out of the blue. Some days she's perfectly lucid. Others, like the first time you met her, she seems to be confused, senile." Her voice turned gruff. "Sometimes she's as you saw her tonight, completely detached from this world, living in another one."

"What triggers it?"

"I don't know."

"What do the doctors say?"

"That they don't know either. It's happened for as long as I can remember, and her lapses have gotten progressively deeper and more frequent the older she gets. The first I remember them, they were little more than bouts of depression. During her spells, as Aunt Laurel referred to them, Mama would retire to her room and cry for days, refuse to leave her bed, refuse to eat. Aunt Laurel and I catered to her."

"She should have gotten treatment when it started." Claire bristled and turned a glare on him. "That was an observation, not a criticism," he said.