French Silk (4 page)

When the roar of agreement from the crowd subsided, she continued. "Then the Devil used one of his demons to silence his staunchest foe, Reverend Jackson Wilde, with a bullet through his heart. But we won't be silenced!" she shouted, raising her thin arms and shaking her fists. "My beloved Jackson is with the Lord now. He's been granted a well-deserved rest and peace, praise the Lord."

"Praise the Lord!" the flock echoed.

"But my work isn't finished. I'll continue the crusade Jackson began. We'll ultimately win this war against the filth that would foul our hearts and minds! This ministry won't stop until America is swept clean of the offal that fills its theaters and bookracks, until museums supported by your tax dollars are rid of pornography that passes itself off as art. We're going to make this country an ideal for the rest of the world to follow, a country free of smut, a nation whose children are reared in an environment of purity and light."

A shout of approval went up. Policemen had a difficult time holding back the surging crowd. The camera angle widened to take in the entire chaotic scene. Ariel Wilde, seemingly spent and on the verge of collapse, was led away on the arm of her stepson. Wilde's entourage protectively closed ranks around her.

Random close-ups of the crowd showed faces streaked with tears, streaming eyes pinched shut in soulful anguish, lips moving in silent prayer. The mourning disciples linked arms and began singing in unison Jackson Wilde's theme song, "Onward, Christian Soldiers."

With a precise flick of his wrist, Tony Crowder switched off the set. "Damned hypocrites. If they're so concerned about the welfare of their children, why aren't they home with them teaching them the difference between right and wrong, instead of parading for a dead saint?" He sighed in exasperation and nodded toward the TV. "Are you sure you want to get involved in that mess, Cassidy?"

"Absolutely."

"Off the record, its gonna be a frigging three-ring circus, especially when the police start rounding up suspects."

"Which right now is limited to about six hundred people—everyone in and around the Fairmont Hotel last night."

"I'd whittle it down real quick—to the widow and stepson."

"They're tops on my list, too." Cassidy grinned engagingly. "Does this mean I have the case?"

"For the time being."

"Come on, Tony!"

"For the time being," the older man repeated loudly. "You're putting yourself in a hotspot, and it's bound to get hotter. I hate to think what will happen if you provoke Ariel Wilde. She's as loved and adored as her husband was. You might incite a riot if it ever comes down to arresting her for killing him."

"There'll be skirmishes, sure. I'm prepared." Cassidy returned to his chair and sat down. "I've taken heat before, Tony. It doesn't bother me."

"Doesn't bother you, hell. You thrive on it."

"I like to win." Cassidy locked gazes with his superior. His grin faded until his lips were a thin, firm line. "Which is the real reason I want this case, Tony. I'm not bullshitting you now. I need a win. I need one bad."

Crowder nodded, appreciating his protégé's candor. "There are less volatile cases I could throw your way if a win's all you're looking for."

Cassidy shook his head. "I need a big win, and bringing Jackson Wilde's killer to justice is going to be one of the biggest legal coups of this year, if not the decade."

"So you're after headlines and coverage on the six o'clock news," Crowder said, regarding him with a frown.

"You know me better than that, so I decline to honor that comment with a rebuttal. Since this morning, I've taken a crash course on Jackson Wilde. I don't like what the preacher was or what he stood for. In fact I disagree with just about everything he advocated. His version of Christianity doesn't jive with the one I was taught in Sunday school."

"You went to Sunday school?"

Cassidy ignored that barb too and stuck with the point he was trying to make. "Whatever else Wilde was, he was a human being with a right to live to a ripe old age. Somebody denied him that right. Naked and defenseless, he was murdered by someone he trusted."

"How do you know that?"

"There wasn't a sign of forced entry on any of the doors into the suite. The locks hadn't been jimmied. So either the perp had a key or Jackson let him in. Apparently Jackson was lying in bed, either sleeping or talking to whoever killed him. He was a religious fanatic, possibly the most dangerous one since Rasputin, but he didn't deserve to have someone cold-bloodedly put a bullet through his brain."

"And heart and balls," Crowder added.

Cassidy's eyes narrowed. "That's quirky, isn't it? The shot to the head and the heart were already overkill. Why the balls, too?"

"The killer was pissed."

"Good and pissed. It smacks of self-indulgence, doesn't it? Female vengeance, for instance."

"You think the wife offed him? Like some others of his ilk, you think Wilde had a sweet young thing on the side and Ariel found out?"

"I don't know. I just have a strong hunch the killer was female."

"Why's that?"

"It only makes sense," Cassidy said. "If you were a woman and wanted revenge on a guy, isn't that where you'd shoot him?"

* * *

Claire was breathless by the time she reached her living quarters at the French Silk offices. She heard Yasmine and her mother talking together in another room, but she slipped down the hallway unnoticed and went directly to her bedroom, closing the door behind her.

Their arrival at French Silk had created a tumult among the reporters who had the building staked out. They had swarmed Yasmine and her the moment they alighted from the car. Claire was tempted to duck her head and dash inside but knew that avoidance would only prolong the inevitable. The media wouldn't leave until she made a statement. They would continue to be an impediment to her business, an annoyance to her neighbors, and possibly a source of anxiety to her mother.

Never sure of what Yasmine might say, Claire asked her to go inside and see that Mary Catherine was kept unaware of what was happening outside. After mugging for the cameras, Yasmine did as Claire requested.

Dozens of questions were shouted at Claire, but she caught only snatches of one before the next one was hurled at her. It was impossible to answer them all, and she wouldn't have anyway. Finally she held up her hands for silence. Speaking into the microphones directed at her, she said, "Although Reverend Wilde had proclaimed me a sinner and his enemy, I'm terribly sorry about his death. My heart goes out to his family."

She moved toward the entrance to French Silk, but her progress was blocked by the clamoring journalists.

"Ms. Laurent, is it true that despite his repeated invitations, you refused to debate Reverend Wilde?"

"They weren't invitations, they were challenges. I only wanted to be let alone to run my business."

"How do you respond to his allegations of—"

"I have nothing more to say."

"Who murdered him, Ms. Laurent?"

The question stopped Claire in her tracks. She gazed with stupefaction at the balding reporter who had rudely asked the question. Smirking, he met her stare unflinchingly. The others fell silent, expectantly awaiting her answer.

In that startling instant, Claire realized that her conflict with Jackson Wilde wasn't over. He was dead, but she wasn't free of him. Indeed, the worst might be yet to come. Why had the reporter asked her specifically about the murder? Did he have a reliable source in the police department? Had he heard rumors about possible suspects?

Although she kept her features composed, fear, like icy fingertips, tiptoed up her spine. In spite of the sweltering heat and high humidity, she felt chilled to the bone. "Excuse me. That's all I have to say."

She forcibly pushed her way through the reporters and didn't stop until she was safely inside, upstairs in her private quarters. The experience had left her shaky and agitated. Her clothes clung to her damply, and she peeled them off with frantic haste. In the bathroom, she leaned over the sink and bathed her face, throat, chest, and arms with cool water.

Feeling somewhat refreshed, she stepped into a strapless cotton jumpsuit, one of French Silk's most popular items from the summer catalog, and pulled her shoulder-length hair into a ponytail. Emerging from the bathroom, she soberly regarded the massive cherrywood armoire across the room.

Three years earlier, when she had picked out the old warehouse for French Silk's headquarters, she'd converted the top floor into her private apartment. It was only the second address Claire had ever had. Before that she had lived in her great-aunt Laurel's house on Royal Street near Esplanade.

Following Aunt Laurel's death, Claire and Mary Catherine had moved out of her house, but Claire hadn't yet had the heart to clean it out and sell it. She couldn't bring herself to dispose of Aunt Laurel's things, because the funny lady unkindly referred to as an old maid, had derived such joy from her possessions, probably because they compensated for her lack of a husband and children. The house on Royal Street remained intact.

The cherrywood armoire was the single exception, the only piece Claire had brought with her when she moved. She had always admired it. Its clean lines blended well with the apartment's contemporary design. She had specifically requested that the architect design a wall in her bedroom large enough to accommodate the piece.

Claire crossed to the armoire, pulled open the doors, knelt in front of the bureau drawers, and tugged open the bottom one. It took some effort because it was so heavy, filled to capacity with clippings that had been cut from newspapers and magazines. The dates on them spanned the last several years.

Claire had spent hours poring over the articles, digesting the information they contained and assimilating her reactions to it. She regretted having to destroy them. Collecting them had been like a hobby to her, one she had found habit-forming and fascinating.

But now it would have to be disposed of. Immediately. It would be folly for her to keep printed documentation of every move made by the Reverend Jackson Wilde.

* * *

The hotel suite was overrun with people. Some were merely curious hangers-on; others were sincerely trying to help. All seemed confused by the sudden loss of their leader as they wandered aimlessly through the suite, gathering in small groups and then dispersing, shaking their heads and whispering tearfully as though it were a refrain, "I just can't believe it."

After being questioned by Cassidy, Ariel had been moved out of the San Louis suite. Her present accommodations were smaller and less luxurious. Her privacy was limited. The constant ebb and flow of mourners was maddening. She signaled to Josh, who immediately rushed to her side. After a hushed, brief exchange, he raised his voice in order to get everyone's attention.

"Ariel is exhausted. Could we ask you please to clear the suite now and let her get some rest. If either of us needs anything, we'll notify you."

Wilde's entourage filed out, looking forlorn and abandoned. They cast sympathetic glances at the widow, who was curled in a corner of the sofa, her legs tucked beneath her. Her black dress seemed to be slowly consuming her as though she were melting inside it.

As soon as Josh had closed the door behind the last straggler, Ariel sat up and swung her legs off the couch. "Thank God they're gone. And shut that damn thing off. I don't want to look at
her
." She pointed to the TV set. The volume had been muted, but the image of a woman trying to avoid a horde of reporters filled the screen.

"Who's she?" Josh asked.

"That French Silk person. A minute ago they had her name superimposed on the screen."

"So that's Claire Laurent," Josh said, standing back to get a better look. "I wondered what she looked like. She doesn't have horns and a pointed tail as Daddy would have had everyone believe. Nor does she look like a scarlet woman. Quite the contrary, I'd say."

"Who cares what you'd say." Ariel marched to the set and shut it off herself.

"Aren't you curious about what Ms. Laurent has to say?" Josh asked.

"Not in the slightest. She'll get hers, but not today. All in good time. Order me something from room service, will you? I'm starving." She disappeared into the next room.

Joshua Wilde, the twenty-eight-year-old son of Jackson Wilde by his first marriage, called room service and ordered a light lunch for his stepmother. He figured a grieving widow shouldn't have too healthy an appetite. For himself he ordered a muffuletta, a New Orleans specialty sandwich for which he had acquired a taste.

While he waited for their order, he moved to the window and gazed down. People on the street were going about their everyday lives as though nothing extraordinary had happened. Hadn't they heard?
Jackson Wilde was dead.

Josh hadn't yet assimilated it, although he'd seen the body and the bloodshed. He hadn't really expected the earth to stop turning, but he'd thought something momentous would occur to mark his father's passing. Jackson would never again fill a room with his crackling, parasitical energy, which drained the life force out of everyone else. His voice would never be heard again, whether raised in prayer or laden with malice. Never again would Josh be subjected to one of his father's cold stares, which too frequently conveyed either disappointment or disgust, and always criticism.