French Silk (53 page)

The stairs served as a fire escape and opened to the outside, so they were able to avoid the chaos occurring in the atrium lobby of the building. It was crawling with Jackson Wilde's followers, confused employees, and those unfortunate enough to have business in the D.A.'s office that afternoon.

As soon as they were outside, Cassidy dragged her along behind him, around the rear of the building, toward where his car was parked on the opposite side. "Shit!" He halted so quickly, it jarred Claire's teeth. "My car keys are on my desk."

He didn't waste a moment to think about it, but went in search of something to break the window. He returned precious seconds later with a loose brick from a nearby construction site. "Turn your head."

He bashed the window with the brick, reached inside the shattered glass and unlocked the door, then barely gave Claire time to get in before slamming it behind her. She reached across the interior and opened the driver's door for him.

"How are you going to start it?"

"The way the thieves do."

While Claire brushed broken glass from the seat, he hot-wired the car. Within minutes they had made their escape. Surrounding the city hall complex was a maze of one-way streets that required careful negotiation even by those who drove it every day. As he drove, Cassidy jerked his cellular phone off its stand and tossed the receiver into Claire's lap.

"Call French Silk. Tell them to shut down for the day. Tell everybody to get the hell out and away from there."

"They wouldn't dare—"

"You saw them back there. God only knows what these maniacs will do when they hear you've confessed."

Claire feared for her building and its costly inventory, but mostly for the safety of her employees. She fumbled with the rubberized digits on the transmitter. "My mother. I've got to get her to a safe place."

"I'm thinking," he said tautly as he raced through a yellow light.

Claire spoke to her secretary. "There's been a new development in the Wilde case." She cut her eyes to Cassidy; he glanced at her briefly. "It might be dangerous for French Silk to remain open today. Send everyone home. Yes, right now. Tell them not to report to work until notified, but assure them they'll receive full pay. Secure the building. Quickly. Now, please patch me into the apartment phone."

While that was being done, she said to Cassidy, "You have to take me home so I can see to my mother."

"I can't take you near that place, Claire. Ariel's got a communication system more effective than any public utility. But you're right, if they storm the building, it'll be unsafe for Mary Catherine to be there."

The thought filled Claire with panic. "You've got to take me to her now, Cassidy."

"I can't."

"The hell you can't."

"Could she go home with Harry?"

"I've got to—"

"Don't argue with me, goddammit! Can Harry take her home with her?"

He averted his eyes from the traffic long enough to look at her. Claire wanted to dispute him, but the suggestion was viable. She spoke tersely into the telephone. "Hello, Harry, it's me. Listen closely." Once she had made her request, she said, "I know it's an imposition but I need to know that Mama's safe and being well taken care of. Don't alarm her. No, I'm sure you'll handle it beautifully. But timing is vital. Get her out immediately. Yes, I'll be careful. I'll call later and let you know where I am."

She replaced the telephone and sat stiffly, staring forward. Cassidy weaved through traffic, taking the streets in a random, zigzag pattern. He drove well but fast. His eyes remained in constant motion, moving from side to side like a mine sweeper.

"Shouldn't you be taking me to the police station?"

"Later. When they've scattered the crazies and I don't have to worry about losing you to some fanatic who wants an eye for an eye."

"Then where are we going?"

"I'm open to suggestions."

"You mean you don't have a destination in mind?"

"About a dozen so far. I've discarded them all. I can't take you to French Silk. Once they figure out you're not there, they'll look for you at my place."

"There are hundreds of hotels and motels."

"They'll be checking the registration desks."

"Even out of town?"

He shook his head no. "With a broken window, I can't keep this car on the road for long. Too easy to spot."

"Take me back."

He made a scoffing sound. "Not likely. Even if you've got a death wish, I don't."

"I've confessed to murder, Cassidy. A felony. Every police officer in the state will be out looking for me. I don't want to make matters worse by becoming a fugitive."

"You're not a fugitive as long as you're in my custody. As soon as we get where we're going, I'll call Crowder. Once the coast is clear, I'll take you to the sheriff's office to be booked. Hopefully we can get you in before the press gets wind of it." He shot her a quick glance. "Between now and then, I've got to make sure you're not taken out by some bastard with a Bible in one hand and a sawed-off shotgun in the other."

He wasn't overdramatizing. She touched the sore spot on her scalp and shuddered when she remembered the hatred she had seen in the man's eyes.

"Any ideas?" he asked. "Unfortunately I don't own a fishing cabin, or a boat, or a place—"

"Aunt Laurel's house," Claire said suddenly. "It's been closed up for years. Only a few people know I still own it."

"Have you got a key with you?"

"No, but I know where one is hidden."

She found the latchkey beneath the rock under the third camellia bush in the flower bed on the left side of the porch, where it had been secreted for as long as Claire remembered. Cassidy had expressed concern about leaving his car on the street in front of the house, so they parked it in the rear alley.

Entering the old townhouse was like stepping through a time warp. Although it had the close, musty odor of any unoccupied dwelling. Claire's sense of smell was stirred by dozens of fond memories: Aunt Laurel's rose sachet, pomander balls made of dried oranges spiked with cloves, dusty old lace, jasmine tea, and Christmas candles.

The entryway catapulted Claire's childhood to the forefront of her mind. Some memories were as gauzy as the curtains that hung in the slender windows flanking the front door. Others were as vivid as the colors in the authentic Persian rug. Some were golden, like the butter-colored sunlight that cast dappled shadows on the walls. Others were as somber as the grandfather clock that had stopped ticking and stood tall and silent.

Cassidy shut the door behind them and relocked it, then peered through the curtains until he was satisfied that no one had followed them and that they hadn't aroused the curiosity of nosy neighbors. Turning his back to the window, he surveyed his surroundings. Claire watched closely for his reaction, realizing that she wanted him to like and appreciate the house as she did.

"How long has it been since you were here?" he asked.

"Yesterday." He shot her a stunned look and she smiled. "It seems that way."

His eyes took a more detailed inventory of the two-story entry. "It looks like a granny's house."

"Did you have a granny, Cassidy?"

"Only one. On my mother's side."

"Did you have aunts and uncles and lots of cousins?"

"Assorted."

"Hmm. I always wished for them." She gave him a wistful smile, then asked him to follow her. "Let me show you the courtyard. That's my favorite part of the house. Later I'll take you upstairs."

"What about a phone?"

"It was disconnected when we moved out."

"I'll have to use my car phone."

"This minute?" she asked with disappointment.

"Not this minute, but soon, Claire."

"I understand."

He followed her through a formal dining room and a quaint kitchen into what she called the sun room. It had windows on three sides and was furnished in white wicker with floral chintz cushions that were comfortably sagged in their centers. The sun room opened onto the courtyard. Claire unlocked the French door, pushed it open, and stepped outside onto the ancient bricks.

"Over there where the double French doors are is the living room," she said, pointing. "Or the parlor, as Aunt Laurel called it. Up above it, on the second floor, is my bedroom. Sometimes in the summer, when the mosquitoes weren't too bad, Mama and Aunt Laurel would let me make a pallet there on the balcony. I loved falling asleep to the sound of the water trickling in the fountain. And in the morning I could smell fresh coffee and honeysuckle before opening my eyes."

A struggling wisteria vine and one quick, shy chameleon were all that remained alive in the courtyard. The foundation of the fountain was cracked and crumbling. The basin around the naked cherub was filled with stagnant rainwater and dead leaves. The glider was rusty and squeaked when Claire gave it a gentle push.

"We used to have ferns hanging everywhere. When the airplane ferns made babies, we'd pinch them off and root them in water before planting them in clay pots. Every spring we'd plant perennials in the flower beds and they'd bloom sometimes through December. On mild evenings we'd eat supper out here. Before I started school, Mama used to sit in this chair and tell me fairy tales," she said, lovingly running her hand over the rusty wrought iron.

"Seeing it like this makes me sad. It's like viewing the corpse of someone you love." She gave the courtyard another poignant glance, then stepped back into the sun room. In the kitchen, she checked a tin in the pantry and found that it still contained Bigelow tea. "I made tea the last time I was here. Would you like some?"

Without waiting for his answer, she rinsed out the kettle and turned on the stove beneath it. She was reaching into the cabinet for china when Cassidy captured her busy hands and drew her around to face him.

This moment had been inevitable. She had known that eventually Cassidy would ask her about it and she would have to tell him. She had prolonged it for as long as possible but could delay no longer.

"Claire," he asked softly, "why did you kill Jackson Wilde?"

His eyes were gazing intently into hers. The time had come.

"Jackson Wilde was my father."

Chapter 29

«
^
»

Spring 1958

I
t was hot in the Vieux Carré even though May was only a few days old. Blossoms had burst in such abundance that the air was heavily perfumed. Leaves were new and vibrantly green. The vitality of spring rushed through the veins of three schoolgirls, filling them with a lust for life that couldn't be appeased by English literature, geometry, French, or chemistry.

With energy pumping and looking for an outlet, they abandoned their studies to sneak off in search of the forbidden pleasures to be found in the French Quarter. They gorged on Lucky Dogs bought from a street vendor and had their palms read by a strolling gypsy lady with a parrot on her shoulder.

On a dare from Lisbet, Alice glanced inside one of the strip joints on Bourbon Street when a teasing barker swung the door open as she passed. Squealing, she raced back to where her friends were waiting. "What'd you see?"

"It was gross," Alice squealed.

"Was she naked?"

"Except for tassels. She was twirling them."

"Liar," Lisbet said.

"I swear."

"No one can really do that. It's anatomically impossible."

"It is if they're no bigger than yours," Alice taunted.

Mary Catherine Laurent diplomatically intervened. She often played the role of peacemaker, disliking strife of any kind, but particularly among her friends. "She didn't have on anything else?"

"Not a stitch. Well, she had a tiny triangle of glitter over you-know-what."

"Her pussy?" Dumbfounded, the two other girls gaped at Lisbet. "Well, that's what my big brother calls it." Lisbet's brother was a sophomore at Tulane and often inspired awe among his younger sister's friends.

Alice sniffed loftily. "That sounds like something he'd say. He's rude, crude, and socially unacceptable."

"And you're passionately in love with him," Mary Catherine teased.

"I am not."

"Are so."

"It doesn't matter," Lisbet said, striking off down the sidewalk, the pleats of her blue and gray plaid parochial-school skirt brushing against her calves. "He likes Betsy Bouvier. He told me he got his hand up her skirt on their last date." She glanced over her shoulder at Alice, who looked stricken. "Gotcha, Alice!"

"Oh!"

"Does cunt mean the same thing as pussy?" Mary Catherine asked as she skipped to catch up.

"Shh!" She was sprayed by the admonitions of her two friends. "My God, Mary Catherine. Don't you know anything?"

"Well, I don't have any brothers," she said defensively. "Does it mean the same thing?"

"Yes."

"But," Alice added, "if any man ever says that to you, you should slap his face."