French Silk (7 page)

"No."

"But he knew you." She remained silent, although she didn't look quite as calm, cool, and collected as she had a few moments ago. "Didn't he, Ms. Laurent? Well enough that your opinion was sought by the media when he was found dead."

She wet her lips with a dainty, pink tongue that momentarily distracted him. "Reverend Wilde knew me by name, as the owner of French Silk. He condemned me from his pulpit as a pornographer. 'Smut-peddler' is how he referred to me."

"How did you feel about that?"

"How do you think I felt?" Suddenly giving vent to the agitation he'd sensed behind her calm facade, she stood up and rounded the divan, so that it was between them.

"I'll bet you didn't like it one damn bit."

"You're absolutely right, Mr. Cassidy. I didn't. The term smut doesn't apply either to my business or to my catalog."

"Did you know you were on Wilde's hit list?"

"What are you talking about?"

Cassidy removed a sheet of paper from the pocket of his jacket, which still lay across his knees. He shook out the folds and handed it to her, yet she made no move to take it from him.

"Among Wilde's personal effects," he said, "we found this handwritten list of publications.
Playboy
,
Hustler
, all the girly mags you'd expect. Along with the French Silk catalog."

That morning when he and Howard Glenn had discussed the few facts they had on the case, Glenn had expressed little interest in this list. The veteran detective was focusing his investigation on Ariel and Joshua Wilde. To his way of thinking, they were the most likely suspects.

He was probably right, but Cassidy hadn't wanted to leave a single clue dangling. His offer to check out French Silk had earned him an indifferent shrug from Glenn, who obviously felt that he was wasting his time.

Having met Claire Laurent, Cassidy didn't think so. She hardly fit a criminal psychological profile, but she was sure as hell intriguing and she had had a real ax to grind with the late preacher.

She stared at the sheet of paper for a moment, then gestured at it angrily. "I don't know anything about this list. My catalog has nothing in common with those magazines."

"Apparently Wilde thought it did."

"He was wrong."

"Ms. Laurent, your company was targeted for defamation and harassment until you were forced out of business. According to the date on this, Wilde made a holy vow a few weeks before his death and signed his name to it in his own blood."

"Obviously he was insane."

"He had thousands of devoted followers."

"So did Adolph Hitler. Some people are sheep who have to be told what to believe because they can't think for themselves. If they're told what they want to hear often enough, they'll follow anyone and adhere to any misinformation they're fed. They're brainwashed. I pity them, but they're free to make their own choices. I only want to be let alone to make mine. That's the only quarrel I had with Jackson Wilde. He presumed to impose his beliefs on everyone. If he didn't approve of my catalog, fine. But who gave him the right to condemn it?"

"He would say God had."

"But we only have Wilde's word on that, don't we?"

She was drawn up tighter than a guitar string threatening to snap. Her breasts rose and fell, disturbing the liquid in the small bottle hanging from her neck. Cassidy learned something else about Claire Laurent in that heated moment. Beneath her cool reserve beat a passionate heart.

He suddenly realized that he was standing, although he didn't remember rising to his feet. "You had a real problem with the televangelist and what he might do to your business, didn't you, Ms. Laurent?"

"He was the one with the problem, not I."

"He had pronounced you his enemy and pledged not to let up on you until he won."

"Then it was his own crusade. I wasn't a participant."

"Are you sure?"

"What do you mean?"

"Hadn't open warfare been declared between the two of you?"

"No. I ignored him."

"Where were you the night of September eighth?"

Her head snapped back. "Pardon me?"

"I believe you heard me."

"September eighth was the night Wilde was murdered. Am Ito understand that you're implicating me?"

"That's the general idea."

"You can go straight to hell."

With her succinct words still electrifying the space between them, the double doors opened behind Cassidy. He whipped his head around, almost expecting Tugboat Annie to come barging in with a bent to forcibly evict him from the premises.

The woman who came in looked too delicate to bend the wings of a butterfly. "Oh, my goodness!" she exclaimed when she saw Cassidy. Flattening her hand against her chest, she said, "I didn't know we had a caller. Claire dear, you should have told me I'd be receiving this afternoon. I would have changed into something more appropriate."

Composing herself, Claire moved to the other woman and took her arm. "You look as lovely as always, Mama. Come meet our guest."

As he watched them approach, Cassidy wished to hell he had control of this situation. He'd lost it when the amazon downstairs had let him in, and he'd never fully regained it. The tenuous hold he'd been grappling for had slipped away with the appearance of the woman at Claire's side.

"Mama, this is Mr. Cassidy. He's … he's here on a business matter. Mr. Cassidy, this is my mother, Mary Catherine Laurent."

"Mrs. Laurent," he said. Demurely she extended her hand. He had an insane impulse to bend at the waist and kiss it, for that seemed to be what she expected. Instead he gave her fingers a light squeeze and released them.

Soft brown hair waved away from her smooth, youthful face. As she looked up at him, she tilted her head to one side. "You're the spit and image of your daddy, Mr. Cassidy. I remember when he attended the cotillions in his dress uniform. My goodness, we girls swooned over him."

She laid her fingers against her cheek as though trying to stave off a blush. "He knew he was good-looking and shamelessly broke all our hearts. He was quite a rascal until he met your mama that summer she came visiting from Biloxi. The first time he saw her she was wearing an apricot organza dress and had a white camellia pinned in her hair. He was instantly smitten. They made such a lovely couple. When they danced together, they seemed to scatter fairy dust."

Baffled, Cassidy looked to Claire for help. She was smiling as though what her mother had said made perfect sense. "Sit down, Mama. Would you like some sherry?"

Cassidy caught a whiff of Mary Catherine Laurent's rose perfume as she sat on the chair next to his and decorously pulled her skirt over her knees.

"Since it's coming up on five o'clock, I suppose I could indulge in a sherry. Mr. Cassidy, you'll join me, won't you? It's quite improper for a lady to drink alone."

Sherry? He'd never tasted the stuff and didn't care if he ever did. What he could use right now was a solid belt or two of straight Chivas. But Mary Catherine's inquiring smile was too much for even a jaded prosecutor like him to resist. God forbid that he'd ever have to put her on the witness stand. One smile from her and a jury would be convinced that the moon was made of Philadelphia cream cheese if she said it was.

"I'd love some," he heard himself say. He cast a smile toward Claire; she didn't return it. Her expression was a frosty contrast to her warm coloring, made even rosier by the hues cast by the late-afternoon sun.

"Tell me all about the naval academy, Mr. Cassidy," Mary Catherine said. "I was so proud for your parents when you received the appointment."

With the help of a basketball scholarship, Cassidy had attended junior college in his small hometown in Kentucky before laying out a year to work and raise enough money to attend a university. He sure as hell had never been a candidate for a military academy. A voluntary stint in the post—Vietnam army had helped him finance law school after his discharge.

"It was everything I'd hoped it would be," he told Mary Catherine as he accepted the glass of sherry she had poured for him from one of the glittering crystal decanters.

"Claire, would you care for some?" Mary Catherine lifted a glass toward her daughter.

"No, thank you, Mama. I've still got work to do."

Mary Catherine shook her head sorrowfully and said to Cassidy, "She works all the time. Way too much for a young lady, if you ask me. But she's very talented."

"So I see." He had already noted the framed designs hanging on the walls.

"I tried to teach her knitting and crochet," the older woman said, pointing to the basket now at her feet, "but Claire Louise's only interest was in making clothes. She started out with paper dolls. When the wardrobes in the books ran out, she would draw, color, and cut her own."

The woman smiled fondly at her daughter. "The fashions she designed were much prettier than the ones in the books. She went from paper dolls to sewing. What year did you ask for a sewing machine for Christmas?"

"I was twelve, I believe," she replied tightly. Cassidy could tell she didn't like being discussed in front of him.

"Twelve!" Mary Catherine exclaimed. "And from the day she got it, she spent all her spare time sewing, making garments from patterns she bought or those she designed herself. She's always been so clever with cloth and thread."

Her cheeks blushed and she ducked her head coyly. "Of course, I don't approve of some of the things Claire makes now. There's so little to them. But I suppose I'm old-fashioned. Young women are no longer taught to be modest, as my generation was." She took a sip of sherry, then gazed at him with interest. "Tell me, Mr. Cassidy, did your uncle Clive ever strike oil in Alaska? Such an unpleasant and risky business, petroleum."

Before he could answer the question about his nonexistent uncle Clive, the door behind them opened again. This time it was accompanied by a rush of air, as though it had been thrust open from the other side. He was so startled by the appearance of the woman who entered that he shot to his feet, almost spilling his sherry.

"Thank God!" she exclaimed when she spotted Mary Catherine. "I was afraid she'd sneaked out again."

The new arrival was at least six feet tall, with limbs as long and graceful as a gazelle. Her spectacular body was wrapped in a short, white terrycloth kimono that skimmed the middle of her thighs. Another towel had been wrapped like a turban around her head. Even without makeup her face was captivating—widely spaced agate eyes; a small, straight nose; full lips; a square jaw and a well-defined chin; high, prominent cheekbones. The haughty carriage of African royalty was in her walk as she came farther into the room.

"Sorry, Claire. I let Harry go early and decided to take a quick shower. When I came out, Mary Catherine had vanished. Everyone else has gone home for the day. Christ, I thought I'd really goofed this time."

"Everything's fine, Yasmine."

"Who's he?" She turned to Cassidy with frank curiosity. Claire made rudimentary introductions. He shook a hand as long as his, but much more slender. Even up close, her skin was flawless, seemingly poreless, the color of heavily creamed coffee. It was dappled with beads of water, indicating that she hadn't even taken the time to dry off. The robe was undoubtedly all she had on, but she exhibited no modesty at all as she broke a dazzlingly white smile for him.

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Cassidy."

"The same. I've admired your work."

"Thanks." She looked to Claire for clarification, then back at Cassidy. "Am I supposed to know who you are and why you're here?"

"No."

A short, awkward silence ensued. Finally Claire ended it. "Yasmine, would you please take Mama back upstairs? She can take her sherry with her. I'll be up for dinner as soon as I conclude my business with Mr. Cassidy."

Yasmine looked at her friend quizzically, but Claire's expression remained impassive. "Come on, Mary Catherine," she said. "Claire has business to attend to."

Mary Catherine didn't argue with the plan. She rose and extended Cassidy her hand again. This time he figured what the hell, and raised the back of it to his lips. She simpered and smiled and asked him please to extend her regards to his family. Then, trailing the mingled scents of roses and sherry, she drifted out of the room on the arm of the stupefying Yasmine.

As soon as the door closed behind them, he turned to Claire. "I'm sorry. That can be tough. My father was afflicted with Alzheimer's for several years before he died."

"My mother doesn't have Alzheimer's, Mr. Cassidy. It's just that she often confuses the present with the past. Sometimes she believes people to be someone else, someone she knew before."

"Before what?"

"Before she became the way she is," she replied stonily. "She is what some would call off her rocker, daft, batty, one brick shy of a load. I'm sure you've heard all the cruel terms. I know I have. Many times. You see, she's been like this all my life. And, although I appreciate your treating her kindly,

I don't intend to discuss her mental illness with you. In fact,

I don't intend to discuss anything with you."