French Silk

by Sandra Brown

  Yasmine shook her head and alighted. “Thank you.”

  “Well, ’bye. It’s been a pleasure.”

  He dropped the gear shift into drive, saluted her, and pulled away from the curb. Yasmine watched him drive way. She was smiling, glad she’d made his day. He would talk about her for months, maybe years, telling everybody he met that he’d had Yasmine in his cab the night she really made herself famous.

  “Good luck to you, sugar,” she whispered into the still evening air. Standing on the curb, she regarded the stately house across the street. It would have made a pretty picture for a postcard. Even the Spanish moss hanging from the branches of the live oaks was perfectly placed.

  There was no blood on the dining room window, which was dark now. They’d washed it off the morning after she’d paid to have the dead chicken “delivered.” She’d driven past the next day to see. There’d been no trace of the terror that she hoped her hex had caused the smug son of a bitch.

  He didn’t know what terror was. Not yet.

  She stepped off the curb and started across the street. Reaching into her large leather shoulder bag, she took out the revolver. Even though she’d checked the cylinders a hundred times during the course of the long afternoon while she waited for nightfall, she checked them once again. All were loaded.

  She started up the sidewalk that divided the front lawn into immaculately landscaped halves. Her stride was long and confident, as it had been for years on the runways of fashion houses all over the world. New York, Paris, Milan. No one walked like Yasmine. Her gait couldn’t be imitated. Many had tried, but none had been able to combine that sensuous countermotion of hips and shoulders with elegance and grace the way she had mastered it.

  She hesitated for only a heartbeat on the bottom step leading up to the porch, then strode to the wide front door and pressed the bell.

  “Daddy, I’ve got a soccer game on Saturday. Do you think maybe you could come to this one? I’m playing goalie.”

  Alister Petrie reached across the corner of the kitchen dining table and ruffled his son’s hair. “I’ll try. That’s all I can promise. But I’ll try.”

  “Gee, that’d be great,” the boy beamed.

  Since the incident with the dead chicken, which had taken ten years off his life, Alister had turned over a new leaf. For days he’d lived in abject terror, venturing out of the house only when absolutely necessary and then only under the protection of the bodyguards Belle had insisted on hiring.

  As he delivered his scheduled campaign speeches, his knees had knocked together behind the podiums because he feared an assassination. At night in his dreams, he envisioned a bullet coming at him at an unstoppable velocity and piercing his forehead, exploding his head like a watermelon. He always lived to witness his execution and woke up trembling and blubbering.

  Belle was always beside him to render comfort and solace. Drawing his shivering body against hers, she crooned reassurances that his mistress had vented her spleen with that disgusting and savage display, and that was the end of it.

  She did, however, manage to get in her sharp, vicious barbs. “You reap what you sow, Alister.” “What goes around comes around.” “Your sins find you out.” She had a litany of adages, all with biblical overtones.

  Like fishhooks, they stayed deeply embedded under his skin. It would be a while before he felt courageous enough to screw around. He’d learned his lesson. When he did feel the urge to stray, he’d make damn certain that the broad didn’t have an affinity for voodoo. It might be harmless, but it fucked with your mind in the worst way.

  Gradually, when it appeared that the dead chicken was indeed an isolated incident and the sum total of Yasmine’s vengeance, Alister began to relax. He resumed his normal, hectic schedule. The bodyguards were dismissed. But the familial bliss was a lasting aftereffect. He was at home as frequently as possible now. He kissed both children goodnight every night and took the time to exchange a few sentences with each of them at some point during the day.

  Belle participated in his campaign more actively than before. They were rarely out of each other’s sight. She kept him on a very short leash, which for once he didn’t resent, because she had kept her promise not to reduce or suspend the campaign contributions that poured in from her private resources and those of her extensive family.

  They had not, however, eaten in the formal dining room since that fateful night.

  Tonight the Petries were gathered around the table that was tucked into a cozy nook adjacent to the kitchen. Rockwell couldn’t have painted a scene more depictive of domestic harmony. There had been fresh apple pie for dessert. The aroma of cinnamon and baked Granny Smiths wafted through the well-lighted room. They could have been any family in America—except for the uniformed maid, who, at a silent signal from Belle, began clearing away the dishes and carrying them to the dishwasher.

  “Daddy?”

  “Yes, sweetheart?” He gave his attention to his daughter.

  “I colored a picture of you at school today.”

  “Did you?”

  “Hmm. It’s of you making a speech in front of the American flag.”

  “You don’t say?” he said expansively. “Well, let’s see it.”

  “Mommy, may I be excused? It’s in my school bag up in my room.”

  Belle smiled indulgently. “Of course, darling.”

  The youngest Petrie slid from her chair and dashed out of the kitchen. No sooner had she cleared the swinging door than the front-door bell rang. “I’ll get it!” Her high-pitched, childish voice echoed through the rooms. They heard the rubber soles of her sneakers striking the hardwood floors, occasionally muted by area rugs.

  The telephone rang. The maid answered the kitchen extension. “Petrie residence.”

  They heard the front door being opened.

  “No,” the maid said into the receiver. “There’s no one here by that name.”

  “Who was it?” Belle asked as the maid hung up.

  “Wrong number. A woman who sounded hysterical was looking for someone named Jasmine.”

  Alister blanched and surged to his feet. “Yasmine?”

  Belle looked at him. Simultaneously the same chilling thought occurred to them. Belle said, “Is that—”

  “Yes.” Alister bounded through the swinging door.

  “What’s the matter, Mom?”

  “Nothing, son.”

  “You look funny.”

  The maid said, “Miz Petrie? Anything wrong?”

  “Don’t be silly,” Belle snapped. “What could be wrong?”

  Then they heard the gunshot.

  “No, don’t hang up!” Claire shouted into the receiver of the public telephone. When she got a dial tone, she banged the receiver against the box. “I told you not to hang up!”

  After becoming hopelessly lost in an area with which she wasn’t familiar, she had stopped at a pay telephone to call the Petries. Unsure of exactly how to warn them, she clumsily punched out the number that directory assistance had given her. It had been answered on the first ring, but obviously the housekeeper to whom she had conveyed her hysteria dismissed her as a wrong number or a crank call.

  She inserted another quarter and redialed. The line was busy. “Come on, please. Please.” She put the quarter in and tried again. This time the phone rang repeatedly, but wasn’t answered. Thinking that in her haste she must have misdialed, she repeated the process. It continued to ring.

  Moments later, she became aware of approaching sirens. Dread, like a fist inside her chest, clutched at her heart. “Oh, no. Please, God, no.”

  But her prayers went unanswered. The emergency vehicles sped past, lights flashing. Claire dropped the telephone receiver, ran for her car, and struck out in pursuit. When they reached their destination, she bolted from her car, grabbed the arm of a pajama-clad neighbor, and asked, “Whose house is this?”

  “Congressman Petrie’s.”

  Policemen were already scrambling across the lawn and par
amedics were rushing with a gurney toward the open door. Claire shoved aside the befuddled neighbor and plunged headlong up the sloping lawn. A policeman tried to halt her, but she ignored his shouted order to stop.

  “My friend needs me.”

  Breathless, she reached the porch steps and ran up them toward the cluster of people huddled in the entrance. From within the house she could hear the hysterical screaming of a child. Behind her, police officers were ordering her to freeze.

  Her worst fears were confirmed when she saw a draped from lying across the threshold. She was too late! Yasmine had killed him! She searched frantically for Yasmine among those stomping about in confusion and distress.

  Suddenly Claire’s eyes connected with Alister Petrie’s. She almost laughed with relief. He seemed dazed, but unharmed.

  Then she noticed that he was splattered with fresh blood that was not his own. He was standing in a puddle of it that was fed by the river flowing from beneath the plastic sheet.

  Claire’s eyes dropped to the body once again, and she saw something lying outside the sheet that she had missed the first time—a hand, beautifully shaped, long and slender, the color of café au lait.

  And encircling the wrist were bright, gold bangles.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  When Claire exited the jetway, she was momentarily blinded by exploding flashbulbs and video lights. Reflexively, she threw her arm across her eyes. She wanted to flee, but there was nowhere to go. Other airline passengers were filing out behind her, cutting off that avenue of escape, and in front of her was a phalanx of reporters and photographers.

  In New York she had endured the mad flurry of publicity caused by Yasmine’s suicide. The media attention had been expected, so she had braced herself for it and met it head-on. But she had thought that by the time she returned to New Orleans it would be old news. She hadn’t bolstered herself for this barrage and wasn’t prepared for the reporters who surged toward her en masse.

  “Ms. Laurent, what do you think of Yasmine’s involvement—”

  “Will the allegations stick?”

  “What do you know about—”

  “Please,” she said, trying to push through them. But they were like a solid rank of soldiers armed with cameras and microphones. They didn’t give an inch. Without a statement, they weren’t going to.

  “My friend was obviously very unhappy.” Claire spoke from behind her large sunglasses and tried to keep her face averted from the bright lights. “I grieve for her, but the contributions she made to me personally and those she made to the fashion industry will keep her memory alive for years to come. Excuse me.”

  Stoically she proceeded through the airport, refusing to acknowledge any more questions. Finally an airport security guard offered to claim her luggage and assisted her into a cab. When she arrived at French Silk, she was greeted not only by members of the media but by the dedicated disciples of Jackson Wilde who continued to picket. She hastily paid her fare and dashed inside.

  She was gratified to see her employees going about their business, although they seemed unnaturally somber. Several murmured condolences, which she graciously accepted. In the elevator, she removed her sunglasses, hastily used a lipstick, and composed herself. She didn’t want Mary Catherine to be any more upset by Yasmine’s suicide than she already had been. When she had put her mother and Harry on a New Orleans–bound jet at La Guardia following the funeral, Mary Catherine had been vague and disoriented. Claire had been concerned for her mother’s mental stability and despaired over the separation, but had felt that Mary Catherine would be better off in familiar surroundings than in New York, where Claire couldn’t devote much time and attention to her.

  Forcing herself to smile, she opened the main door of the apartment and breezed in. “Mama, I’m home!” She had taken only a few steps when she saw Mary Catherine in the living room, seated in the corner of a sofa, sniffing into a handkerchief. Harry was standing near the windows, rigid and unsmiling with disapproval.

  After taking in the scene, Claire’s eyes swung back to Cassidy, who was seated beside her mother. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “I told him this wasn’t a good idea, but he insisted on speaking with her.”

  “Thank you, Harry. I know how persuasive Mr. Cassidy can be.” Throwing daggers at him with her eyes, Claire quickly moved to the sofa and dropped to her knees in front of her mother. “Mama, I’m home. Aren’t you glad to see me?”

  “Claire Louise?”

  “Yes, Mama?”

  “Are they coming for you?”

  “No. Nobody’s coming for me.”

  “I don’t want them to take you away on account of what I’ve done.”

  “They can’t take me. I’m not going anywhere. I’m home now. We’re together.”

  “I’ve tried to do better,” Mary Catherine said between gentle hiccups. “Really, I have. Ask Aunt Laurel. It’s just that…” She raised her hand to her temple and massaged it. “I get so distraught sometimes when I think of my sin. Mama and Papa were so angry with me when I told them about the baby.”

  Claire drew Mary Catherine against her and whispered, “Don’t worry, Mama. I’m here now. I’ll always take care of you.” Claire held her until her weeping subsided, then pushed her away and smiled into the tear-streaked face. “Do you know what I’d love for supper? Some of your gumbo. Will you make some for me? Please.”

  “My roux is never as good as Aunt Laurel’s,” Mary Catherine said shyly, “but if you really want some…”

  “I do.” She motioned for Harry. “Why don’t you start it now so it can simmer all day? Go with Harry. She’ll help you.” She assisted Mary Catherine to her feet.

  Mary Catherine turned and extended her hand to Cassidy. “I’ve got to go now, Mr. Cassidy, but thank you so much for calling. Bring your folks with you one afternoon for a glass of sherry.” He nodded. Harry ushered her into the kitchen.

  “I’m not finished questioning her yet.”

  Claire rounded on him. “The hell you’re not! How dare you sneak in here and upset her while I was away. What did you want with her?”

  “I had some pertinent questions for her.”

  “To hell with your pertinent questions.”

  “As an assistant D.A., I have the right—”

  “Right?” she repeated incredulously. “We’ve had a death in the family, or have you forgotten?”

  “I’m sorry about Yasmine.”

  “I’ll bet. That’s one less suspect for you, isn’t it?”

  “You’re not being fair. I didn’t intend to upset your mother.”

  “Well, you did. And if you ever bully my mother again, I’ll kill you. She doesn’t know the answers to your bloody questions.”

  “But you do,” he said. “That’s why you’re going downtown with me.”

  “What for?”

  “I’ll tell you when we get there.” He took her arm in an inexorable grip.

  “Are you going to have me arrested? What did you coerce my mother into saying?”

  “Tell them goodbye, Claire, and go peaceably,” he said, quietly by firmly. “Another scene will only upset Mary Catherine more.”

  At that moment Claire hated him. “You bastard.”

  “Get your purse and say goodbye.”

  In this skirmish, he was the uncontested winner. For her mother’s sake, she wouldn’t even compete. He knew that and was using it to his advantage. Claire stared him down, her loathing palpable. At last she said, “Harry, I’m going downtown with Mr. Cassidy for a while. Goodbye, Mama.”

  When they emerged from French Silk, it caused a furor among the reporters and the demonstrators. A dozen questions were hurled at Claire at once.

  “Ms. Laurent has no comment,” Cassidy tersely told the reporters.

  “Cassidy, what do you think—”

  “No comment.”

  “Do you believe you’ve found your killer?”

  “No comment.” Ignoring the microphones
being poked into his face, he propelled Claire through the crowd. She was exhausted, bereaved, and confused, so she went docilely. At least Cassidy was a familiar adversary.

  Cassidy’s long stride soon broke them out of the pack. Two uniformed policemen closed ranks behind them. They started down the sidewalk, wasting no time.

  “I’ll drive her downtown in my car,” Cassidy said to the patrolmen.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thanks for your help.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Try your best to disperse that crowd, and keep a close watch on the place.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The policemen peeled off to carry out his curt instructions. Never breaking stride, he escorted Claire to his car, which was illegally parked at the curb. He opened the passenger door for her and stepped aside. Too weary to war with him now, she slid into the seat.

  “How’d you manage to keep the funeral off TV?” he asked once they were on their way uptown.

  “I set up a decoy. A hearse with a fake coffin led the media hounds into New Jersey before they realized they’d been duped.” She touched the gold bangle she was wearing on her wrist. It had been one of Yasmine’s favorites. Claire knew she would have wanted her to have it. “I couldn’t have borne it if her funeral had been a carnival attended by strangers.”

  It had been more than a week since she had arrived at Alister Petrie’s house and seen her friend lying dead on his doorstep. In front of him and his daughter, Yasmine had shot herself through the back of the head, totally, almost vindictively, destroying her lovely face with the exit wound. Yasmine was unarguably dead. There were, however, moments when Claire almost forgot it. Then reality landed on her like an avalanche of bricks.

  She’d barely had time to grieve. The days since the suicide had been filled with grim activity—forms to sign, arrangements to make, Yasmine’s affairs to settle, media to dodge, questions to answer for which there were no answers. How did one explain why a woman who seemingly had everything would destroy herself in such a grotesquely poetic way?