French Silk (22 page)

When Josh came in carrying a cup of coffee and the morning newspaper, he noticed the candy wrappers immediately. "Is that your breakfast?"

"What of it?"

"Not exactly oat bran, is it?" He sank into an easy chair, placed his cup at his elbow, and unfolded the paper. "It's a miracle. We're not front-page news anymore."

Watching him almost soured the candy in her stomach. Lately, Josh was about as much fun as a forty-year plague. They still made love every night. He was skilled and ardent and had an artist's sensuality. His fingertips played her body as they did the piano keys, with strength and sensitivity.

But half the excitement of sleeping with him had been the thrill of cuckolding Jackson. Since secrecy and guilt were no longer adding spice to the affair, the lovemaking had grown bland. Even after an orgasm, she hungered for something more.

Yet, she couldn't account for her restlessness and dissatisfaction. The Cincinnati crusade had gone exceptionally well. Two TV shows had been taped and were ready for broadcast. During the tapings, the auditorium had been packed to capacity.

Ariel had sung. Josh had played. Several disciples had tearfully testified to what Jackson Wilde and his ministry had meant to their lives. Then Ariel had taken the podium and begun her heartrending sermon. It had taken days to memorize. Each crack in her voice, each gesture, had been carefully choreographed and rehearsed in front of her mirror. The time and effort had been well spent. Before she was finished there wasn't a dry eye in the place, and the offering plates were overflowing with greenbacks.

Those who, weeks before, had been skeptical of her ability to continue the ministry without Jackson's stern leadership had been effusively complimentary. She'd proved them wrong. She was just as charismatic and persuasive as her late husband had been.. People had flocked by the hundreds to see her, considering every word she spoke a precious gem. The world was in her pocket.

So why was she feeling vaguely discontent?

It just still wasn't enough. She had hundreds of thousands of followers, but why not millions? Suddenly she sat up. "I don't think so."

Josh lowered one corner of his paper. "Pardon?"

"I don't think it's so bloody wonderful that we're no longer front-page news." She swung her legs off the divan and began to roam around the room. She fidgeted, straightening tasseled cushions, rearranging crystal vases, and repositioning porcelain shepherdesses.

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, here's our ad on page fifteen of section two."

He turned the paper toward her so that she could see the ad. Across the top, printed in the ministry's trademark typeface, was the title of their television show. Beneath that was a full-face drawing of her, holding a microphone in front of her mouth, tears rolling down her cheeks. The date and time of broadcast were printed beneath.

Ariel critically studied the ad.
"'The Jackson Wilde Prayer and Praise Hour
,'" she read. "Jackson Wilde is dead. Why haven't we changed the name of the program?"

"To what?"

"Why not
The
Ariel
Wilde Prayer and Praise Hour?"

"Why not
The Prayer and Praise Hour?"

"Because that's too plain. Besides, people need an individual to identify with."

"You, I suppose."

"Well, why not? I'm the one doing most of the talking now."

Josh watched her over the rim of his coffee cup as he took a sip. "Call the damn show anything you please, Ariel. I really couldn't care less."

"That's readily apparent."

He tossed the newspaper aside and angrily surged to his feet. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means that if it weren't for me, this whole outfit would have collapsed after Jackson died. You don't have the balls to hold together a scout troop' much less a ministry like ours. It's a good thing you've got me. Otherwise, you'd be out hustling gigs with tent revivals."

"I'd be a lot happier doing that. At least I wouldn't feel like a carrion bird picking at a dead man's corpse."

One carefully penciled eyebrow arched. "If you're so unhappy, you know where the door is.

Josh glared at her, but, as she had known he would, he backed down. He went to the piano and after running through several chords he began playing a classical piece with all the verve and courage he lacked in dealing with sticky situations.

When finally he had calmed down, he looked up at her, but continued to play. "You know what's really pathetic? You don't realize what a joke you are."

"Joke?" she repeated, affronted. "To who?"

"To everyone within the organization. You're blinded by your inflated self-importance. People are laughing behind your back. Why do you think two of the board members have already resigned?"

"Because they didn't like having a woman calling the shots. I threatened their masculinity. Who gives a damn? We didn't need them."

"This ministry, which you brag about holding together, is crumbling, Ariel. Only you're too pumped up with ego to see it." He ran his hands over the keys, completing the piece, then began another. "Daddy's probably sitting up there somewhere in heaven, having a good laugh on us."

"You've gone soft in the head."

He grinned at her knowingly. "You're still scared of him, aren't you, Ariel?"

"You're the one who's scared."

"I admit it," he said. "You don't."

"I'm not scared of anything or anybody."

"He's still got you under his thumb."

"Like hell."

"Why do you eat like a lumberjack and then go throw it up?" He finished the piece on a fortissimo that punctuated his question.

Ariel's cocky defensiveness wavered. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh yes you do. You've been doing it for months. As soon as you've eaten, you go into the bathroom. You binge on things like candy bars, then force yourself to throw up. That's a sickness. Bulimia."

She rolled her eyes. "Who are you, the surgeon general? So I watch my weight. TV cameras add at least fifteen pounds. I don't want to look like a white whale when I descend that freaking staircase."

He reached up and encircled her narrow wrist, turning it up so that she could see how much his long fingers overlapped. "You don't simply count calories, Ariel. You stuff yourself, then you make yourself vomit."

She yanked her hand away. "Well, what if I do? Jackson was always on my case about my weight. I had to do something to keep it off."

"Didn't you ever figure him out?" Josh asked with a rueful smile. "He was a master at preying on a person's weakness. That's how he exercised mind control. He constantly hinted that my mother was stupid, until she began to believe it. For the last few years of her life, she was afraid to offer an opinion on anything at the risk of being ridiculed.

"You know his bit with me. He let me know at every turn that I lacked the musical talent I craved. Every chance he got, he reminded me that I was only good enough to pound out gospel music and was mediocre at that.

"With you, it was your weight. He knew you were self-conscious about it, so he used that to keep you humble. He was as sly as Satan, Ariel. He was so subtle, you didn't even know you'd been gigged until you realized that your self-esteem was lower than shit.

"You should have ignored him when he teased you about your 'baby fat' and your overactive sweet tooth. You were always slender enough. Now you're on the verge of emaciation. Besides, as you noted only moments ago, he's dead. He can't harp on you anymore."

"No, he's got you to do it for him."

Josh shook his head in resignation. "You're missing the point, Ariel. I'm not being critical. I'm worried about your health. I—"

"Wait, Josh, I've got an idea." She reached down and mashed her hands over his, causing the keys to crash discordantly.

He pulled his hands from beneath hers. "You bitch! If you ever—"

"Oh, stop. I didn't hurt your precious hands. Listen, what you said earlier, about us not making news any longer? Well, you're right. We've got to do something to correct that."

He was experimentally flexing his fingers. "What do you have in mind?" he grumbled.

"Since we got back from Cincinnati we've been holed up here in Nashville, out of sight and out of mind. It's time we shook things up, generated some headlines. It should be made plain to the cops in New Orleans that the grieving widow and son haven't forgotten that Jackson Wilde was murdered in cold blood."

"Are you so sure that reminding them of that is a smart idea?"

She shot him an icy look. "Jackson had legions of enemies." Making a steeple of her index fingers, she tapped them against her lips. "One in particular in New Orleans."

"Tell me what it means."

Cassidy was in a bad mood. Dealing with Detective Howard Glenn wasn't improving his state of mind. The day after he had accompanied Claire to the Ponchartrain to pick up Mary Catherine, Cassidy had recounted to Glenn all that had transpired. All except the kiss.

"So she didn't deny that it was her voice on the tape?" Glenn had asked.

"No, because she had a good reason for being at the Fairmont that night."

"To plug the preacher."

"Or to pick up her mother, as she claims." Glenn had regarded him skeptically. "Look, Glenn, they couldn't have staged that business last night. Mary Catherine Laurent's mental instability is genuine and Cl… Ms. Laurent protects her like a mama bear."

He had tilled him in on Claire's relationship with Andre Philippi. "It dates back to childhood. So it's reasonable that he lied to protect her privacy and that's the extent of it."

Glenn had searched for a place to extinguish his cigarette butt. Cassidy offered him an empty Styrofoam cup. "Jesus," Glenn had said as he ground out the butt, "the deeper we dig the more interesting it gets."

"But we've got to dig with finesse."

"Meaning?"

"I want to get to the bottom of this, too. Maybe there's something there, maybe not. But you can't approach a woman like Claire Laurent reeking of Camels and tossing out obscenities. I still think it's best if you leave her to me."

"Oh?"

"She finds you personally distasteful."

Glenn settled his rump more comfortably in his chair and rested one ankle on the other. "How does she find you, Cassidy?"

"What are you implying?" he had snapped, tossing down his writing pen.

Glenn had raised his hands in surrender. "Nothing, nothing. It's just that I couldn't help but notice that she's a good-looking broad. And you're not exactly a troll. All things considered—"

"All things considered," Cassidy had interrupted tightly, "I'm going to prosecute Jackson Wilde's killer no matter who it is."

"Then you've got no reason to be so touchy, do you?"

From then on, their conversations had been strictly business. Cassidy had chided himself for swallowing Glenn's bait. He wouldn't have if his conscience hadn't been so sorely pricked by Glenn's implications, and he reckoned that the detective knew that. He hadn't brought up the possibility of a conflict of interests since, but Cassidy was certain he hadn't forgotten the exchange.

This morning, Glenn was into guessing games. He'd ambled in and scattered several computer printouts across Cassidy's desk. Thousands of names were listed on the sheets, a few of which had been circled with red crayon. Cassidy randomly picked one. "Who's this Darby Moss?"

"Not a name you forget, is it?" Glenn asked rhetorically. "Years ago when I was still on a beat, I busted him for assault. He worked a hooker over pretty good. Put her in the hospital. Moss flies in this slick little hustler of a lawyer from Dallas, his hometown. Got the charges dropped. Pissed me off good. So when his name showed up on this list of contributors to Wilde's ministry, it set off bells. I went to Dallas over the weekend and found ol' Darby alive and kicking. He owns three adult-book stores."

Cassidy's brows drew together. "You don't say."

"Yeah. Regular jerk-off joints. You name a perversion, he stocks a magazine that caters to it, along with dildos, inflatable pussies, all kinds of shit. Curious, huh? When I got back, I started running matches through the computer and all these other names sent up red flags. In one way or another, they're all dealing in the very stuff Wilde preached against."

"What does that tell us? That when they chipped in, he turned off the heat?"

"Looks like. And that's not all." He scanned the sheet until his finger landed on another name circled in red. "Here."

"Gloria Jean Reynolds?"

Glenn smugly slipped a piece of notepaper from the breast pocket of his dingy white shirt and handed it to Cassidy. Cassidy silently read the name, then raised inquiring eyes to Glenn, who shrugged eloquently.

The phone on his desk rang. Cassidy picked it up on the second ring. "Cassidy."

"Mr. Cassidy, it's Claire Laurent."

His gut clenched reflexively. Her soft, smoky voice was the last one he had expected to hear. She was never off his mind, but the fantasies he entertained weren't always of convicting her of murder.