French Silk(110)
The thought stirred him physically, bringing him back into the present. Claire would be home from Mississippi by now. He stared at his desk telephone, tempted to call her. But no. She would still be angry. Best to give her a few more days to cool off.
In the meantime, he would dig diligently, looking for the missing element that would confirm someone else's guilt and exonerate Claire.
She was innocent.
* * *
Claire frowned at the unopened mail stacked in piles on her desk. There were bills to pay, memos to sort through, and a menacing envelope from the IRS to open. She lacked the energy to tackle the paperwork and attributed her ennui to the trip. She had worked very hard, on a rigid schedule, in oppressive, muggy heat. She needed and deserved a few days' rest before resuming her work. Then she realized that a few days' rest wasn't going to remedy her problem.
She warded off the depressing thought and pulled her mind back to the mess on her desk. In addition to the unopened mail were recent editions of the newspaper. According to an unidentified but reliable source, Assistant District Attorney Cassidy was readjusting his investigation to focus on Ariel and Joshua Wilde.
His name, printed in bold type face, captured her attention, and she stared at it until she lost track of time. In all likelihood she would have continued staring and remembering if her mother hadn't interrupted, appearing at her door carrying a tray.
"Would you like some tea, Claire Louise? You've looked so tired lately, I thought it might help perk you up."
"Thank you, Mama. That sounds wonderful. But only if you'll stay and share it."
"I was hoping you'd ask."
Claire smiled and, taking one of the newspapers with her, moved to the sitting area where she had first entertained Cassidy. It seemed that everything she said or did reminded her of him. She resented his intrusive power over her mind. He hadn't called or made any attempt to see her since the morning he'd left Rosesharon without a goodbye. She didn't know whether to be relieved, heartbroken, insulted, or a combination of the three.
Thoughts of him evoked every emotion she was acquainted with; some were blissful to experience, some miserable. She would catch herself grinning demurely, then in the next moment be on the verge of tears. Not since the social workers had dragged her from Aunt Laurel's house had anyone wielded that much power over her.
Mary Catherine set the silver service tray on the low coffee table. She passed Claire a hand-embroidered linen napkin, then poured them each a cup of fragrant tea from a china pot.
They chatted about inconsequential matters while they tipped their tea and nibbled on tea cakes Mary Catherine and Harry had baked that morning. The trip to Mississippi had been good for Mary Catherine. Claire noticed a healthy rosiness in her mother's cheeks that subtracted years from her appearance. Her eyes were clear and animated. They didn't have the vacancy that had always alarmed her, even as a child, because she recognized it as a harbinger of a "spell." Mary Catherine seemed more in tune with her surroundings. To Claire's knowledge, she hadn't had another lapse since taking Cassidy's fountain pen.
As though reading Claire's mind, she said, "I see you were reading the newspapers. It says Mr. Cassidy now believes that Jackson Wilde's son or widow killed him. Isn't that silly?"
"Silly?"
"They didn't do it. And I don't believe Mr. Cassidy thinks so either."
"How do you know they didn't do it, Mama?"
Ignoring the question, Mary Catherine asked one of her own. "And why are those people picketing in front of our building again?" Picket-toting Wilde disciples had kept vigil in front of French Silk since their return to the city.
"I wish they'd go away," Mary Catherine said with vexation. "It's difficult for Harry and me to go to the market in the mornings. I enjoy our outings, but having to get through that crowd ruins them."
To Mary Catherine's mind, the inability to get to the French Market without a hassle was more worrisome than having her daughter accused of murder. But that wasn't as disturbing to Claire as her mother's previous statements. "The pickets are a temporary inconvenience, Mama. Once they arrest somebody for killing Reverend Wilde, they will disband."
"Will he ever come back?"
For one heart-stopping instant, Claire thought she referred to Jackson Wilde. "Who, Mama?" she asked hoarsely.
"Mr. Cassidy."
Claire's shoulders relaxed as she slowly exhaled. "I don't know. Why?"
Tears suddenly welled up in Mary Catherine's eyes. Her lower lip began to tremble. "I was so hoping that when you fell in love, your young man wouldn't disappoint you like mine did me."
She removed a monogrammed handkerchief from the pocket of her skirt. The linen was so sheer that it appeared to have been spun rather than woven. It smelled like the rose-scented sachets she kept in her bureau drawers.
As she blotted her eyes, Claire reached out and covered her hand. "Don't cry, Mama. It was never … that way … with Mr. Cassidy and me."
"Oh," she said with a soft, disconsolate sound. "I thought it was. I hoped it was. I like him very much. He's such a handsome young man. And he knows how to treat a lady."
Oh yes, Claire thought, he's handsome. Vividly she recalled seeing his face dark and intent with passion, his lips sensually caressing her breasts, his chest warmly, fuzzily naked. And he certainly knew how to treat a lady, especially in bed. He gave as much pleasure as he sought, maybe more. Such perfect lovemaking almost had to be calculated, didn't it?