French Silk(118)

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 f*cked 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 good-night 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?"