French Silk(119)

"Congressman Petrie's."

Policemen were already scrambling across the lawn and paramedics 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 25

? ^ ?

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."