French Silk(120)

"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 question."

"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?

Claire kept Yasmine's secrets to herself. She wouldn't betray her friend's confidence even now, when it no longer mattered. To mutual friends who had been shocked by the news and needed answers, Claire merely said that Yasmine had been extremely unhappy recently. She didn't divulge details of her failed love affair or of her financial difficulties.

Since all that remained of Yasmine's family were a few cousins sprinkled along the East Coast, to whom she had never been close, the responsibility of the funeral and burial had fallen to Claire. Yasmine had left no instructions, so Claire had followed her instincts and had the body cremated. The memorial service had been quiet and private, open to only a few invited guests. Now an urn sealed in a mausoleum was all that remained of her gorgeous, talented, vital friend who had possessed a zest for living until she fell in love with the wrong man.