French Silk(122)

He had declined to go to New York for the memorial service Claire had arranged. He had stood beside his maman's tomb as it was being sealed, swearing then that he would never again acknowledge the finality of death until he himself died.

In order to cope with Yasmine's suicide he had tried consoling himself with familiar platitudes. "Extraordinary beauty can be a curse to the one who possesses it." "One pays a dear price for fame and fortune."

He had even dipped into some that he'd heard from his mother's friends when she took her own life. "Some angels," one well-meaning individual had told him, "are so beautiful that God can't bear to be separated from them for long. They're destined to short lives before they're even born. Impatient with fate, they often hurry it along so they can return to a realm as blemishless as they are." Traditional of New Orleans, there'd been a parade, complete with a jazz band, through the French Quarter to celebrate his mother's passing into a world worthy of her.

He hadn't believed such nonsense when he was a teenager striving valiantly not to weep openly over his mother's body. He didn't believe it now. But it made him feel better to pay lip service to it. He'd also gone to mass every day and fervently prayed for Yasmine's soul.

As if her death weren't enough to cope with, he was upset by the way she was being maligned in the press. The accusations being made about her seemed grossly unfair, especially since she couldn't defend herself. He glared at the folded newspaper that he'd angrily stuffed into the wastepaper basket beneath his desk after reading the insulting headlines. Drivel. Lies. Wild speculations.

But Assistant District Attorney Cassidy believed them.

He'd called Andre early that morning. After reading the headlines, Andre wasn't surprised to hear from him. He had expected to. He'd almost looked forward to it so he could demonstrate his contempt for the disrespectful way Yasmine was being treated.

"The woman is dead, Mr. Cassidy," he'd said acidly. "Like a vulture, you're circling over her corpse. The way you prey on the defenseless is obscene, disgraceful, and abominable."

"Cut the crap, Andre. I'm a creep and I admit it. Unfortunately, the taxpayers, you included, pay me to be a creep. Now, I've got one question for you and you'd better tell me the truth or I'm coming over there and nip your bud right off the stem, and I'm not talking about the flower in your lapel. Was Yasmine in the Fairmont Hotel the night Jackson Wilde was killed?"

"Your language is offensive. I've a good mind to report you to—"

"Was she in the frigging hotel?" Cassidy had shouted through the telephone.

Andre collected himself, smoothed a damp palm over his head and said, "You saw the records. Was her name among our registered guests?"

"That's not what I asked you."

"I have nothing more to say."

"Look." Cassidy had tried another tack, in a much more conciliatory, much kinder voice. "I know Yasmine was your friend. I'm sorry she's dead. The short time I knew her was time enough for me to develop an admiration for her talent. She was gorgeous. Simply to look at her was like a religious experience. The planet is less beautiful because she's no longer a part of it. I'm sensitive to your feelings. Truly, I am. Her death was tragic and premature, and one can only speculate why she chose to end her life.

"If you've read the newspapers," he'd continued, "then you know that some of those speculations are way off base. Yasmine wasn't a dopehead. She wasn't a militant civil rights activist. She wasn't any of the things they've written about her. So in a very real sense, Andre, by confiding in me, you'll be sparing her a lot of garbage press. And think what this will mean to Claire."

"Don't play one of my friends against the other, Mr. Cassidy."

"I'm not trying to. But if Yasmine was guilty of killing Wilde, then that means Claire is innocent. Don't you want to clear her?"

"Not if it means indicting another friend who is equally innocent, who is dead, and who can't defend herself."

"Her guilt or innocence will probably be decided at an inquest," Cassidy had said, his impatience returning. "Just tell me if you saw Yasmine in your hotel that night."

"You paint a pretty word-picture, Mr. Cassidy, but your motivations are self-serving. You obviously have no case against Yasmine. If it's up to me, you never will. You tricked me once. That's one time too many. Goodbye."

"I can subpoena you," Cassidy had threatened.

"Do what you must. My responses to your questions will remain the same."

That's the way they'd left it. Andre had almost expected storm troopers from city hall to come crashing through his door with a subpoena. However, nothing Cassidy might do would faze him. Even brute force wouldn't sway him. The notion that Yasmine had killed Jackson Wilde was ridiculous. It was unfounded and untrue. In fact, Andre averred as he got up to wash his hands once more, it was impossible.

* * *

"That's impossible."

Claire kept trying to dig in her heels, but Cassidy practically dragged her through the side entrance of the district attorney's building. The front of it was besieged by Jackson Wilde's disciples, who were holding a prayer vigil. They were on the scent of fresh blood, this time Yasmine's, even though she was already dead.