French Silk(17)

The woman smiled fondly at her daughter. "The fashions she designed were much prettier than the ones in the books. She went from paper dolls to sewing. What year did you ask for a sewing machine for Christmas?"

"I was twelve, I believe," she replied tightly. Cassidy could tell she didn't like being discussed in front of him.

"Twelve!" Mary Catherine exclaimed. "And from the day she got it, she spent all her spare time sewing, making garments from patterns she bought or those she designed herself. She's always been so clever with cloth and thread."

Her cheeks blushed and she ducked her head coyly. "Of course, I don't approve of some of the things Claire makes now. There's so little to them. But I suppose I'm old-fashioned. Young women are no longer taught to be modest, as my generation was." She took a sip of sherry, then gazed at him with interest. "Tell me, Mr. Cassidy, did your uncle Clive ever strike oil in Alaska? Such an unpleasant and risky business, petroleum."

Before he could answer the question about his nonexistent uncle Clive, the door behind them opened again. This time it was accompanied by a rush of air, as though it had been thrust open from the other side. He was so startled by the appearance of the woman who entered that he shot to his feet, almost spilling his sherry.

"Thank God!" she exclaimed when she spotted Mary Catherine. "I was afraid she'd sneaked out again."

The new arrival was at least six feet tall, with limbs as long and graceful as a gazelle. Her spectacular body was wrapped in a short, white terrycloth kimono that skimmed the middle of her thighs. Another towel had been wrapped like a turban around her head. Even without makeup her face was captivating—widely spaced agate eyes; a small, straight nose; full lips; a square jaw and a well-defined chin; high, prominent cheekbones. The haughty carriage of African royalty was in her walk as she came farther into the room.

"Sorry, Claire. I let Harry go early and decided to take a quick shower. When I came out, Mary Catherine had vanished. Everyone else has gone home for the day. Christ, I thought I'd really goofed this time."

"Everything's fine, Yasmine."

"Who's he?" She turned to Cassidy with frank curiosity. Claire made rudimentary introductions. He shook a hand as long as his, but much more slender. Even up close, her skin was flawless, seemingly poreless, the color of heavily creamed coffee. It was dappled with beads of water, indicating that she hadn't even taken the time to dry off. The robe was undoubtedly all she had on, but she exhibited no modesty at all as she broke a dazzlingly white smile for him.

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Cassidy."

"The same. I've admired your work."

"Thanks." She looked to Claire for clarification, then back at Cassidy. "Am I supposed to know who you are and why you're here?"

"No."

A short, awkward silence ensued. Finally Claire ended it. "Yasmine, would you please take Mama back upstairs? She can take her sherry with her. I'll be up for dinner as soon as I conclude my business with Mr. Cassidy."

Yasmine looked at her friend quizzically, but Claire's expression remained impassive. "Come on, Mary Catherine," she said. "Claire has business to attend to."

Mary Catherine didn't argue with the plan. She rose and extended Cassidy her hand again. This time he figured what the hell, and raised the back of it to his lips. She simpered and smiled and asked him please to extend her regards to his family. Then, trailing the mingled scents of roses and sherry, she drifted out of the room on the arm of the stupefying Yasmine.

As soon as the door closed behind them, he turned to Claire. "I'm sorry. That can be tough. My father was afflicted with Alzheimer's for several years before he died."

"My mother doesn't have Alzheimer's, Mr. Cassidy. It's just that she often confuses the present with the past. Sometimes she believes people to be someone else, someone she knew before."

"Before what?"

"Before she became the way she is," she replied stonily. "She is what some would call off her rocker, daft, batty, one brick shy of a load. I'm sure you've heard all the cruel terms. I know I have. Many times. You see, she's been like this all my life. And, although I appreciate your treating her kindly,

I don't intend to discuss her mental illness with you. In fact,

I don't intend to discuss anything with you."

She stood, signaling that as far as she was concerned their meeting was concluded. "I didn't know Jackson Wilde, Mr. Cassidy. If that's what you came here to learn, now you know. I'll show you to the door."

As she stalked past him, he caught her upper arm and brought her up short. "You don't get it yet, do you? Or if you do, you're too smart to let it show."

"Let go of my arm."

The fabric of her sleeve was so soft and crushable, his fingers seemed to have melted it until he was touching her skin. His knuckles were embedded in the giving fullness of her breast. Slowly, and with a shocking amount of regret, he relaxed his fingers and released her.

"What am I supposed to 'get,' Mr. Cassidy?"

"That I didn't come here for chitchat and sherry."

"No?"

"No. I came to formally question you in connection with the homicide of Jackson Wilde."

She drew in a sharp, sudden breath and shivered reflexively. "That's ridiculous."