French Silk(29)

Cassidy could change tactics till his face turned blue and he wouldn't prize anything out of Andre. He was resolved never to reveal information that would compromise individuals he respected. Facts that had absolutely no bearing on the murder of the Reverend Jackson Wilde were none of Mr. Cassidy's business.

Mr. Cassidy wasn't originally from New Orleans. He was under the misconception that the law was absolute, unbendable, and applicable to everyone. No doubt he thought that blanket rules covered everybody. Evidently he hadn't yet learned the code of honor that governed the Crescent City. Outsiders might not understand and adhere to it, but Andre Philippi certainly did.

* * *

When Claire entered the kitchen area, her mother was sitting alone at the table in the breakfast nook. She was fully dressed and had applied makeup. Those were encouraging signs. There were days when Mary Catherine couldn't leave her bed, imprisoned there by depression.

"Hmm. Coffee smells good, Mama," Claire said as she clipped on her earrings.

"Good morning, dear. Sleep well?"

"Yes," Claire lied. As she stirred cream into her coffee, she looked over her shoulder and smiled at her mother. Her smile congealed when she saw the familiar face that filled the screen of the portable TV in the étagère. It was tuned to a morning news program.

"She really shouldn't shout like that," Mary Catherine remarked. "It's so unflattering. A lady should cultivate a soothing speaking voice."

Ariel Wilde was ringed by reporters, all eager to broadcast her latest and most vicious criticisms of the city, parish, and state authorities that had thus far declined to release her husband's body for transport to Nashville.

Claire gingerly sat down across from her mother. She watched Mary Catherine rather than the TV.

"Mrs. Wilde should be allowed to bury her husband as soon as possible," Mary Catherine said, "but it's hard to work up sympathy for people who are so unpleasant."

"Why do you say they're unpleasant, Mama?"

Mary Catherine looked at her with bald surprise. "Why, Claire, have you forgotten all the trouble this preacher caused you, all the horrible things he said? He was a detestable human being, and apparently so is his wife."

This is one of her lucid days, Claire thought. They occurred rarely, but on such days Mary Catherine made perfect sense and was fully aware of what was taking place around her. When her eyes were clear and her voice was resonant with conviction, one could easily doubt that she was ever any other way. Claire, looking at her now, wondered what triggered these bouts of sanity and the all-too-frequent lapses. For decades doctors had tried and failed to diagnose and cure the problems.

"The things that man said about you were so hateful," she was saying. "Why couldn't he have minded his own business and left you alone?"

Claire was stunned by her mother's vehemence. "I don't have to worry about him anymore, Mama."

Mary Catherine's lips turned up into a beatific smile. "Oh yes, I know. He died of three gunshot wounds." Abruptly changing the subject, she pushed a plate of croissants toward Claire. "Have one, dear. They're wonderful."

"Just coffee for now," Claire said distractedly. "Mama, I've been wanting to talk to you about something very important."

"I love this weatherman, don't you? He has such a nice, conversational manner."

"Mama?" Claire waited until Mary Catherine's attention was again focused on her. "Do you remember meeting Mr. Cassidy the other day?"

"Of course. Only a few minutes ago, they showed his picture and quoted him in a news story. I didn't know when 1 met him that he's so important. He'll be prosecuting the Jackson Wilde case for the district attorney's office."

"That's right. And because Reverend Wilde had been so hostile toward me, Mr. Cassidy wanted to meet me. He might be coming back."

"Oh, how lovely. He was very nice."

"Well, he … he's not always nice. In his work, he often must ask people a lot of questions. Personal questions about their lives, their backgrounds. He must delve into their pasts and try to uncover things that they'd rather remain private." She paused to let that sink in. Mary Catherine gazed back at her inquisitively. "If Mr. Cassidy should come back and start asking you about the years we lived with Aunt Laurel, what would you tell him?"

Mary Catherine was nonplussed. "I suppose I'd tell him how lovely it was."

Claire, sighing with relief, took her mother's hand and clasped it warmly. "It was, wasn't it? We had some wonderful times in Aunt Laurel's house."

"I still miss her, you know. This Sunday after mass, let's take some flowers to her tomb." Mary Catherine stood up and moved toward the built-in desk. "Now, Claire, you'll have to excuse me. I've got to make a shopping list before Harry gets here. She's so forgetful, if I don't write down everything we need at the market, she doesn't remember a thing."

Mary Catherine began adding items to her shopping list while Claire watched her, a disturbed frown on her face. It was inevitable that Cassidy would come back. She only hoped it wouldn't be today. She was glad that Mary Catherine was enjoying a good day, but she'd just as soon Cassidy talk to her mother when she couldn't converse so lucidly about Jackson Wilde and his murder.