French Silk(34)

"Glenn, back off," Cassidy said abruptly. The odious man frowned at him, but took a couple of steps backward. Cassidy turned to Claire. "Frankly, I thought you were smarter than this. Why didn't you just throw the folder in the river along with the murder weapon?"

She had thought that the rooms in her apartment, which had been designed for maximum light and spaciousness, would make her feel less claustrophobic. But the moment she'd admitted Cassidy, the walls had seemed to start closing in, especially since he was accompanied by the detective, whom she regarded with unconcealed distaste. He was repugnant to her, not so much because of his unkempt appearance but for his mean, suspicious smirk.

When she spotted what they'd brought with them, her heart had lurched and her palms had grown damp. She felt trapped, afraid, but she was determined not to show it.

"Come clean, Miz Laurent. What about this?" Detective Glenn dropped the folder onto the bar in her kitchen. Dozens of clippings spilled out and scattered across the glossy surface.

Claire hated being backed into a corner by someone in authority. Her instinct was to fight back, as she had done as a five-year-old. But she was no longer a child. She couldn't kick and claw and bow her back. It would be futile to lie. They had her. They knew it. She knew it, too. The best she could do was brazen it out.

"It was mine," she admitted. "Considering that Reverend Wilde was murdered, I thought it would be imprudent for me to keep the file."

"Imprudent?" Glenn snorted. "Is that a fifty-cent word for f*ckin' crazy?"

Claire's eyes snapped furiously. Her back went rigid.

Cassidy stepped between her and the detective. "Excuse us." He pushed the detective toward the door. After a whispered but heated discussion, Glenn shot her a dirty look before going out, soundly pulling the door closed behind him.

"Thank you," she said to Cassidy as he came back around. "I don't believe I could have stood him for another second. He was thoroughly obnoxious."

"I didn't do it for you. I did it for me. I've got a lot of questions to ask. It was obvious that Glenn was going to get nowhere with you, so I asked him to give me a shot."

"What questions?"

"What questions! We've got incriminating evidence on you, Ms. Laurent."

"A collection of clippings?" she asked scoffingly. "Hardly, Mr. Cassidy. I was about to make myself a sandwich for lunch. Would you like one?"

Never taking his eyes off her, Cassidy flipped back his suit jacket and propped his hands on his hips. He gazed at her as though trying to figure her out. "You're a cool customer, aren't you," he said tightly. "As well as a liar."

"You never asked me if I kept a file on Jackson Wilde."

"I'm surprised you didn't deny ever having seen these." He gestured at the pile of clippings on the bar.

Claire rounded the bar and moved toward the refrigerator. "Denying it would have really made me look guilty, wouldn't it? Is shrimp salad all right?"

"Fine."

"Wheat bread or white?"

"Christ," he muttered, raking his fingers through his hair. "Don't you ever stop with the southern hospitality?"

"Why should I?"

"Because Glenn is downstairs waiting to arrest you, and you're talking wheat or white."

"I won't be arrested, Mr. Cassidy, and we both know that." Having taken all the ingredients from the refrigerator, she kept her back to him while she made the sandwiches. She hoped he wouldn't notice that her hands were trembling.

In hindsight, disposing of the file seemed like a desperate measure taken by someone with bloodstained hands. She'd been foolish to toss it into the dumpster. Nothing should have been left to chance. Why hadn't she done as he quipped and thrown it in the river? Of course, on the day following the murder, things had happened so quickly that she hadn't been thinking clearly. She'd made an error in judgment, and it was proving to be a costly one.

She'd also underestimated Cassidy and the seriousness of his initial interrogation. His questions had made her uneasy and cautious, but they hadn't been cause to panic. Finding the folder had changed everything. Now he was more than mildly curious about her feelings toward Wilde. He actually suspected her of killing him. He would be watching her, looking for the slightest scrap of evidence. But Claire had had plenty of practice at thwarting authority figures. The first lesson she had learned was never to be intimidated.

She turned to face him. "You haven't got enough evidence to make an arrest stick, Mr. Cassidy. I had collected a few articles relating to Jackson Wilde. That's hardly a smoking gun."

"The gun's in the Gulf by now," he said as he picked an olive off the plate she handed him. "Carried away by the river's current."

"More than likely." Since the bar was covered with the clippings, she nodded him toward the glass-topped table in the dining room. "Tea or a soft drink?"

"Tea."

"Sugar?"

"Nothing."

After returning with two glasses of mint-sprigged iced tea, she sat across from him. He picked up half of his sandwich and took off a corner in a strong bite. "Some of those clippings are years old."

"My interest dates back several years."