French Silk(4)

"Is that how you solve murder cases, Mr. … what was it again?"

"Cassidy."

"Do you solve crimes by playing word games?"

"Sometimes, yes."

"You're no better than this detective." She sneered contemptuously at Howard Glenn. "Instead of going after the killer, he's been questioning Josh and me."

Cassidy exchanged a telling glance with Glenn. The detective shrugged, tacitly granting Cassidy permission to intervene. "Before we can 'go after the killer,' Mrs. Wilde," he explained, "we have to learn exactly what happened to your husband."

She gestured toward the blood-soaked bed in the next room and shrieked, "Isn't it obvious what happened?"

"Not always."

"Well we don't know what happened," she wailed theatrically before cramming the Kleenex against her colorless lips. "If we'd known he was going to be murdered last night, do you think we would have left Jackson alone in the suite?"

"The two of you left Reverend Wilde alone last night? Where were you?" Cassidy sat down on the edge of the adjacent loveseat. He took a good look at the woman and her stepson. They both looked to be in their late twenties.

"We were in my suite. Rehearsing," Josh replied.

"Rehearsing?"

"Mrs. Wilde sings at all their crusade services and on the television program," Glenn provided. "Mr. Wilde here plays the piano."

Tidy of Jackson Wilde to keep his ministry a family enterprise, Cassidy thought. He already had a jaundiced view of television preachers and had seen nothing so far to dispel the stereotype. He asked, "Where is your suite, Mr. Wilde?"

"Down the hall. Daddy had reserved all the rooms on this floor."

"Why?"

"That's customary. It guarantees our privacy. Daddy's followers often go to any lengths to get near him. He loved people, but he needed rest and privacy between services. He and Ariel stayed in this suite. I took the next largest one so a practice piano could be moved into it."

Cassidy turned to the newly widowed woman. "This suite has two bedrooms. Why weren't you sleeping with your husband?"

Mrs. Wilde responded with a sniff of disdain. "He's already asked me about that," she said, shooting another disparaging glance toward Detective Glenn. "I came in late last night and didn't want to disturb Jackson's rest. He was exhausted, so I slept in the other bedroom."

"What time did you come in?"

"I didn't notice."

Cassidy looked at Josh inquisitively. "Did you notice what time it was when she left your room?"

"I'm afraid not. Late."

"After midnight?"

"Much later."

For the time being, Cassidy let it pass. "Did you speak with your husband when you came in, Mrs. Wilde?"

"No."

"Went in and kissed him good night?"

"No. I used the door opening directly into my bedroom from the hall. I should have checked on him," she said weepily. "But I thought he was sleeping peacefully."

Cassidy glanced up at Glenn and with a stern look warned him not to make the obvious quip. Instead the detective said, "Unfortunately, Mrs. Wilde didn't discover her husband's body until this morning."

"When he didn't respond to his wake-up call," she said, her voice cracking. She used the wadded Kleenex tissue to blot beneath her nose. "To think he was in there … dead all that time … while I was sleeping in the next room."

Swooning, she collapsed against her stepson. He placed his arm around her shoulders and spoke softly into her hair.

"Guess that's all for now." Cassidy stood.

Glenn followed him to the door. "Smells like yesterday's fish heads, doesn't it?"

"Oh, I don't know," Cassidy said. "It's almost too pat to be a lie."

Glenn made an unappealing snorting sound as he fished for a fresh Camel in the crumpled pack he took from his shirt pocket. "You're shittin' me, right? It's plain to see. They've got the hots for each other and bumped off the preacher to get him out of their way."

"Could be," Cassidy said noncommittally. "Maybe not." Glenn eyed him shrewdly as he lit his cigarette. "A smart boy like you didn't fall for those pretty blue eyes, did you, Cassidy? And all that crying? Hell, before you got here, they were praying out loud together." He sucked deeply on the Camel. "Surely you don't believe they're telling the truth?"

"Sure I believe them." As Cassidy went through the door, he glanced over his shoulder and added, "About as far as I can piss through a hurricane."

He rode the elevator down alone, and it opened onto pandemonium. The lobby of the Fairmont Hotel was a city block long. Ordinarily, it was a paragon of stately refinement and luxury, with its matte black walls, red velvet furniture, and gold leaf accents—a grand old dame of a hotel. But this morning it was teeming with frustrated, angry people. Police were trying to ignore the aggressive media reporters who were in hot pursuit of the facts surrounding the astonishing murder of Jackson Wilde. Hotel guests who earlier had been rounded up by police and questioned in the ballroom were now being systematically dismissed; they appeared reluctant to leave, however, before venting their outrage. Hotel staff were being questioned while also trying to placate their disgruntled clientele.