French Silk(67)

"That night," he began, "how long were you here?"

"About thirty minutes, I guess."

He raised an eyebrow. "That long?"

"This is the Vieux Carré, Cassidy. Like the Europeans who originally lived here, we can linger over a meal for hours. The pace is slow. When you cross Canal Street, you should leave behind the American's tendency to bustle, and enjoy life. I resisted eating another order of doughnuts, but I did have two cups of café au lait and spent at least ten minutes with each one."

At her request, Claude replaced their empty cups with full ones. Watching the steam rise from her cup, Claire said, "I had a lot on my mind that night. Jackson Wilde was only one thing that was troubling me."

"What else?"

"Mama. I worry about who would take care of her if something happened to me. For instance if I went to prison." She gave him a puissant look, then lowered her eyes to her coffee, which she swirled in the thick white mug. "And the new catalog was on my mind. I always want the current one to top the last and am afraid the ideas will dry up."

"That fear is common to creative people."

"I suppose. And I was worried about Yasmine."

"Why?"

"It's personal." Her expression dared him to ask her to betray her friend's confidence, but he didn't.

"That was quite a walk." He leaned back in his chair and stretched out his long legs. The old jeans fitted them well, cupping his sex and gloving his thighs. Claire tried to keep her mind on what he was saying. "I suppose if I asked, Claude here would swear on his sainted mother's tombstone that you spent at least half an hour here that night."

"Do you think I'm lying, Cassidy?"

"No," he said. "I think you brought me along tonight so I'd see how well known and respected you are in this community and what I'm up against if I try to convict you. You're even on speaking terms with the neighborhood cops. A good defense attorney would line up all these character witnesses, and even if they couldn't swear that you were walking in the French Quarter that night, they couldn't swear that you weren't."

"If you were my defense attorney, is that what you'd do?"

"Precisely. If the prosecutor didn't have an indisputable piece of physical evidence, I'd make you look like a saint and confuse the jury with facts that weren't pertinent."

"You know all the tricks, I see."

His lips narrowed and his expression turned grim. "All the tricks."

There was more to Cassidy than what she knew, Claire decided. The newspapers reported on the A.D.A., not on the inner man. She wanted to pursue that inner man, to discover what made that introspective and regretful expression come across his face occasionally, but she had her own problems.

"You still believe I committed that murder, don't you?" Sighing, Cassidy looked away and seemed to concentrate on the statue of Andrew Jackson astride his rearing horse, which could be seen through the closed gates of the square across the street. Then he propped his forearms on the small round table and leaned across it. "Here's what I think happened. I think you planned this murder for a long time—from the time you read that Reverend Wilde was bringing his crusade to New Orleans.

"You bought, borrowed, or stole a .38 revolver. You went to the crusade and met face-toface the man you were planning to kill. By now I know you well enough to know you'd have the integrity to do that. You'd feel like that was the honorable way to kill a man, sort of like your ancestors who met outside the city with pomp and circumstance to duel until one was dead.

"Anyway, you returned home and dismissed Harry. That was a gamble that didn't pay off, but at the time you figured that if she was asked, she could testify that you were home by ten that night. You went to the Fairmont and, using Andre as an accomplice, managed to get into Wilde's hotel suite. You shot him, probably while he was asleep. Then you left and returned home.

"But Fate threw you a curve. Mary Catherine had slipped out. You got home, found her gone, and, ironically, had to make a return trip to the Fairmont to pick her up. I'll bet that wasn't too comfortable for you, returning to the scene of the crime so soon after committing it."

"That's not what happened at all. Do you see how many holes there are in your theory?"

"Hell yes. It's as leaky as a sieve. That's why you're not already in jail."

It took Claire a moment to recover from that remark. She asked, "How did I get into his suite?"

"Simple. Andre gave you a key. While Wilde was having dinner, you let yourself in. Probably hid in a closet to wait. He came in, showered, and got ready for bed. You waited until you were sure he was asleep, then did him."

Claire shook her head. "There's something very basically wrong with that scenario, Cassidy. I would never have involved my friend in a murder plot."

"You might have utilized him without his knowledge."

"By sneaking a key from the front desk?"

"No, by familiarizing yourself with the hotel. There are several odd angles in the hallway on the seventh floor. Maybe you made yourself invisible in one of those bends. When the maid went into the suite to turn down Wilde's bed, you sneaked in behind her while the door was open."

"Very creative."