French Silk(70)

Downstairs, Josh was playing the piano. He'd been at it for hours. That detestable classical music. She couldn't find a tune in any of it. Each song sounded like all the rest. They didn't even have lyrics, so what was the point? She couldn't figure out how anyone could become so absorbed in it. Yet, when Josh played classical piano, he forgot everything else—eating, sleeping, even sex.

Not that she'd missed the sex. She was focused on more important matters now. The picket line had been a fiasco. She had wanted her people to look like crusaders on a divinely inspired mission. Instead, that crazy old broad at French Silk had made them look mean-spirited and stupid. The media coverage had been extensive, but the story had been reported tongue-in-cheek. Ariel Wilde was not going to be a laughingstock!

To restore her credibility, she had finagled the CNN interview, which, in her critical opinion, had gone exceptionally well. Without being downright libelous, she'd hinted that Claire Laurent was a coward who refused to debate her, that she was a prime suspect in the murder, and that she and everyone else involved with French Silk were immoral scum. Luckily, a devoted follower living in New Orleans had known about Claire Laurent's illegitimacy. Ariel planned to continue hammering home the theme immorality begetting immorality.

But Claire Laurent had appeared on CNN today, looking as regal as Princess Grace in her heyday and talking in that honeyed drawl that seemed to have bewitched the interviewer—and probably a majority of the viewing audience. She had been articulate and straightforward without seeming abrasive. She'd dismissed Ariel as being delusional but left no doubt that she would take legal action if the persecution continued.

Twice now she'd made the Jackson Wilde Ministry look like a pack of fanatic fools. Ariel simply wouldn't have it. Anyone as cool and controlled as Claire Laurent must have secrets. Why else erect such an impenetrable shield of gentility?

So, Ariel had hired someone to keep an eye on her nemesis and make daily reports. When the telephone on her nightstand rang, she lunged for it. It was the call she'd been waiting for.

"We struck gold on the first try," said the man on the phone, chortling. "For all her denials on TV, she's still a prime suspect. Cassidy went to see her again tonight."

Ariel sat up against the pile of pillows at her back. "Really? How long did he question her?"

"They went for a long walk through the French Quarter." The more she heard about Claire Laurent's most recent meeting with the handsome, young, sexy prosecutor, the faster the wheels in her brain whirred. She was so busy analyzing the information, she almost missed the most valuable nugget. "Excuse me," she said, interrupting. "What did you say? They what?"

"That's right, Mrs. Wilde. You heard me. They kissed." Eagerly, Ariel listened to the entire account without another interruption. "Thank you," she said when he'd finished. "Keep me posted on developments. I want to know everything. Remember, you're my eyes and ears." As an afterthought, she added, "God bless, and I'll be praying for you."

Josh strolled in as she was hanging up. "Who's calling at this time of night?" He pulled his T-shirt over his head and began undressing.

"The guy in New Orleans who organized the demonstration at French Silk."

"What a debacle," he muttered as he wobbled first on one foot, then the other, to remove his sneakers.

Ariel wasn't familiar with the word debacle but didn't like the sound of it and took his criticism personally. "How could we predict that Claire Laurent's daft old mama wouldn't know any better than to go up against a hostile crowd?"

Josh chuckled as he slid into bed beside her. "You wanted fireworks from them and got Kool-Aid and tea cakes instead."

"It's not funny," she said, slinging off the arm he'd placed across her waist. Throwing back the covers, she left the bed and lit a cigarette, a habit she'd resumed since Jackson was no longer there to forbid it. She ripped open a package of Ding Dongs and stuffed one into her mouth.

"Tomorrow I want to take this show on the road," she told Josh around the mouthful of devil's food cake. "We'll go to several cities and hold only one service in each," Her mind was clicking furiously now. "We'll make them special. We'll call them emergency prayer meetings for the capture and conviction of Jackson's killer."

Groaning, Josh laid his arm across his forehead and closed his eyes. "Ariel, these things take time to plan. You've got to rent a facility—"

"I don't care if we conduct them on football fields," she shouted. "I want a lot of people to attend and a lot of press, and I want you," she said, turning and aiming her finger at him, "to appear shattered by bereavement."

"I'll have to borrow your eyeshadow."

"Go to hell."

She got back into bed, but not until she'd swallowed two laxative tablets to counteract the calories in the Ding Dong. "Not now," she grumbled when Josh rolled toward her and covered her breast with his hand. "I've got too much on my mind."

"It's just as well," he said. "You're so skinny your bones rattle when we make love."

"Fuck you."

"That's what I had in mind, but…" Laughing, he burrowed his head in his pillow. Ariel was too wired to sleep. She consumed such vast quantities of caffeine and sugar, it was rare that she slept more than three or four hours a night. Some of the dark shadows under her eyes weren't cosmetically enhanced.