French Silk(9)

Cassidy's eyes narrowed. "That's quirky, isn't it? The shot to the head and the heart were already overkill. Why the balls, too?"

"The killer was pissed."

"Good and pissed. It smacks of self-indulgence, doesn't it? Female vengeance, for instance."

"You think the wife offed him? Like some others of his ilk, you think Wilde had a sweet young thing on the side and Ariel found out?"

"I don't know. I just have a strong hunch the killer was female."

"Why's that?"

"It only makes sense," Cassidy said. "If you were a woman and wanted revenge on a guy, isn't that where you'd shoot him?"

* * *

Claire was breathless by the time she reached her living quarters at the French Silk offices. She heard Yasmine and her mother talking together in another room, but she slipped down the hallway unnoticed and went directly to her bedroom, closing the door behind her.

Their arrival at French Silk had created a tumult among the reporters who had the building staked out. They had swarmed Yasmine and her the moment they alighted from the car. Claire was tempted to duck her head and dash inside but knew that avoidance would only prolong the inevitable. The media wouldn't leave until she made a statement. They would continue to be an impediment to her business, an annoyance to her neighbors, and possibly a source of anxiety to her mother.

Never sure of what Yasmine might say, Claire asked her to go inside and see that Mary Catherine was kept unaware of what was happening outside. After mugging for the cameras, Yasmine did as Claire requested.

Dozens of questions were shouted at Claire, but she caught only snatches of one before the next one was hurled at her. It was impossible to answer them all, and she wouldn't have anyway. Finally she held up her hands for silence. Speaking into the microphones directed at her, she said, "Although Reverend Wilde had proclaimed me a sinner and his enemy, I'm terribly sorry about his death. My heart goes out to his family."

She moved toward the entrance to French Silk, but her progress was blocked by the clamoring journalists.

"Ms. Laurent, is it true that despite his repeated invitations, you refused to debate Reverend Wilde?"

"They weren't invitations, they were challenges. I only wanted to be let alone to run my business."

"How do you respond to his allegations of—"

"I have nothing more to say."

"Who murdered him, Ms. Laurent?"

The question stopped Claire in her tracks. She gazed with stupefaction at the balding reporter who had rudely asked the question. Smirking, he met her stare unflinchingly. The others fell silent, expectantly awaiting her answer.

In that startling instant, Claire realized that her conflict with Jackson Wilde wasn't over. He was dead, but she wasn't free of him. Indeed, the worst might be yet to come. Why had the reporter asked her specifically about the murder? Did he have a reliable source in the police department? Had he heard rumors about possible suspects?

Although she kept her features composed, fear, like icy fingertips, tiptoed up her spine. In spite of the sweltering heat and high humidity, she felt chilled to the bone. "Excuse me. That's all I have to say."

She forcibly pushed her way through the reporters and didn't stop until she was safely inside, upstairs in her private quarters. The experience had left her shaky and agitated. Her clothes clung to her damply, and she peeled them off with frantic haste. In the bathroom, she leaned over the sink and bathed her face, throat, chest, and arms with cool water.

Feeling somewhat refreshed, she stepped into a strapless cotton jumpsuit, one of French Silk's most popular items from the summer catalog, and pulled her shoulder-length hair into a ponytail. Emerging from the bathroom, she soberly regarded the massive cherrywood armoire across the room.

Three years earlier, when she had picked out the old warehouse for French Silk's headquarters, she'd converted the top floor into her private apartment. It was only the second address Claire had ever had. Before that she had lived in her great-aunt Laurel's house on Royal Street near Esplanade.

Following Aunt Laurel's death, Claire and Mary Catherine had moved out of her house, but Claire hadn't yet had the heart to clean it out and sell it. She couldn't bring herself to dispose of Aunt Laurel's things, because the funny lady unkindly referred to as an old maid, had derived such joy from her possessions, probably because they compensated for her lack of a husband and children. The house on Royal Street remained intact.

The cherrywood armoire was the single exception, the only piece Claire had brought with her when she moved. She had always admired it. Its clean lines blended well with the apartment's contemporary design. She had specifically requested that the architect design a wall in her bedroom large enough to accommodate the piece.

Claire crossed to the armoire, pulled open the doors, knelt in front of the bureau drawers, and tugged open the bottom one. It took some effort because it was so heavy, filled to capacity with clippings that had been cut from newspapers and magazines. The dates on them spanned the last several years.

Claire had spent hours poring over the articles, digesting the information they contained and assimilating her reactions to it. She regretted having to destroy them. Collecting them had been like a hobby to her, one she had found habit-forming and fascinating.

But now it would have to be disposed of. Immediately. It would be folly for her to keep printed documentation of every move made by the Reverend Jackson Wilde.