French Silk(93)

Immediately following dinner, Claire excused herself. A Trivial Pursuit tournament was being organized. She knew from past experience that they invariably turned hostile. Pleading exhaustion, she accompanied Mary Catherine and Harry upstairs, where she lingered in their room, chatting with her mother until Mary Catherine's sleeping pill took effect. Mary Catherine didn't mention Cassidy's fountain pen, nor did she give any indication that she remembered taking it.

In her rush to leave for New Orleans, Yasmine had left their bedroom looking like a storm had hit it. Claire spent a half-hour picking up strewn clothing and reorganizing the vanity table. The bathroom was in no better shape. After straightening it, she languished in a tub of cool water, trying to relax and stop thinking about Ariel Wilde's pregnancy and what adverse effects it might have on her.

After her bath, she dusted with talcum, and put on a silk thigh-length chemise that was the color of old, expensive pearls. She twisted her hair into a knot on top of her head and secured it with a clip, then stacked pillows against the headboard of her bed and reclined against them. She intended to switch on the bedside lamp, but the darkness was so soothing. More than she needed to review the schedule for tomorrow, she needed sleep.

But her thoughts weren't restful. Like intractable children, they wouldn't behave and leave her in peace. Her eyes would remain closed for only brief snatches of time before they stubbornly sprang open. The bed, on which she had spent several restful nights, had metamorphosed into a bunk full of lumps and knots. Her pillow became warm too quickly. She flipped it over several times, growing increasingly impatient with her insomnia. Laughter wafted up the staircase from the parlor where the game was still in progress. She wished everybody would shut up and go to bed.

She blamed her discontent on the mattress, the pillow, and the noise, but she knew that the real source of it, like her jealousy that afternoon, was something deep inside herself. It wasn't in her nature to be out of sorts with her friends and associates, her environment, and herself. She didn't like herself this way.

Yet, she was afraid to look too closely for an explanation. She knew intuitively that whatever had brought about this character change was something she'd rather not acknowledge. Avoidance was preferable to confrontation. She didn't want to deal with whatever was making her crazy. Left alone, maybe it would simply go away.

She heard a noise that sounded like someone moving furniture across the hardwood floors. It was thunder. Vainly willing herself to fall asleep, she listened to the thunderstorm moving progressively closer to Rosesharon. Lightning flashed through the sheer drapes at the French doors. Maybe this time the clouds would deliver a cooling rain. So far all they'd produced was a heightened sense of expectancy to an atmosphere already too thick to breathe.

As the storm came nearer and increased in intensity, so did Claire's restlessness.

* * *

Cassidy declined to join the Trivial Pursuit tournament in favor of a stroll around the grounds. However, the stifling humidity and biting mosquitoes quickly drove him back inside.

He didn't stop in the parlor to bid anyone good night but went straight upstairs to his room. He paused to listen at Claire's door, which was next door to his, but could hear nothing. There wasn't any light showing through the crack beneath the door, either, so he reasoned she must have done as she'd said and gone to bed early.

In his room, he stripped to the skin. God, it was muggy even indoors. He considered going downstairs to get a beer from the bar but decided against it. He might bump into Agnes or Grace, who were wont to engage their guests in lengthy conversations. Southern hospitality only went so far before it became cloying. His present frame of mind wasn't conducive to chatter. Tonight he wasn't fit company for anyone except himself, and he was finding himself nearly intolerable.

After taking a quick shower to cool off, he lay down on the bed and lit a cigarette. He'd quit smoking two years earlier, but he was feeling agitated. Besides, he needed something to keep his hands occupied while his mind ran in incessant circles.

Claire had motive. Claire had opportunity. Claire could be directly linked to the crime scene through fibers from her car's carpet. Claire had no ironclad alibi. Claire was his best shot at getting the conviction that he desperately needed for both professional and personal reasons.

But he didn't want Claire to be the culprit.

"Goddammit." The curse seemed to hover in the darkness long after the sound had faded. This was a bitch of a position he had placed himself in. If he followed his conscience and the ethics of professional conduct, he would distance himself from this case. Crowder had already given him a deadline for bringing in a suspect. The number of allotted days was dwindling. If he was summarily replaced, that would be a hell of a thing to live down.

But what if, before the deadline, he asked to be removed? Crowder thought he was too personally involved in the case, so he would probably be relieved by the request. The decision wouldn't damage their relationship. In fact, it would probably win his mentor's favor. Crowder would simply assign the case to someone else.

No, that was no good. That someone else would probably be aggressive and sly and would slap handcuffs on Claire as soon as she returned to New Orleans. She'd be booked for murder two. Fingerprinted. Photographed. Jailed. The thought of it made him sick.

On the other hand, he couldn't live with the thought that he might let a guilty woman go free because he had the hots for her. Only it wasn't as simple as that. It never had been. Since he had first walked into French Silk and met Claire Laurent, nothing had been easy or routine.