Authors: Sandra Brown
"Which also treated my mother like an outcast even while espousing mercy, grace, and forgiveness," Claire added.
"But they obviously allowed her illegitimate daughter to attend catechism school."
"No, Mr. Cassidy. I learned Christianity from Aunt Laurel. She was a dotty old maid. Most people considered her life pointless. But she loved my mother and me unconditionally. During Mama's spells, it was Aunt Laurel who reassured me during thunderstorms, nursed me when I was sick, and helped me through the trials and tribulations of childhood. She was the only person I ever knew who actually lived Christianity the way Jesus intended it to be. She didn't preach. She exemplified."
"But my account of your mother's history is accurate?"
"Very. Her cousin Charles was thorough to the nth degree."
"How do you know my information came from him?"
"Because he's the only one left from that branch of the Laurents."
"Do you have contact with him?"
She laughed bitterly. "No, Thank God. Never. He's as stiff-necked and pompous as the rest of them. From what Aunt Laurel told me about them, I'm not surprised that they banished my mother when she needed them most."
"She was just a kid."
"Seventeen." She cocked her head to one side. "You're slipping, Mr. Cassidy. You sound almost sympathetic."
"It was the early sixties, for Christ's sake."
"Actually the late fifties. Eisenhower was still president. America hadn't lost its innocence. Proper young ladies didn't have erogenous zones."
Cassidy shook his head with misapprehension. "But even then, families didn't disown their daughters for getting pregnant."
"The Laurents did. My grandparents never spoke to my mother again. As far as they were concerned, she ceased to exist and so did I."
"She never disclosed who your father was?"
"No."
"And he never acknowledged you, even secretly?"
"No. I'm sure he was afraid of the consequences. He was a member of the same social circle and apparently enjoyed the benefits. He saw what happened to my mother and didn't want the same to happen to him. I don't blame him really."
"Bullshit."
"Excuse me?"
"You wouldn't be human if you didn't hold him accountable."
Claire, feeling like an insect pinned to a corkboard, took a cautious step backward. "Are you trying to make a point, Mr. Cassidy?"
"Whoever killed Wilde had a grudge against men."
"You've deduced that? How clever."
"Not so clever. It was an obvious case of overkill. He was shot one extra time."
"You're referring to the shot to his groin."
"How'd you know?"
"It was in all the newspapers that Wilde had been shot in the testicles." She shook back her hair and faced him defiantly. "So, because I was born on the wrong side of the blanket and have numerous women on my payroll, you've leaped to the brilliant conclusion that I'm the one who pulled the trigger on Jackson Wilde."
"Don't be cute."
"Then don't be ridiculous," she said, raising her voice. "I've freely admitted that I abhorred everything that man stood for. I disagreed with virtually everything he said. So what? Many did."
"True. But only the livelihoods of a few were being threatened, so that places your name high on the list of suspects."
"You're wasting your time investigating me."
"I don't think so. I've caught you in too many lies."
"I explained about the clippings."
"I'm not talking about that."
"I lied to you about my father only to protect my mother. Surely you'll concede that she's suffered enough humiliation without my sharing her past with you."
"I'm not talking about that lie, either," he said.
"Then what? The suspense is killing me."
He turned his back on her and stalked to the door. He wore his dark suit well. The tailored vest snugly fitted his trim torso, and there was no wasted fabric in his trousers. It would have been a luxury if she could have concentrated on his considerable attractiveness as most women would.
But Claire saw him through the eyes of a frightened child. She couldn't separate the man from the bureaucracy he represented. She'd learned at an early age to fear, loathe, and strike out against it. She projected her antipathy for it onto him.
How dare he dig into her mother's sorrowful past? It had caused Mary Catherine so much grief that, in order to survive, she had barricaded herself inside a dream world. Her delusions were rose-colored but as protective as iron gates. They had guarded her against heartache and scorn for three decades. It was unfair that her misfortunes should be exposed for strangers to scrutinize again.
He had reached the door. His right hand was on the knob. Claire knew she was about to test the limits of his patience, but she couldn't help herself. She charged him, taunting, "You're bluffing."
He came around quickly. "You told me that you'd never met Jackson Wilde." He raised his free hand and crushed a handful of her hair in his fist, tugging her head back. Lowering his face close to hers, he spoke rapidly and softly, with emphasis and urgency.
"You didn't spend a 'quiet evening at home' the night he was killed. I got several videotapes from the local cable company, which had been hired to document Wilde's New Orleans crusade. One of the tapes was a recording of the last service he conducted. It was recorded in its entirety.
"When Wilde extended an invitation at the conclusion of the service, hundreds of people flocked to the podium from every tier of the Superdome. Among the first to reach him was a young woman who clasped his hand and spoke to him face to face."
He stared at her hard, as if to imprint the image of her face on his brain. Then he released her hair and opened the door, adding as he went out, "It was you, Claire."
When his telephone rang, Andre Philippi jumped guiltily and slammed shut his desk drawer. The bell was like a conscience, reminding him that he was gazing at his beloved's photograph on company time.
He answered the telephone and, with crisp and businesslike enunciation, identified himself. "How may I help you?"
"
Bonsoir
, Andre."
"
Bonsoir
," he replied in a warmer tone, instantly recognizing the caller, although the voice was soft and muffled. "How are you?"
"Still shaken by what happened week before last."
Andre's small mouth formed a moue of sympathy. "It was a ghastly night."
"I called to thank you again for your discretion."
"I assure you, no thanks are necessary. I felt no obligation to the police. They herded my guests together like cattle and questioned them like criminals."
"You took care of the details for me?"
"No need for concern. There's no record of your having been here that night."
"Has anyone interrogated you about … about it?"
"The police," Andre replied with distaste. "I also spoke with a man named Cassidy."
"Cassidy's questioned you?"
"Twice. But don't worry. I answered only specific questions and didn't elaborate."
"Did my name come up?"
"No! And,
naturellement
, I wouldn't mention it."
"I'm certain you didn't," the caller said. "It's just that … well, no one needs to know I was there."
"I understand."
"I rely on your confidentiality. It's enormously valuable to me."
"That's the highest compliment you could pay me.
Merci
."
"I need to ask one more favor, Andre."
"I would consider it an honor."
"If Cassidy, or anybody else, asks about me directly, will you notify me?"
"
Certainement
. Immediately. Although I assure you, your fears are unfounded."
Almost inaudibly, the caller replied, "I hope so."
Chapter 8
A
riel Wilde had a captive audience in the board members of Jackson Wilde Ministry. They were bound by deference to her recent widowhood, by reverence for the man who had been interred only yesterday, and by their own fear that a very lucrative enterprise was about to collapse following the demise of its leader.
Ariel was holding court from the head of the long conference table in the boardroom on the top floor of the ministry's office complex in Nashville. Garbed in black, she looked thin and wan, almost incapable of lifting the translucent china cup of virtually colorless herbal tea to her chalky lips. Her weepy eyes, which had contributed largely toward making her the patron saint of the hopeless, seemed to have receded into her skull. They were surrounded by violet shadows of fatigue and despair.
No one except Ariel knew that these evidences of grief washed off with soap and water.
She replaced her cup in its saucer. That tiny clink of china against china was the only sound in the room. The indirect lighting, dark paneling, and plush carpeting encouraged a hushed atmosphere similar to that of the funeral home where Jackson Wilde had, for two days, lain in state inside a sealed casket. Those seated around the conference table waited in breathless anticipation for the widow to speak, sympathizing with her while at the same time trying to conceal their personal anxieties.
"Gentlemen, let me begin by thanking you, individually and collectively, for the support you've given me—and to Josh, during these dark and troublesome days following Jackson's death. You're a living tribute to him. The way you've rallied around me is … well…" Emotionally overcome, she dabbed at her eyes, letting her tears speak for themselves.
Recovering her composure, she continued, "When Jackson was at the helm, he expected you to give one hundred percent of yourself in dedication to him and to doing the Lord's work. In his absence, you've maintained that tradition. I know I speak for him when I say how proud you've made me."
She gave each of them in turn a gentle smile, then took another sip of tea before cutting to the heart of the matter.
"Unfortunately, none of us expected Jackson's tragic demise. It's caught us unprepared. Who could have predicted that a madman would silence one of God's most effective messengers?"
That earned her a few mumbled amens.
"The Devil expects us to surrender and retreat to lick our wounds. He expects us to buckle beneath the burden of our grief. When he silenced Jackson, he figured he'd silenced us all." As rehearsed, she paused strategically. "But the Devil underestimated us. We're not going to be cowed and silent. The Jackson Wilde Ministry will continue as before."
A dozen dark-vested chests relaxed. The escaping tension was as palpable as steam rising from a simmering kettle. Sweat began to evaporate off furrowed brows. Sighs of relief were sensed if not heard.
Ariel could barely contain her smug smile. She now had them in the palm of her hand. They might consider themselves men of God. No doubt a few 'of them genuinely believed in their mission. But they were still men, subject to the foibles of every descendant of Adam. They had feared for their futures. Fully expecting her to announce the dissolution of the ministry, they had prayed for a miracle. She'd just handed them one.
Of course, there was always at least one skeptic.
"How, Ariel?" the doubting Thomas asked. "I mean, without Jackson, how can we possibly continue? Who's going to preach?"
"I am."
Everyone gaped at her, flabbergasted. It was obvious that they all doubted her abilities. She gave her head a small shake that sent her platinum hair rippling across her shoulders. It was a gesture of resolution and supreme confidence.
"I—that is, we … we thought we'd bring in another evangelist."
"Well, you all thought wrong," she said sweetly. "That's why I called this meeting. So I could explain my plans to everyone at once and save having to repeat myself."
She clasped her hands together on the edge of the table. Her recent frailty had been supplanted by a quivering vitality. The spark of life in her eyes, so faint just minutes ago, had grown into a conflagration.
"Our followers will be curious to know my feelings regarding Jackson's death. He died unexpectedly, violently. That's fodder for at least a dozen sermons. And who better to deliver those sermons than his widow?"
The board members glanced at one another, stupefied and speechless.
"Brother Williams wrote all Jackson's sermons. Now, he'll write mine," she said, nodding to the gentleman sitting to her left about midway down the table.
He coughed uncomfortably but said nothing.
"Gradually we'll fade out the emphasis on Jackson's murder and move into other areas. We'll take up where Jackson left off on the pornography issue because it's become so identified with the ministry. I'll continue to sing. Josh will continue to play piano. Occasionally we might bring in a guest preacher, but the reason all those folks tune in week after week is to see Jackson and me, right? He's gone. I'm not. And if you thought he preached hellfire and damnation, wait till you hear me."