French Silk (48 page)

"No, don't wait up. 'Bye-bye. I'll set the alarm on my way out."

"Thanks. 'Bye."

Claire waited until she had crossed the warehouse floor. At the door, she turned and gave Claire a jaunty little wave. Even from that distance, Claire could hear her bangles jangling.

Upstairs, Claire checked on Mary Catherine, who was sleeping peacefully. As she was pulling her mother's bedroom door closed, the smell of smoke brought her to a dead standstill.

When she'd had the old building renovated, she'd paid dearly for a state-of-the-art sprinkler system and smoke detectors, knowing that a fire would be costly, in merchandise and possibly in lives. Even with that safeguard, she was paranoid about fire.

She traced the faint whiffs to Yasmine's bedroom. She hadn't been there recently, but before her breakup with Alister, Yasmine had rarely kept the door closed. Claire had no qualms about opening it now to check for the source of smoke.

As she stepped across the threshold and entered the room, she received a shock to her sensibilities and to her nervous system. Reflexively clapping her right hand over her nose and mouth, she moved forward, reluctantly approaching the makeshift altar that had once been an ordinary nightstand.

Encircling the perimeter were smoky, sputtering candles that cast wavering shadows onto the walls. Unidentifiable herbs and oils had been sprinkled over the surface of the nightstand. They accounted for some of the malevolent odors permeating the room. But only some.

In the center of the altar was a crude crockery bowl. It was filled with what appeared to be the entrails of a small animal. At one time, organs might have been discernible. Now it was a mishmash of gore. The odor made Claire gag behind her hand.

Blood had been painstakingly dripped onto the surface to form symbolic patterns. The small effigy of Alister Petrie, the doll that Claire recognized as the one Yasmine had shown her, had been decapitated and emasculated. Like a stake through the heart, a vicious pin thrust up from the center of its chest.

"My God," Claire moaned, backing away from the grisly sight. "Oh my God, Yasmine. No!"

As soon as Harry arrived in response to her frantic call, Claire raced to her car and headed for the exclusive neighborhood along the shore of Lake Ponchartrain where Congressman Alister Petrie lived with his wife and children. She hoped she wouldn't arrive too late.

* * *

"Want me to wait?" The cabbie slung one arm over the back of the seat and gaped at his stunning passenger.

"No, thanks." Yasmine passed him a twenty-dollar bill. "Keep the change."

"Thanks, miss, 'preciate it. Say, uh, do I know you? I mean, should I? Aren't you famous?"

"I was a model. Maybe you've seen my pictures in magazines."

He slapped his forehead with the heel of his hand. "Jesus H! I thought that was you." He grinned, revealing crooked, tobacco-stained teeth in the feeble dome light of his cab. "Who'd've ever thought you'd ride in my cab? The only other celebrity I've ever hauled was that cooking lady on TV. Julia somebody. Say, I'll be glad to come back for you later. I can give you my card. You can call when you're ready to be picked up."

Yasmine shook her head and alighted. "Thank you."

"Well, 'bye. It's been a pleasure."

He dropped the gear shift into drive, saluted her, and pulled away from the curb. Yasmine watched him drive way. She was smiling, glad she'd made his day. He would talk about her for months, maybe years, telling everybody he met that he'd had Yasmine in his cab the night she really made herself famous.

"Good luck to you, sugar," she whispered into the still evening air. Standing on the curb, she regarded the stately house across the street. It would have made a pretty picture for a postcard. Even the Spanish moss hanging from the branches of the live oaks was perfectly placed.

There was no blood on the dining room window, which was dark now. They'd washed it off the morning after she'd paid to have the dead chicken "delivered." She'd driven past the next day to see. There'd been no trace of the terror that she hoped her hex had caused the smug son of a bitch.

He didn't know what terror was. Not yet.

She stepped off the curb and started across the street. Reaching into her large leather shoulder bag, she took out the revolver. Even though she'd checked the cylinders a hundred times during the course of the long afternoon while she waited for nightfall, she checked them once again. All were loaded.

She started up the sidewalk that divided the front lawn into immaculately landscaped halves. Her stride was long and confident, as it had been for years on the runways of fashion houses all over the world. New York, Paris, Milan. No one walked like Yasmine. Her gait couldn't be imitated. Many had tried, but none had been able to combine that sensuous countermotion of hips and shoulders with elegance and grace the way she had mastered it.

She hesitated for only a heartbeat on the bottom step leading up to the porch, then strode to the wide front door and pressed the bell.

* * *

"Daddy, I've got a soccer game on Saturday. Do you think maybe you could come to this one? I'm playing goalie."

Alister Petrie reached across the corner of the kitchen dining table and ruffled his son's hair. "I'll try. That's all I can promise. But I'll try."

"Gee, that'd be great," the boy beamed.

Since the incident with the dead chicken, which had taken ten years off his life. Alister had turned over a new leaf. For days he'd lived in abject terror, venturing out of the house only when absolutely necessary and then only under the protection of the bodyguards Belle had insisted on hiring.

As he delivered his scheduled campaign speeches, his knees had knocked together behind the podiums because he feared an assassination. At night in his dreams, he envisioned a bullet coming at him at an unstoppable velocity and piercing his forehead, exploding his head like a watermelon. He always lived to witness his execution and woke up trembling and blubbering.

Belle was always beside him to render comfort and solace. Drawing his shivering body against hers, she crooned reassurances that his mistress had vented her spleen with that disgusting and savage display, and that was the end of it.

She did, however, manage to get in her sharp, vicious barbs. "You reap what you sow, Alister." "What goes around comes around." "Your sins find you out." She had a litany of adages, all with biblical overtones.

Like fishhooks, they stayed deeply embedded under his skin. It would be a while before he felt courageous enough to screw around. He'd learned his lesson. When he did feel the urge to stray, he'd make damn certain that the broad didn't have an affinity for voodoo. It might be harmless, but it fucked with your mind in the worst way.

Gradually, when it appeared that the dead chicken was indeed an isolated incident and the sum total of Yasmine's vengeance, Alister began to relax. He resumed his normal, hectic schedule. The bodyguards were dismissed. But the familial bliss was a lasting aftereffect. He was at home as frequently as possible now. He kissed both children good-night every night and took the time to exchange a few sentences with each of them at some point during the day.

Belle participated in his campaign more actively than before. They were rarely out of each other's sight. She kept him on a very short leash, which for once he didn't resent, because she had kept her promise not to reduce or suspend the campaign contributions that poured in from her private resources and those of her extensive family.

They had not, however, eaten in the formal dining room since that fateful night.

Tonight the Petries were gathered around the table that was tucked into a cozy nook adjacent to the kitchen. Rockwell couldn't have painted a scene more depictive of domestic harmony. There had been fresh apple pie for dessert. The aroma of cinnamon and baked Granny Smiths wafted through the well-lighted room. They could have been any family in America—except for the uniformed maid, who, at a silent signal from Belle, began clearing away the dishes and carrying them to the dishwasher.

"Daddy?"

"Yes, sweetheart?" He gave his attention to his daughter.

"I colored a picture of you at school today."

"Did you?"

"Hmm. It's of you making a speech in front of the American flag."

"You don't say?" he said expansively. "Well, let's see it."

"Mommy, may I be excused? It's in my school bag up in my room."

Belle smiled indulgently. "Of course, darling."

The youngest Petrie slid from her chair and dashed out of the kitchen. No sooner had she cleared the swinging door than the front-door bell rang. "I'll get it!" Her high-pitched, childish voice echoed through the rooms. They heard the rubber soles of her sneakers striking the hardwood floors, occasionally muted by area rugs.

The telephone rang. The maid answered the kitchen extension. "Petrie residence."

They heard the front door being opened.

"No," the maid said into the receiver. "There's no one here by that name."

"Who was it?" Belle asked as the maid hung up.

"Wrong number. A woman who sounded hysterical was looking for someone named Jasmine."

Alister blanched and surged to his feet. "Yasmine?"

Belle looked at him. Simultaneously the same chilling thought occurred to them. Belle said, "Is that—"

"Yes." Alister bounded through the swinging door.

"What's the matter, Mom?"

"Nothing, son."

"You look funny."

The maid said, "Miz Petrie? Anything wrong?"

"Don't be silly," Belle snapped. "What could be wrong?"

Then they heard the gunshot.

* * *

"No, don't hang up!" Claire shouted into the receiver of the public telephone. When she got a dial tone, she banged the receiver against the box. "I told you not to hang up!"

After becoming hopelessly lost in an area with which she wasn't familiar, she had stopped at a pay telephone to call the Petries. Unsure of exactly how to warn them, she clumsily punched out the number that directory assistance had given her. It had been answered on the first ring, but obviously the housekeeper to whom she had conveyed her hysteria dismissed her as a wrong number or a crank call.

She inserted another quarter and redialed. The line was busy. "Come on, please. Please." She put the quarter in and tried again. This time the phone rang repeatedly, but wasn't answered. Thinking that in her haste she must have misdialed, she repeated the process. It continued to ring.

Moments later, she became aware of approaching sirens. Dread, like a fist inside her chest, clutched at her heart. "Oh, no. Please, God, no."

But her prayers went unanswered. The emergency vehicles sped past, lights flashing. Claire dropped the telephone receiver, ran for her car, and struck out in pursuit. When they reached their destination, she bolted from her car, grabbed the arm of a pajama-clad neighbor, and asked, "Whose house is this?"

"Congressman Petrie's."

Policemen were already scrambling across the lawn and paramedics were rushing with a gurney toward the open door. Claire shoved aside the befuddled neighbor and plunged headlong up the sloping lawn. A policeman tried to halt her, but she ignored his shouted order to stop.

"My friend needs me."

Breathless, she reached the porch steps and ran up them toward the cluster of people huddled in the entrance. From within the house she could hear the hysterical screaming of a child. Behind her, police officers were ordering her to freeze.

Her worst fears were confirmed when she saw a draped from lying across the threshold. She was too late! Yasmine had killed him! She searched frantically for Yasmine among those stomping about in confusion and distress.

Suddenly Claire's eyes connected with Alister Petrie's. She almost laughed with relief. He seemed dazed, but unharmed.

Then she noticed that he was splattered with fresh blood that was not his own. He was standing in a puddle of it that was fed by the river flowing from beneath the plastic sheet.

Claire's eyes dropped to the body once again, and she saw something lying outside the sheet that she had missed the first time—a hand, beautifully shaped, long and slender, the color of café au lait.

And encircling the wrist were bright, gold bangles.

Chapter 25

«
^
»

W
hen Claire exited the jetway, she was momentarily blinded by exploding flashbulbs and video lights. Reflexively, she threw her arm across her eyes. She wanted to flee, but there was nowhere to go. Other airline passengers were filing out behind her, cutting off that avenue of escape, and in front of her was a phalanx of reporters and photographers.

In New York she had endured the mad flurry of publicity caused by Yasmine's suicide. The media attention had been expected, so she had braced herself for it and met it head-on. But she had thought that by the time she returned to New Orleans it would be old news. She hadn't bolstered herself for this barrage and wasn't prepared for the reporters who surged toward her en masse.

"Ms. Laurent, what do you think of Yasmine's involvement—"