"Then I advise you to ignore her."

"Damn!" she muttered. "I know you're right, but I hate to back down. What good are ultimatums if you don't follow through?"

"It's like celebrities who threaten to sue the tabloids for the half-true stories they print. The litigation only creates more adverse publicity. It's a no-win situation. Unless you want all your dirty laundry aired publicly, your hands are tied."

"But how can I allow her to go on saying anything she pleases about me and my family?"

"You can't have it both ways, Claire. If you even hint at whitewashing what can or cannot be said to the media, you've got to be prepared for the backlash. Ariel Wilde could then say you stand for the First Amendment rights of free speech and free press only as long as they benefit you."

Claire sighed. "I never thought of it from that angle."

"I wouldn't be surprised if that's her ultimate goal," the lawyer said. "She'd love to see you eat your words on this censorship issue."

They discussed it for a few minutes more before Claire said, "I really don't have a better alternative than to continue ignoring her."

"That's my advice. She's a nuisance, but she can't really harm you."

"It's not me I worry about. I couldn't care less what Ariel Wilde or anyone else says about me. It's Mama. When anyone slanders her, I come out slugging. She and Yasmine are the only family I have. We're a tight little group who stands together or not at all."

"I know that. That's why I was so puzzled by that other matter."

"What other matter?"

Then he broke the really bad news.

The two Mrs. Monteiths were almost interchangeable. Grace's hair was a shade darker burgundy than Agnes's, but beyond that there wasn't much difference between the two buxom women. They were sisters-in-law, they explained to Claire as she checked in to the bed-and-breakfast house known as Rosesharon.

"Our husbands were brothers, you see," Agnes told her. "We lost them within months of each other."

"Rather than get into a squabble over who had inherited what in this house, we decided to pool our resources," Grace contributed.

"Each of us loves to cook. It only made sense to capitalize on our hobby."

"The place wasn't fit for guests, though."

"So we sold off part of the acreage and from that revenue hired a fancy decorator to redo the house from top to bottom."

"Well, she certainly did a wonderful job," Claire said, glancing around the wide foyer. The house had been refurbished to antebellum splendor.

"He," Agnes said in a stage whisper, while bobbing her purplish eyebrows. "Although he was prissier than most females I know."

"Agnes!" Grace admonished with a giggle, which she tried to cover with her veined, age-spotted hand.

As she imprinted Claire's credit card, Agnes said, "Your rooms are ready for you. Juice, cold drinks, and snacks of fruit and cookies can always be found in the kitchen if someone misses the regular meals. Breakfast is served between seven and eight-thirty, but there's always a fresh pot of coffee on the sideboard in the dining room. Lunch is an informal cold buffet. Tea and finger sandwiches are available from three-thirty until five. We open the bar at five, but except for the wine we serve with dinner, there's an extra charge for liquor. One has to mix his own, and we trust our guests to keep their own tabs. Dinner is the only formal meal. It's served at seven-thirty."

Claire liked them and hoped that no one on the crew would take advantage of their hospitality or naivete. "We'll try to keep to your schedule," she told them. "However, if we get behind, I'll appreciate a little flexibility."

"Of course, dear. You're our first 'working' guests. We've been beside ourselves with excitement. The only thing better would be having a movie filmed here," Agnes gushed.

"And we love your catalog," Grace said. "When it arrives in the mail, we fight over who gets to look through it first."

"I'm glad to hear that." Claire was glad that a smile was called for. She couldn't have kept a straight face under punishment of death. "From what I've seen so far, your home will make a beautiful backdrop for our photos."

She'd been impressed since leaving the highway and following the tree-lined, gravel road to Rosesharon. Although the growing season was waning, the lawn and flower gardens surrounding the house were still green and lush. White lawn furniture was grouped in the shade of sprawling trees.

The house itself looked like a wedding cake. The bricks had been painted a pale, creamy pink. The six fluted Corinthian columns and all other trim were white. There was a deep, wrap-around veranda shaded by a second-floor balcony. Claire was very pleased with Yasmine's choice.

"We want to make your stay enjoyable," Grace told her. "Remember, this is our home. As our guests, you have the run of the place."

A commotion out on the veranda drew their attention to the front door. A short, wiry young man in a white linen suit and yellow Polo shirt flung open the screen door and made a grand entrance.

"Claire!" he gasped when he saw her. "My God, this is positively fab, Darling!" He kissed her cheeks in turn, then held the light meter, which was suspended from his neck by a black cord, up to her face and checked the reading. "Oh, this is going to be so sweet. I can't wait to begin, if I don't expire from the freaking heat first. How do you natives stand it? But the house is fab, really it is. Yasmine said as much, but you know how that bitch is prone to exaggerate."

Leon was one of the most sought-after fashion photographers in New York. His flamboyance was championed only by his talent with lighting and lens. When he wasn't pitching temper tantrums or gossiping bitchily, he could be quite amusing.

Leon hadn't yet stopped talking. "The staircase is to die for. We must have one of the girls languishing on it as though in a swoon." He struck a pose. "Eyes at half-mast, you know. I'll shoot it from above. Perhaps in the late afternoon with sunlight striking just the right spots. Yes, yes," he said clapping his hands. "Someone with lots of hair fanning out behind her head. Moist tendrils clinging to her cheeks. Oh, God, I'm getting chills just thinking about it."

The rest of the entourage trailed in, dropping onto pieces of furniture like wounded soldiers. "Jesus, it's hot," one of the models said as she lifted a mane of streaked blond hair off her neck.

There were four female models and two males. Yasmine had used them in the catalog before. It was a convivial group, and they were all on a first-name basis-Felicia, Dana, Liz, and Alison. They were young, nubile, and gorgeous. Kurt, the dark, brooding male model, wore his luxuriant black hair shoulder length. He could look either sleek and European or dangerous and untamed. The other man, Paul, was blond and blue-eyed. His "types" were the boy next door and the buttoned-down yuppie.

The stylist, in charge of wardrobe, was known throughout the fashion industry simply as Rue. She was a middle-aged crone who had coarse features and a voice like a cement mixer. She was never without a black, acrid cigarette dangling from her lips.

The makeup artist was a quiet Asian woman with porcelain-like skin and expressive doe eyes. The hair stylist, paradoxically, had virtually no hair. It had been cut very close to her scalp. She compensated by wearing earrings that dangled to her chest.

Leon's assistant, as pudgy and pink as a newborn, was a self-effacing young man who rarely spoke and constantly remained in Leon's shadow.

"Perhaps we should all get settled into our rooms," Claire said. "As soon as you're unpacked, I'd like to have a meeting with Leon and Yasmine to review the shot list."

The Monteiths summoned two valets to help with the luggage. Before everyone scattered, Claire spoke above the noise: "Models, before dinner, I'd like you all to go to the Winnebago for a fitting. Rue has already tagged the garments with your names."

The models divided themselves up two, two, and two. Claire didn't know who was sleeping with whom and made a point not to find out. Too much gossip could jeopardize the camaraderie on a location shoot. If there were any minidramas played out during the course of their stay, she'd rather not know about them.

Mary Catherine was sharing a room with Harry. Leon and his assistant had a room. Claire and Yasmine were doubling in another. Rue, the hair stylist, and the makeup artist had opted to sleep in the Winnebago. Claire was glad. Otherwise there might not have been a vacancy for her mother and Harry.

Thankfully, she could concentrate on her work, without having to worry about Cassidy questioning her mother. That had been her main reason for hustling Mary Catherine out of New Orleans.

Chapter 15.

*Claire was up early and, over coffee, consulted with Leon, Rue, and Yasmine about the shots they had scheduled for that day. "What would you think of using that old-fashioned vanity table in our bedroom for one of the interior shots?" she asked Yasmine.

Yasmine responded enthusiastically. "We could shoot the model from the back, looking into the mirror, and it could reflect one of the guys watching her through the balcony doors. We could close those gauzy curtains so you'd see only the silhouette of a man."

"It'd be a good shot to feature that backless bra you designed, Claire," Rue said around a rattling cough.

"Leon?"

"Sounds fab. But let's wait for a cloudy day to do the interior shots. I want to take advantage of this glorious sunshine while it lasts."

The weather cooperated with Leon's wishes. Consequently, the morning sessions went well. By noon they had completed three shots.

"We'll resume after lunch," Claire told everyone as they trooped up the front steps toward the welcome shade of the veranda, where Agnes Monteith was waiting with a cordless phone.

"A call for you, Miss Laurent. A Mr. Cassidy. I told him we were serving lunch, but he was insistent."

"Yes, he would be." Frowning, Claire took the phone but waited until everyone was inside before saying anything. "Hello, Cassidy." Her voice didn't convey any friendliness.

"How's Mississippi?"

"Hot."

"No hotter than it is here."

"Oh?"

"Don't sound so innocent. I'm catching hell from Crowder."

"About that newspaper story?"

"You saw it?"

"Before I left New Orleans. According to Ariel Wilde, I'm quite a tart, aren't I?"

"Much ado about one little kiss."

It hadn't exactly been "one little kiss," but Claire refrained from pointing that out. "You should have thought of the consequences before you kissed me."

"I thought about them. At the time, the consequences didn't seem to matter a whole hell of a lot."

Breathless and feeling overly warm, Claire sank into the nearest wicker chair, wishing she could think of something to say that would fill the awkward silence.

Cassidy said, "Ariel called Crowder even before she went to the press. Apparently she's got somebody tailing you."

The thought of someone, a stranger, covertly watching her made her feel like she needed a bath. "Damn her! Why can't she just leave us alone? Why can't you?"

"Look, the last couple of days haven't exactly been a picnic for me either."

"I don't suppose Crowder was too happy with you," she remarked.

"He threatened to take me off the case."

"You don't want that, do you?"

"No."

"How is Crowder responding publicly to the newspaper story?"

"He's denying everything."

"How can he?" Claire exclaimed.

"It's their word against ours that I kissed you. Who is Joe Public going to believe, a religious nut or the district attorney?"

"Crowder would lie to protect you?"

"Not me. He'd lie to protect the office. He's a politician first, and supports the establishment as fiercely as you oppose it."

Claire was trying to assimilate it all when a chilling thought occurred to her. "In order to get back in Crowder's good graces, you almost have to indict me. That's the only way you can prove to Joe Public that you're unbiased and that my seductive powers have no influence over you."

"Hell no," he said with asperity. "It's nothing like that."

"Isn't it?"

"All right, to some extent that's true. But it has nothing to do with politics and Crowder. The only person I have to prove something to is myself. I asked for this case. I demanded it. And now that I have it, it's my responsibility to bring Jackson Wilde's killer to justice." In a softer voice, he added, "No matter who it is. That's why..."

"That's why what?"

"That's why I obtained a search warrant for French Silk this morning."

His statement produced a severe and gut-wrenching reaction. The thought of her personal things being handled by strangers was untenable. "You can't do that to me, Cassidy!"

"I'm sorry, Claire, but I can. I have. In fact, I'm due there now."

He hung up without saying goodbye.

As she rejoined the group for the cold buffet, she stubbornly maintained her smile and tried to act nonchalant, but apparently she didn't fool anyone.

Mary Catherine pulled her aside. "Is everything all right, dear? You seem upset."

Affectionately she squeezed her mother's hand. "I'm fine, Mama."

"The call was from Mr. Cassidy, wasn't it? Did he ask you about Reverend Wilde again?"

"No. Nothing like that. Are you having a good time? What kept you and Harry occupied this morning?"