Among the three stylists, none looked sneaky enough to pilfer an engraved fountain pen. The models? They'd all been busy that afternoon. It was unlikely that one had had time to rifle through his pockets. And why would one want to?

He had ample opportunity to observe everyone without drawing notice, because Leon dominated the conversation, while his assistant ate neatly and silently at his side.

"I love the old seesaw on the west lawn," Leon said while slathering butter on a yeast roll. "We must do something on the seesaw."

"How about leggings?" Claire suggested.

"Tremendous," Leon gushed. "So good for straddling. The seesaw, that is." He giggled, then sobered while chewing industriously. "Although, I love the idea of contrasting something silk against those rough, rotting boards. Hmm. I'll think about it. While exploring, did anyone else run across that outdoor shower?"

"That was installed for field hands to use after they came in from picking cotton," Grace supplied as she passed around dessert.

"I've got dibs on a shot using that shower," Yasmine announced. "But my idea's a secret."

"I gotta smoke," Rue said, leaving the table to go out onto the veranda. "You girls had better stop stuffing in this rich food or your guts will be poking out tomorrow." No one paid her any attention.

"First thing in the morning," Leon said, "I want the model who's going to wear that long, sheer nightgown-"

"Felicia," Yasmine told him.

"Felicia dear, you get first call tomorrow."

"Shit," Felicia muttered into her caramel custard.

"I want the morning sunlight backlighting her." Leon held his hands in front of his face and formed right angles with his thumbs as though looking through a frame. "We might get lucky and have natural dew. If not, this dear lady has offered to turn on the sprinkler for us." As Agnes poured him a cup of coffee, he caught her hand and kissed the back of it. "Either way, the grass will be wet and sparkly. I see it absolutely glistening. I want the hem of the nightgown to be damp and trailing. Maybe falling off one shoulder. A peek of booby."

"Kurt could be lounging in the background," Yasmine suggested. "Like on the veranda, with his hair down and wearing only a pair of pajama bottoms."

"I love it," Leon squealed. "Don't shave in the morning, Kurt. I just adore those shots that suggest postcoital scenes. Oh, my dear Agnes, your cheeks are positively fiery. Forgive me for being so blunt. Do you think I'm terribly naughty?"

Cassidy, rolling his eyes at the affectation, happened to glance at Claire. She was suppressing her laughter. They exchanged a smile. Even among so many people, it was a private moment.

He immediately squelched the tenderness welling through his midsection. If Claire weren't his prime suspect, he'd be trying his damnedest to get her into his bed. He knew it. So did Crowder. So, probably, did she. Hell, he'd told her as much.

No more private moments, he sternly told himself. Not even shared looks across the dinner table.

The Monteiths encouraged them to take their coffee into the double parlors or out onto the veranda, where it was cooler since the sun had set.

Cassidy followed Claire. She paused at the staircase to speak to Mary Catherine and Harry, who were ready to retire to their room. "I'll be up to say good night when you're tucked in," Claire promised.

"Good night, Mr. Cassidy."

"Good night, Miss Laurent, Miss York."

Smiling sweetly, Mary Catherine turned to go upstairs.

Cassidy held the front door open for Claire and they strolled across the deep porch to the railing. Claire sat down on it and sipped the fragrant coffee. "Well, what do you think of us?"

"Interesting," he said.

"How diplomatic."

He wondered if he should alert her that one among her associates was a thief but decided against it. One allegation at a time. He'd already informally accused her of murder.

"You're staring, Cassidy," she said quietly.

"I'm thinking about something Glenn said last night." He noticed Claire's shudder at the mention of the detective's name, but he forged ahead. "It had crossed his mind that maybe Yasmine was Jackson Wilde's lover."

"What!" Her cup clattered against the saucer. She set them on the railing. "Your friend is losing touch with reality, Cassidy. If you're thinking along the same lines, so are you."

"It's not so farfetched."

She gazed up at him with incredulity. "Do you ever think before you spout this nonsense? Listen to what you're saying."

Now that he had spoken the theory aloud, it did sound ridiculous, but he pursued it so he could assure Glenn that he'd done so. Besides, you never knew where a blind alley might lead.

"Yasmine has men in general on her shit list. She told me so herself."

"So that makes Jackson Wilde her lover?" she said. "He was Yasmine's enemy as much as he was mine."

"On the surface."

"You think they were carrying on in secret?"

"Possibly."

"Ludicrous. Anyway, she was in New York the night he was killed."

"You're sure?"

"I picked her up the following morning at the airport."

"Could be she was acting out a charade."

"You're grasping at straws, Cassidy."

"Does she have a current lover?"

"I don't see what-"

"Does she?"

"Yes," Claire snapped.

"Who? What's his name?"

"I don't know."

"Bullshit!"

"I swear I don't!"

He looked at her hard and decided that she was telling the truth. "Why the secrecy? Is he married?"

"All I know is that she's devoted to him," she said evasively. "So that shoots your harebrained theory about her and Jackson Wilde all to hell. They never even met."

"You're sure about that, too?"

"Absolutely. She would have told me."

"Right. She doesn't lie and keep secrets, like you." He stepped closer to her. "Maybe you had a thing going with Wilde." The features of her face became taut with anger. She tried to stand, but he placed his hand on her shoulder and pushed her back to the railing. "A well-publicized skirmish would be mutually satisfying for him and you. Maybe you got together and cooked up this little scam."

"Who thought of this, you or Detective Glenn?"

Ignoring her question, he pressed on. "You gave Wilde a cause to crusade against, a cause that created a groundswell across the nation and made him a celebrity preacher."

"In exchange for free advertising for French Silk, I suppose."

"Exactly. You admitted to me that his sermons were actually good for your business, not the other way around."

"Then why would I kill him and put a stop to such a good thing?"

"Maybe you found out you weren't the only one he'd worked a deal with. Maybe he had a whole legion of women-a different broad for every sin."

"You're sick."

"Maybe the love affair went sour. Was your "offering' to him a blackmail payment? Did you arrange to meet him while he was in New Orleans and work out a payment schedule? Only you decided to end it then and there." She managed to stand and tried to go around him, but he sidestepped and blocked her path. "Where'd you meet Jackson Wilde?"

Ringing back her head, she glared up at him. "I've told you. I met him only once, during the invitation he extended following his sermon in the Superdome."

"And you lied about that. While he was laying hands on you and granting eternal life, did he whisper his hotel-room number in your ear?" He took her arm in a firm grip. "You had a collection of clippings, Claire, documenting his whereabouts for years. He didn't fart without you knowing about it. That's obsessive behavior."

"I explained those clippings."

"It doesn't wash."

"Well I certainly wasn't his lover."

"You're not sleeping with anyone else."

"How do you know?"

Her question hung between them like the reverberation of clashed swords. The air crackled with animosity and suppressed passion.

Finally Claire said, "Excuse me, Mr. Cassidy."

She went around him and slipped through the screen door.

Chapter 17.

*Ariel collapsed during the prayer service being held in Kansas City's Kemper Arena.

For half an hour she had held the capacity crowd spellbound. Garbed in white and spotlighted in the otherwise darkened arena so that her hair looked like a shimmering halo, her arms raised beseechingly toward heaven, she had created the illusion of a forsaken angel pleading to be called home.

One moment, her voice had been raised in supplication, her body quivering with fervency; the next, she lay crumpled on the stage. At first Josh thought she had taken her act one step beyond her usual theatrics. Mentally he congratulated her on her thespian instincts and skill. The audience, as one voice, gasped when her small form was swallowed by the voluminous white robe that mushroomed around her like a deflating parachute.

But when several seconds passed and she didn't move, Josh stood, scraping back his piano bench. The closer he got to her, the faster he moved. Either the spotlight was leeching all the color from her face or she was alarmingly anemic. He knelt beside her, anxiously calling her name. When he tried to lift her into a sitting position, she lay as limp as a ragdoll in his arms, her head lolling to one side. This was no act.

"She's unconscious! Somebody call 911! Get an ambulance here at once. Ariel! Ariel!" He slapped her smartly on the cheeks. She didn't respond. He searched for a pulse in her absurdly slender wrist. He felt a heartbeat, but it was feeble. "Move back and give her some air," he ordered those who had clambered forward to offer assistance.

Everyone in the arena was on his feet, creating a din so loud that Josh couldn't hear himself think. Some were praying, some were weeping, some were merely gawking. He told one of the program coordinators to order everybody to leave. "The show's over."

All Josh's efforts to revive Ariel failed. She didn't respond until the paramedics arrived and began their preliminary examination. "What happened?" she mumbled as she began to come around.

"You collapsed," Josh explained. "The ambulance is here to take you to the hospital. You'll be all right."

"Ambulance?" She weakly tried to fight off the paramedics when they strapped her onto the gurney. As they wheeled her to the waiting ambulance, she protested that she was fine and didn't need to go to the hospital.

"You have any idea what caused this?" one of the paramedics asked Josh, who insisted on accompanying them in the ambulance. "Is she diabetic?"

"Not that I know of. I think she's exhausted and depleted. She throws up everything she eats."

The paramedic took her blood pressure and reported his findings to the attending doctor in the emergency room of St. Luke's Hospital. The doctor ordered an IV, but by the time they reached the hospital, Ariel still looked near death. She hadn't regained her color, her lips were chalky, and her eyes were deeply sunken into their sockets. She was immediately wheeled into an examination room from which Josh was barred entrance.

He had plenty of responsibilities to occupy him. Videotape of Ariel's collapse had been broadcast as a news bulletin. Reporters, photographers, and sympathizers converged on the hospital in such numbers that a police barricade had to be erected. Unaccustomed as he was to public speaking, Josh made a moving, impromptu speech to the cameras and microphones.

"Mrs. Wilde has been exhausting herself in her efforts to seek justice for my father's murder. The doctors here have given me every reason to be optimistic. As soon as I know more, I'll share it with you. Please pray for her."

As he sipped vending-machine coffee and waited for information on her condition, Josh tried to assimilate his feelings. Only a few days ago, he'd been angry enough with Ariel to try to kill her. Now, he feared she might not survive. What if she was no longer capable of ramrodding the ministry? What if it dissolved? What would he do with the rest of his life?

He supposed he could get a job with a dance band and be condemned for life to playing at bar mitzvahs and VFW dances. He could go on the lounge circuit and make the rounds of the Holiday Inns. On that dismal thought, he pushed his fingers through his hair and bent his head over his knees in a posture of prayer. "Christ."

He hated the circus the ministry had become, but he sure as hell liked the public exposure it provided him. Ariel was right about that. Even though he despised the hypocrisy of the ministry, it had given him an opportunity to play piano almost nightly. It was steady employment, and to a musician that was a luxury. His audience was loyal and generous. Playing for them, hearing their applause, had given him a self-confidence that he hadn't found anywhere else. He thrived on that approval, even if it was token. Without it, he would die. Or wish to.

What would he do if his showcase collapsed along with Ariel?

"Mr. Wilde?"