Black Silk

“Nobody asked you.”

Anne threw the sponge in the sink, sending suds flying. “What is your problem?” she demanded.

“As if you don’t know.”

“I don’t,” Anne insisted.

“Fine. Play innocent. We’ll discuss it later. Dad’s waiting to do the flaming dessert thing.”

“I want to discuss it now.”

“Will you keep your voice down?” Charlie chided with a glance toward the door. “You know how upset Mom gets when we argue. And it’s been a tough enough day for them as it is.”

Charlie was right. Today had been tough for their parents. Although they had moved past the grief that had paralyzed them following Emily’s death, some days—like Emily’s birthday—were more difficult for them than others. It wasn’t all that easy for her either, Anne admitted. Even though it had been six years since Emily’s murder, sometimes she still walked into the kitchen and expected to see her there. Maybe because there had been many a spat waged among the three of them over kitchen cleanups. She’d lost count of the times Emily had weaseled out of her turn to do the dishes by giving her a lipstick that she’d wanted or offering to lend her a blouse she’d admired. It had infuriated Charlie and she’d taken Emily to task for it more than once.

Anne shifted her gaze over to the breakfast nook where the same yellow and white curtains were draped across the bay window, where the garden was once again abloom with pansies in bright yellows, purples and white and camellia bushes and early blooming azaleas were bursting with red and pink flowers. The same porcelain vase was filled with fresh-cut roses and sat in the center of the table that smelled of the lemon oil her mother had used to polish it. For a moment, Anne could almost see the three of them seated at that table again as they had done so often while growing up. She could almost see them that last year before Charlie went off to college with Emily eating her egg-white omelet and lecturing Charlie on her diet. With Charlie ignoring Emily while she scraped the burnt parts off of her toast and washed it down with coffee. With her loading sugar on her cereal and following Charlie’s lead by tuning Emily out.

God, but she missed Emily. And she missed being one of three.

“You going to wash that plate or just stare at it?”

At Charlie’s sharp comment, Anne shut off the memories. Picking up the sponge, she began washing the plate. And as she washed, she wondered what she could have possibly done to make her sister so angry with her. Before running into her and Vince at the Stratton house, she hadn’t even seen Charlie for days. And hadn’t she backed off when Charlie had refused to comment? Anyone else would have dogged her heels for answers. Why, she had even undercut her own news scoop by not revealing that it had been homicide detectives seen leaving the Stratton home. So where did Charlie get off being angry with her? She was the one who should be angry with Charlie for the way she had spoken to her. Right? Right! Feeling indignant, Anne slapped the sponge against the next plate, then shoved it at Charlie.

“There’s still gravy on the corner. Wash it again,” Charlie said and shoved the plate back at her.

That tore it. Turning to face her sister, she snapped, “You want it washed again? You wash it.” And without stopping to reconsider, she threw the sponge at Charlie. The soapy square of foam caught her right between the boobs before falling to the floor with a plop. Anne felt a moment of immense satisfaction at her sister’s stunned expression—until Charlie scooped up the sponge with astonishing speed.

“Why, you little witch,” Charlie began, brandishing the sponge like a weapon in her fist. “I should make you eat this.”

“You can try.”

“Don’t tempt me, Annie. That stunt you pulled on the news this evening was bad enough—”

“What stunt?”

“—And now you’ve ruined my blouse.”

“Your blouse isn’t ruined and you know it. And what are you talking about? What stunt?”

“Don’t play the innocent,” Charlie told her. “You announced to a half-million people on live TV that the Stratton wedding was called off and intimated that your unnamed source told you it was because of Francesca Hill’s murder.”

Francesca Hill was dead?

Shocked, Anne held on to the sink. She couldn’t believe it. Oh, she’d known something was wrong, even suspected that someone close to the Strattons had gotten tangled up in something bad and had died. But she’d never dreamed it was Francesca Hill or that the woman had been murdered.

“I guess it doesn’t matter to you whether or not you compromise an investigation—just as long as you get your story.”

Both stunned and hurt, she said, “My God, Charlie. Do you honestly believe I’d do that?”

Charlie hesitated, eyed her closely. “You saw me and Vince leaving the Stratton house. Then you go and do that report. What was I supposed to think?”

“That I would never do that to you. Or anyone.”

Charlie looked away for a moment, then tossed the sponge in the sink. “Maybe I should have,” she said. Grabbing a dish-towel from the counter, she dried her hands, then dabbed at the wet spot on her blouse. “But you made that crack about an unnamed source. The captain and everyone else thought you were referring to me.”

“Well I wasn’t. For your information, my unnamed source was a doormen at the Mill House Apartments. He said that when he came on duty, he’d heard that the police had been all over the place and in Mr. Stratton’s lady friend’s apartment and that they carried someone out in a body bag. I thought it was Holly Stratton.”

“J. P. Stratton’s daughter?”

Anne nodded. “Everyone knows that she and Francesca didn’t get along. She moved out of the Mill House when her father moved Francesca in and she wasn’t at all happy about the wedding. Besides I’d heard Holly has emotional problems and even attempted suicide. When I heard someone had died, I thought she tried again and succeeded this time. I also thought she’d done it where she knew her father would find her.”

Charlie sighed. “I’m sorry, Annie. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions.”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” she said firmly. But she had never been one to stay mad for long. She couldn’t do so now. More softly, she asked, “Did you really get in trouble?”

She nodded. “So did Vince. Apparently, the chief came down on the captain and he came down on us. Everyone assumed I was your source.”

“Well first thing tomorrow morning, I’m marching down to the police station and telling your Captain he was wrong, that you didn’t tell me a thing.”

“Thanks, but you don’t need to do that. I told the captain it wasn’t me and Vince backed me up.”

“I should hope so,” she said.

“The truth is, I think Vince is the one who convinced him. He told the captain that you were smart and a good reporter, and that after you’d seen us at Stratton’s house and found out the wedding had been cancelled, you put two and two together.”

“He was right,” she told her as a trill of pleasure went through her. “DidVince really say that I was smart and a good reporter?”

“Yes, he did,” Charlie said dryly. She eyed her closely. “You want to tell me what’s going on between you two?”

Anne blinked, felt color rush to her cheeks. “Nothing. Why?”

“Because you both get this sea-sick look when I mention one of you to the other.”

“Girls,” their mother said as she came through the kitchen doors. “What on earth is taking you so long? And why is there water on the floor?”

“I dropped the sponge,” Anne fibbed. “Don’t worry, we’re almost done.” But as she tackled the remaining dishes, Anne’s thoughts were on Detective Vincent Kossak.

“I still can’t believe Francesca’s dead.”

“It’s true,” Cole told his sister Holly as he set her bag down inside of her apartment. After learning from Aaron about Francesca’s murder, he’d driven to the casino resort on the Gulf Coast where he’d sent Holly the previous night. He had thought that getting Holly out of New Orleans would be the best way to ensure his sister didn’t do something foolish—like crashing J.P.’s wedding—and making matters worse for herself. But once he’d learned of Francesca’s death, he’d known he had to act quickly. Holly had always been fragile emotionally and he hadn’t wanted her to hear the news over the phone. Nor did he want her to learn about it from the media. He’d wanted to break the news to her in person.

After the initial shock, she’d grown quiet. She’d remained quiet while she packed her bags and checked out of the resort hotel. And she had barely said ten words during the ninety-minute drive back to New Orleans. He eyed her carefully as she stood staring out of the picture window that offered a view of the Mississippi River and the night sky.

Unsure whether to be relieved or concerned by his sister’s silence, Cole took off his leather jacket and laid it on the chair beside Holly’s. He wasn’t blind to his sister’s faults, he admitted. Holly was spoiled, often unpredictable and gullible. Her emotions ran high—be they happy or sad. She also had the most tender, generous heart of anyone he knew. And despite the angry scene with Francesca the previous night, he didn’t doubt for a moment that she was already regretting the ugly words that had passed between them. She was probably also feeling a loss. After all, she and Francesca had been good friends at one time.

Until J.P. had come along.

The selfish bastard. He had ruined the friendship between his own daughter and her friend simply to satisfy his own twisted ego. He hadn’t been concerned about how his actions would affect Holly or anyone else. But then, J.P. Stratton had never cared about anyone other than himself. He’d learned that lesson firsthand a long time ago. What he didn’t understand and never would was why Holly continued to love J.P. after everything he had put her through. But then, he’d never understood why his mother had continued to love the man who’d used and abandoned her, either. Maybe he hadn’t been able to help his mother all those years ago, but he could help his sister now.