Patricia Dusenbury - Claire Marshall 01 - A Perfect Victim

by Patricia Dusenbury

  A Perfect Victim

  By

  Patricia Dusenbury

  Uncial Press Aloha, Oregon

  2013

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events described herein are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-60174-164-6

  A Perfect Victim

  Copyright © 2013 by Patricia Dusenbury

  Cover design

  Copyright © 2013 by Judith B. Glad

  Cover Photo © Ashley Whitworth | Dreamstime.com

  All rights reserved. Except for use in review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five (5) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Published by Uncial Press,

  an imprint of GCT, Inc.

  Visit us at http://www.uncialpress.com

  With gratitude to George for his encouragement

  and to Alicia for her constructive criticism.

  CHAPTER 1

  Wednesday, October 12, 1993

  Daniel Doucet motored away from Ray's Dock, feeling pretty good about himself. Tomorrow, buyers from New Orleans restaurants would be looking to stock up for the weekend, and he'd be ready. The burlap bags stacked under the prow would be bulging with oysters, the big ones that commanded top dollar. He might be a twenty-two-year-old high school dropout, but he made a good living.

  The morning breeze kicked up a light chop that sent brackish spray across the prow deck, adding substance to the hovering fog. Daniel's Saint Andrew medal bounced against his chest, and he rubbed it for luck. The gold was silky smooth; the back worn concave by calloused thumbs belonging to generations of Doucet watermen. Daniel gave thanks for the poor visibility, which meant he didn't have to keep an eye out for snoops from Wildlife and Fisheries.

  By midday, the fog had lifted and his mood had soured. The too heavy shells in his tongs said his luck hadn't changed, but he checked anyway. A push and a twist of his knife popped a shell open, revealing a stinking glob of black muck. He threw it back and opened another. More of the same. Last year, this bed had been healthy. He cursed the dredging and canals that were letting the Gulf's salt water ever deeper into the marshes.

  Daniel loved the bayou country with its wide lakes and black-water swamps, its grass marshes and sheltering trees. He took oysters with tongs as his grandfather had done. He'd never use one of those goddamn mechanical harvesters that tear up everything in their path. He'd never go out in the Gulf on a shrimp boat with nets so big they had to be pulled in with motors operated by men like his father and older brothers, and the fish you didn't want died before you could throw them back.

  He swept his tongs across the deck, returning the dead shells to the water, and motored to another spot. Pickings were better but still lousy. Half the shells he pulled up were dead and the live ones, too puny to bother with. He needed to stop wasting time and head over to Bayou Perdu. He thought about why he hadn't started there, and his scowl deepened.

  Weekend before last he'd had a run-in with a cabin owner. This big shot from New Orleans, who ran his big boat with its big motors too fast through the marshland, had spotted him taking oysters from posted water. The asshole shook his fist and hollered that he was going to call Wildlife and Fisheries. Like it was any of his business. Daniel had gotten out of there fast and not gone back. Not yet, but he was thinking about it. There were no other cabins up there, and the odds of anyone being around on a Wednesday afternoon were slim. Finding live oysters was a sure thing. He'd be more careful today.

  He restarted his motor and headed for Bayou Perdu, past the big yellow signs warning that he was entering a posted area. Shellfish taken from these waters could cause serious illness and possibly death. Anyone caught harvesting oysters risked a $1000 fine. Big deal. He didn't plan to get caught, the oysters were probably fine, and he'd never heard of anyone dying from a bad oyster. Sick yes, dying no. Truth was Daniel didn't care about the rich people and tourists who'd be eating his oysters. They and people like them were responsible for the slow destruction of the swamplands. Reap what you sow, fuckers.

  He was about to cross the channel that led to the asshole's dock when he heard the drone of another motor. He turned his off and listened, but the noise was gone. He poled into a small cut sheltered by tall grass and waited, every sense on high alert. No boat moved across the lake. Down the channel, the asshole's big boat floated alongside the dock, tied up and deserted looking. A big gator swam lazily down the channel, and a few minutes later a school of minnows cut a wider vee on their way out. A pelican eyed the little fish from his perch atop a piling but didn't bother.

  Reassured that whoever he'd heard had moved on, Daniel continued to his destination and dropped anchor. A hundred years ago, Bayou Perdu was a creek running between tree-shaded banks. When rising waters transformed the land, the creek became a current running through a swamp, and the trees died. Their underwater skeletons became home to oysters instead of birds--and a sweet spot only he knew about.

  He grasped his tongs in both hands, raised his arms toward heaven and thrust deep, pushing down until he felt the steel tines scraping against shell. He let the handles spread apart and then pulled them together sharply. Open, close, open, close. He wasn't a big man, five-nine and a hundred fifty pounds, but he was strong. The muscles in his arms and shoulders tensed and released in tempo as he ripped the oysters from their purchase on the old wood. When he felt their weight fall into the basket, he pulled the handles together and, sliding one hand then the other down their length, hoisted his catch out of the water. He released the shells onto the prow deck and sorted them by size. His movements were quick but careful. An oyster shell will slice a man's hand so neatly he'll see the blood before he feels the pain.

  Daniel popped a big one open and smiled at the oyster, fat and juicy on the shimmering shell. He tossed it back into the water, picked up his tongs and eased into the rhythm. Soon, he was sweating the healthy sweat of hard work, his scent blending into that of the swampland, a man at peace.

  He was bringing up a full basket when something exploded behind him. Before he could turn around, there was a second, bigger, explosion. A blast of hot air sent him tumbling forward. What the hell? He dove for the bottom of his boat and peered over the gunnels.

  The asshole's cabin was on fire. Big time. Raging yellow flames poked through the roof, and more shot out the windows. The cabin sat a good hundred feet away, but the heat was so intense it prickled his bare skin. An engine turned over and firelight glinted off a windshield next to the cabin. Then blinding smoke closed in. He heard but couldn't see the vehicle speed up the dirt track to the top of the old levee. It must have been parked behind the cabin. That was the motor he'd heard, them driving in. Why didn't he see it? Shit.

  He retrieved his tongs, started the motor, and got the hell out of there.

  * * * *

  Hungry flames devoured the wooden building. They ate away the walls and gnawed holes in the roof. A chunk of rafter crashed down, sending new licks of orange and yellow into the sky and fresh waves of heat rolling acros
s the water.

  Inside the cabin, burning shingles rode currents of scorched air, spiraling downward like spent roman candles and igniting everything they touched. Sparks landed on the linoleum floor and the old Formica table in the kitchen, on the overstuffed sofa in the front room, and on the man who lay on the sofa. Embers burned holes through his clothing and into his flesh. They bored tunnels in the upholstery, and the sofa erupted into a blazing funeral pyre.

  Like a foolish parasite, the fire consumed its host and then starved to death. Gray-layered clouds absorbed the smoke, and the breeze carried it away. In the swamp, insects resumed their droning chorus and animals their eternal hunt. Unimpressed by man's handiwork, the bayou continued its slow passage to the Gulf.

  CHAPTER 2

  Thursday, October 13, 1993

  Claire Marshall parked her rental car in a shady spot. She shook a pill from the vial she kept in her purse, turned the radio to a low volume and waited for the drug to kick in. Once it had, she walked up the hill. Coming to the cemetery had taken courage--no sane person tries to have a panic attack--but she was determined to learn what triggered hers. She couldn't take pills forever.

  Thomas Wright Marshall beloved husband of Claire. The inscription said he'd been hers, yet when she closed her eyes she couldn't picture his face. She couldn't remember the warmth of his body, his smell or his taste. Tom was lost to her more thoroughly than she would have thought possible. She traced the curving letters with her fingertip and felt only emptiness. The Xanax hadn't been necessary.

  The ground had subsided over his grave, leaving a coffin-shaped depression that reinforced the futility of her visit. She slipped the pebble from her pocket, a flattened translucent sphere she'd found on the beach--children call them angels' tears--and left it beside his headstone.

  Fallen leaves crackled underfoot as she walked back to the parking lot. Faint honking drifted down from geese flying south in an impossibly blue sky. A murmuring wedge of dark-clad mourners approached, and she stepped aside so they could pass without breaking formation. Fifteen months ago, she'd been the center of a similar group.

  "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," she murmured, despite knowing the new widow couldn't hear and that it wouldn't help if she did.

  On the way back to her mother's house, she detoured past Mecosta County High School. The old brick building with its white columns and tall multi-paned windows looked just as it had twenty years ago when she and Tom sat next to each other in ninth-grade homeroom. Inside, the air would still smell of chalk and teenagers, wool sweaters and canvas sneakers--and dreams. Even then, Tom had known he wanted to be a pediatrician. Saving the world one child at a time, he'd joked, but he'd meant it, and she had vowed to help him.

  The same shops lined Main Street. Too far from Grand Rapids to be a suburb and too far off Lake Michigan to be a resort, Centreville seemed to exist outside time. Several of their high school friends had moved back to raise families, but she and Tom had wanted a larger world. After Ann Arbor, they'd moved to Baltimore for his med school at Johns Hopkins and then New Orleans for his residency at Tulane. He would have begun practice in New York City. They'd laughed about starting their family in Manhattan of all places.

  She'd buried him in Mecosta County where his family, and hers, still lived. He'd died before they could put down roots of their own.

  The white clapboard colonial her parents bought when she was in third grade hadn't changed, but time's passage showed in the yard. The maple tree she'd helped Dad plant stood forty feet tall. The shrubbery around the front porch had grown, maybe a little too much. Claire made a mental note to ask her mother if she wanted it trimmed, and climbed familiar steps to the front porch.

  A note on the hall table said, "Gone shopping, back soon, call Jack at your office."

  She hurried to her room and dialed the number. Her partner wouldn't have interrupted her vacation unless there was a serious problem.

  He picked up on the first ring.

  "Hey, it's me," she said. "What's happening?"

  "The bank returned Frank Palmer's check. Forty thousand dollars we thought we had in the bank isn't there."

  "There must be a mistake." She'd written checks against that deposit and mailed them before leaving town. A bunch of bad checks would destroy the financial credibility she'd worked so hard to build. Subs and suppliers would start demanding payment in advance. Without credit, Authentic Restorations would be back on the ropes.

  "It has to be a mistake," she repeated. "Frank's a wealthy man."

  "The bank says no mistake. I can call Palmer, but I wanted to talk to you first." He cleared his throat. "I'm thinking he stopped payment."

  "Why would he do that? He's happy with our work."

  "Last time I saw him, he didn't look happy."

  Jack was right; Frank had been livid.

  He'd stopped by the office to suggest she visit his fish camp down in the bayou country. He had mentioned rebuilding the cabin before and said he wanted to surprise his fishing buddies by keeping the project a secret until it was finished. She'd been noncommittal about a small job that far from town. Now he wanted her to see exactly what he had in mind, a major renovation that would, he promised, be worth her while. He was anxious to get started. She explained that she'd be out of town all week and suggested Jack go. They'd already talked about it. Frank had exploded, white-lipped with fury because she'd told Jack about his secret project. For a moment, she'd thought he might actually hit her.

  Jack's arrival had defused the situation, and the next day, Frank apologized for being unreasonable. Of course, she had to discuss potential projects with her business partner. He'd been caught off guard, because she hadn't seemed interested in the job. He'd been distracted, upset about something else and had taken it out on her. None of his excuses made any sense to her, but she'd accepted his apology and moved on.

  "The check was for work on his cottage in town," she said. "The fuss was about the cabin at his fish camp, and it's all blown over. I'm meeting him down there next Wednesday."

  "So, do you want me to call him?"

  "No. I'll do it." She told him not to worry but knew he would. Jack had a family to support, a mortgage and, before she came on board, a close brush with financial disaster. Any hint of money problems sent him into a tailspin.

  Finances were her responsibility now, and she'd better do something fast. She dialed Frank's direct line, and his secretary answered, a bad sign.

  "Good morning, Jeanette. It's Claire Marshall. Is Frank available?"

  "He's gone fishing. Do you want him to call you when he gets back?"

  "Sooner if possible, please. I'm in Michigan. Let me give--"

  "I know where you are," Jeanette interrupted. "Frank wanted you to go down to his fish camp with him, but you couldn't because it's your mother's birthday."

  "He told you?" Frank, who threw a fit because she discussed his cabin with her partner, had told his secretary?

  "Of course. I keep his calendar. You've never been down there, have you?"

  "No, but--"

  "I hate the bayou country. I don't even like driving through. I mean, what happens if you're in an accident or your tire blows out or something and you end up in that nasty black water? It's full of horrible things. Half the time what looks like an old log is really an alligator. And snakes--they're the worst. A moccasin will attack a full-grown man."

  Jeanette paused for breath, and Claire grabbed the opportunity to leave the swamps behind. "Do you have a number where I can reach him."

  "Uh-uh. It's the middle of nowhere. There's no telephone, and his mobile phone doesn't work down there."

  "When he checks in, please ask him to call me. It's important."

  "If he checks in," Jeanette corrected her. "When you couldn't go, he decided to take Hatch fishing. The two of them go way out in the Gulf, lots of times overnight. Now I like the Gulf--"

  "There must be a way to contact him." The CEO of a major commercial construction company would h
ave to stay in touch or, at least, be reachable.

  "He'll be back tomorrow. I can't believe he didn't tell you. Frank is the Crescent City Club's Citizen of the Year. You know, for his work with The Children's Home. The ceremony is tomorrow night. It's a real honor."

  "I'm sure it's well deserved." She rested her forehead against the windowpane. Outside, a red leaf circled slowly downward, fluttering in the breeze, while Frank's secretary babbled about his volunteer work. The leaf reached the ground.

  "Let me give you my mother's number. Frank has it but maybe not with him."

  "He's not going to lose your number." Jeanette's tone became girlish. "You don't need to pretend with me, Claire Marshall. You're unhappy because you can't talk to Frank, but he'll be back." She giggled. "Absence makes the heart grow fonder."

  "Excuse me?"

  "I know it's a secret, but he had to tell me." Another giggle. "I'm making your honeymoon reservations."

  "What?" Claire gasped.

  "The only other person who knows is Sherry, in bookkeeping. She's my best friend. I had to tell her, but it's okay. She won't tell anyone."

  "Frank and I have a business relationship. Business, that's all. I don't know where--"

  "He was so broken up after Annie Lewis died. I never thought he'd get married again. Neither did Sherry." Jeanette rattled on as if Claire hadn't spoken. "And you're so young, I never would have guessed you're a widow, but he told me all about it." A loud sigh. "Both of you lost the person you loved, but now you've found each other."

  "No one's found anyone. Frank and I are not in love. We are not getting married. We're not even dating. My company is restoring a property that Frank owns."

  "I know. It's a secret romance."

  "There's no romance, secret or otherwise. There is a problem with a check." Claire spoke through clenched teeth. "Can someone else help me?"

  "Sherry writes all the checks, but Frank gave her the week off, you know, because he wasn't going to be around."