"Please have him call me as soon as possible."
She returned the receiver to its cradle, gently, not the slam that would have been more satisfying. Honeymoon reservations? Where had that come from? If Jeanette stopped talking long enough to listen, she might get her stories straight. She cursed Frank's long-winded secretary and dialed her office. Jack would have bitten his fingernails to the quick by now.
As soon as she said hello, he asked, "What did Palmer say?"
"I couldn't reach him," she admitted. "Who'd you talk to at the bank? I'll call their boss."
"I worked my way up to the branch manager, who wasn't giving an inch."
"I can go higher. Frank introduced me to Bobby Austin a couple weeks ago. Hold on while I look for his card."
"Bobby Austin who runs the bank?"
"Uh huh." Frank had said Bobby was both his banker and his best friend. Asking Bobby for help might be seen as an imposition, but she was desperate. She held the phone between her shoulder and her ear and rummaged through her pocketbook. "Here it is. Let's hope he remembers me."
The woman who answered the phone sounded doubtful, but moments later Bobby came on the line. "Claire, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"
She described the situation, hoping he couldn't hear her desperation. They both knew the construction industry was littered with small firms gone belly up due to cash flow problems. And without Frank's check, Authentic Restorations had more flow than cash.
"There's no reaching Frank when he's gone fishing," Bobby agreed. "But don't worry, we'll cover his check. Tell your partner to bring it to any branch and have the teller call my office. We're open until four this afternoon."
"Thank you, Bobby." Her shoulders relaxed, and she realized they'd been hunched up around her ears. She had more than money invested in Authentic Restorations. "Jack Giordano will be at your Saint Charles branch within the hour."
"Frank can be careless about details, but he's a good man."
"I appreciate your taking time to help me." Maybe Frank was a good man, maybe not, but Bobby had earned a gold star in her book. "I know you're busy."
"My pleasure. And Claire, Frank told me about your plans."
"What plans?" Had Frank told Bobby about fixing up the cabin?
"Have it your way." He chuckled. "Your secret's safe with me. And I'm very happy for both of you."
"But we're not... There's no..." Claire realized she was protesting to a dial tone. Bobby had hung up. She stared, befuddled, at the receiver in her hand. Could Frank be telling his friends that they planned to marry? Why on earth would he do that? They hardly knew each other.
She searched her memory for anything that indicated romantic interest on Frank's part and found nothing except, perhaps, the watch. He had insisted on driving her to the airport, part of his penance for being unreasonable, he'd said. He pulled up in front of the terminal and walked around to get her suitcase out of the backseat while she waited on the sidewalk. Then, instead of handing it over and driving away, he put his hand on her arm. He apologized again for losing his temper and said he was very pleased with the work her firm was doing.
"I don't want you deciding I'm more trouble than I'm worth." He slipped an oblong box into her jacket pocket. "Open it after I leave."
Inside the terminal, she'd opened the box, expecting a nice pen, and been surprised by a sparkly watch. Costume jewelry was an odd present for a business acquaintance. She told herself that Frank meant well. He just wasn't accustomed to female colleagues--or to apologizing. She'd tucked it into her suitcase, planning to write a thank you note when she returned to New Orleans, and boarded her plane.
Maybe she ought to take another look.
She pulled her suitcase out from under the bed and retrieved the box. The watch really was pretty, an art deco design in white metal embellished with dozens of glittering stones. She took it out of the box and turned it over. Elegant letters engraved on the back spelled Piaget and, beneath that, 18K. Piaget didn't make costume jewelry. The metal was white gold, and those stones were diamonds.
"Did you see my note?" Her mother stood in the doorway.
"I did, thank you." Her hand closed around the watch. If her mother saw this extravagant gift, she'd jump to the wrong conclusion about her relationship with Frank. Anyone would.
"What have you got there?"
"A rhinestone bracelet," Claire lied. "I bought it this morning. Jack's wife has a birthday next week, and she likes sparkly things." She returned the watch to its box and closed the lid.
"Are you hungry? I picked up deli sandwiches for lunch. Hot pastrami."
"My favorite, thank you." Claire found a smile. "I have one more quick call. I'll be through by the time you unwrap them."
Her mother went downstairs, and she called Jack to give him the good news.
"I'll be at the bank in ten minutes," he said, "unless I have a heart attack on the way."
"Bobby Austin, himself, told me not to worry. I'm passing it on."
She'd mailed the checks Monday afternoon before leaving for the airport, too late for a Tuesday delivery. People would have gotten them yesterday at the earliest, more likely today. Maybe everything was going to be okay. She hoped the knot in her stomach left room for a pastrami sandwich.
After lunch, Claire called Jack again. He hadn't called back, which meant the bank must have honored Frank's check, but the more she thought about the situation the less comfortable she felt. Jack was happy to reassure her.
"The minute I walked in, the manager hurried over with his hand out and a big smile on his face. No kidding." He laughed. "I looked to see who was standing behind me."
"Did you tell him I've already written checks against the deposit?"
"If any checks bounced, the bank will take full responsibility and say it was their mistake. I don't know what you said to Austin, but it worked like magic."
Jack's story heightened Claire's unease. Bobby must have called the branch manager, and he wouldn't have done that unless he thought she and Frank "had plans" as he put it. Jeanette was an airhead, but being asked to make honeymoon reservations would be hard to misinterpret.
"Has Frank called the office?"
"Nope."
"Don't do any more work on his cottage until I talk to him. Shift the crew over to the Esplanade project."
"You said there wasn't any problem."
"I want to be sure there isn't. Better safe than sorry. Right?" Claire ended the call on a light note she didn't feel.
If Frank was telling people they planned to marry, there was a big problem. As bizarre as that was, she could think of no other explanation, and she couldn't bear to have people thinking she was involved with him, much less engaged. She called the airline and switched her return flight from Sunday evening to tomorrow morning. Then she called Frank's office and told Jeanette she'd be flying back to New Orleans tomorrow and would like to schedule an appointment with Frank any time after two.
"Schedule an appointment?" Jeanette echoed. "Don't be silly, Claire. If he's back in time, he'll want to meet your plane. After all." She giggled.
"Delta 1320, due in at twelve forty-seven." Claire wasn't going to waste any more energy arguing with Jeanette, and it was fine with her if Frank came to the airport. The sooner she talked to him, the better. "If he's not there, I'll call you." She hung up and went downstairs to find her mother, who was not going to be happy about the change in plans.
"But you just got here."
"I don't want to go, but I have to." She gave her mother a one-armed hug. "It's been a wonderful visit, and it's not over yet. We have your birthday party tonight."
"Can't Jack handle a problem with a subcontractor?"
"Jack is a wonderful person and an incredible craftsman, but he's a lousy businessman." She'd explained it all before. Jack had started his construction company without enough capital and compounded the problem by trying to please everyone, pricing projects too low and paying subcontractors too much. He'd
quickly found himself in financial hot water. She'd brought in enough money to stave off bankruptcy and the business skills to get the company on track. "That's why we're partners, and the business end is my job."
"Can't you take care of it over the phone?"
Claire shook her head. "I'm sorry, Mom. Some things have to be worked out face to face, and I have to do it. That's a problem with a small company. No back-up." She hated lying to her mother, and she'd done it twice today, but the truth was too weird--and too disturbing.
She had to straighten things out with Frank before he went to his banquet tomorrow night and told more people. Tom had been dead only fifteen months, and some days the loss felt as fresh as yesterday. She wasn't interested in any other man--not yet and maybe never, but certainly never Frank Palmer.
How dare you, Frank?
CHAPTER 3
Friday, October 15, 1993
Attorney-at-law Paul Gilbert pulled under the porte cochere of The Pontchartrain Hotel and took a moment to admire the familiar facade. One of the big new downtown hotels had offered free meeting space, but after he and several other long-time members objected to any move, the offer was politely refused. The Crescent City Club had always held its awards ceremony at The Pontchartrain and would continue to do so.
Paul valued tradition. His family had been prominent in New Orleans since before the Louisiana Purchase. Local historians said his ancestors had opposed it. Paul had no idea if that was true or not, but the story amused him, and he enjoyed his position among the elite. He also prided himself on good manners, which included promptness. He tipped the valet and hurried into the hotel, at home in his formal attire and confident of his welcome.
Andrew Walsh intercepted him in the lobby. "Have you seen Frank Palmer?"
"Hello, Andrew. Good to see you. Will you be introducing Frank tonight?" Although not a member of the Club, Andrew's position as director of The Children's Home made him the logical choice.
"Yes and he was supposed to meet me here at six thirty. I've been here since six." Andrew wiped his brow, leaving a damp streak on the sleeve of his dinner jacket.
"Perhaps Frank used a different entrance. Let's look in the ballroom."
Paul had little use for Andrew, whose usual attitude toward those above him on the social ladder was a smarmy combination of obsequious and self-righteous. Tonight, however, tension made him abrupt, and his apparent stage fright was almost touching.
They joined half a dozen men occupying a strategic spot between the main bar and a buffet table laden with silver platters of oysters, shrimp, and crawfish. These were Frank's friends, but questions about his whereabouts elicited only shrugs and surmises that he was in some corner, working on his latest deal. Still sweating, Andrew charged off to look elsewhere.
Paul wished him luck. Spotting one man among two hundred middle-aged men wearing essentially the same suit wouldn't be easy. He accepted a glass of wine from a passing waiter and joined a conversation that ranged from the weather--heavy thunderstorms were predicted--to politics to sports.
Tulane and LSU graduates traded amiable insults about whose football team was worse. Neither was having a good year. Paul, who'd left Louisiana for college, listened with only half an ear as he scanned the room for Frank. He was looking forward to the reactions when Frank announced his impending marriage to Claire Marshall. He was also hoping someone else would suggest caution. Frank had pooh-poohed all his warnings about young women and wealthy older men, insisting that Claire was different. Paul had heard that before, usually from an older man about to become poorer but wiser.
A chime signaled dinner, and the group migrated to a table near the front. Paul forgot about Frank until the awards ceremony began. After presentation of the lesser awards, Andrew Walsh was introduced. He carried an ominously thick stack of note cards up to the podium. Frank's work with The Children's Home went back at least a decade, and it looked as if Andrew planned to describe every moment.
Paul ordered two snifters of Armagnac from a passing waiter. When the brandy arrived, he slid one over to Bobby, who was also eyeing that stack of notes. Bobby had managed the LSU football team that Frank captained, he'd been best man when Frank married Annie Lewis, his bank had supported Frank through the early lean years and, no doubt, still carried a fat portfolio of loans to FP Development Company. Andrew could say nothing that Bobby hadn't heard many times before. Their glasses were empty by the time Andrew turned over his last note card.
"I'd like to present your Citizen of the Year," he said. "Franklin W. Palmer II, chairman of The Children's Home Board of Directors."
The applause began with great enthusiasm but died when Frank didn't appear. Heads swiveled as people searched the room, but the banquet was open seating, and no telltale chair sat empty at a designated place.
"My friend, Frank Palmer." Andrew's voice quavered.
After another long silence, Bobby stood. "I'd like to accept the award on Frank's behalf." A clap of thunder followed by the rat-tat-tat of heavy rain added to the strangeness of the moment. The expected storms had arrived.
Paul marveled at the persistence of character. If half the stories he'd heard were true, Bobby had been covering for Frank since they were undergraduates.
The awards ceremony ended with Bobby's brief acceptance speech, but people remained seated, speculating about possible reasons for Frank's astonishing absence. Andrew darted from table to table, asking everyone when they'd last seen Frank and generally making a nuisance of himself. Bobby returned to the microphone and advised everyone to go home. The hour was getting late. With this heavy rain and more coming, driving conditions would only worsen. He pointed toward the waiters, standing by the kitchen door. "These hardworking men can't clear the room until we leave."
Paul asked one of the hotel staff to let him use an empty office and began making phone calls.
Several minutes later, Bobby joined him. "Have you learned anything?"
"Nothing useful. Jeanette hasn't seen Frank since Tuesday. He left the office early, she thinks, to go fishing with Hatch. She had more to say, as you can imagine, but the bottom line is she doesn't know where he is. The police are checking his house, discreetly, of course. I've been unable to reach Melissa."
"Melissa?" Bobby raised his eyebrows. "Hasn't he told you about Claire Marshall?"
Paul nodded. Frank had told him, and Jeanette certainly knew. She'd gone on and on about Claire's devotion, how she had cut short her vacation because she couldn't stand being apart from Frank, how she'd called the office several times today, increasingly frantic about not being able to reach him.
"Frank wants to shout it from the rooftops," Bobby said, "but Claire doesn't want any big announcement. You know she was widowed just last year. He told me a few days ago, and I couldn't resist wishing her well when she called the bank."
"About Frank?" Paul said. Had she actually tried to investigate his financial situation?
"No, no, no." Bobby answered the unspoken question. "Nothing like that. Her company's doing some work for him, and they had a problem with one of his checks. I was happy to help. Have you met her?"
"Only briefly," Paul said. "But I'm aware of their plans to marry, and you're right. We should call. Do you have her number?"
"No, and when we spoke, she was in Michigan."
"Jeanette said she returned today."
"Really? I had the impression she was staying through the weekend." Bobby picked up the phone book. "I like Claire, and she strikes me as a woman who'd have a listed number. Aha, here she is." He dialed but hung up without speaking. "Her machine picked up, and I couldn't think of a tactful message."
The police called back to report that no one was home at the Palmer residence. A note on the front door, dated Friday 3:30 pm, asked Frank to contact Claire. Paul relayed that information along with a summary of Jeanette's romantic blather.
"She thinks he's with Claire. If I hadn't cut her short, she'd still be mooing about glorious romance. I don't under
stand how Frank puts up with that woman, much less why he employs her." Actually, he did. Frank valued loyalty above all other virtues, and Jeanette personified it. If Frank asked her to jump off a bridge, she'd ask which one.
"This time, she might have a point," Bobby said.
"Why do you say that?"
"Claire planned to spend the weekend in Michigan, but she didn't. Frank planned to be here, but he isn't. It's almost midnight, and we can't locate either of them. I'll bet they're together." Bobby smiled. "I wouldn't be surprised if they've eloped."
Paul walked over to the window and watched the rain pelting down while he considered Bobby's words. He would never describe Frank as a romantic, nor could he imagine him skipping this award, which was a triumph for an ambitious man from humble beginnings. Frank Palmer cared deeply about his reputation, almost to the point of obsession, and he'd worked hard to attain both social and financial success. Being named Citizen of the Year validated that success. He shook his head.
"I don't see it."
"You know Frank. Once he's made up his mind to do something, he does it, and Claire doesn't want a lot of fuss."
"Perhaps you're right." He hoped not. Frank's will had been changed, but the prenuptial agreement hadn't been finalized. Frank would be a fool to marry this impecunious young widow without it. Nor was Paul reassured by Bobby's good opinion of Claire. Yes, she seemed like a pleasant person, but neither one of them knew much about her, and Bobby trusted too readily. He was president of the bank only because he inherited the position. He was far too easy-going to have scratched his way to the top.
"Don't look so gloomy," Bobby said. "The more I think about it, the more I think they're together."
"We've done what we can." Paul shrugged. "I'm ready to go home. I'll call if I hear anything. You do the same."
Paul was halfway home when he saw the implication of calling Melissa first, even though he knew Frank intended to marry Claire. He chuckled and admitted he might just be the most cynical man in New Orleans.
Patricia Dusenbury - Claire Marshall 01 - A Perfect Victim Page 2
