Patricia Dusenbury - Claire Marshall 01 - A Perfect Victim

by Patricia Dusenbury

  Lieutenant Breton was a man of his word. Twenty minutes later, she stood next to him on the porch and watched a uniformed officer escort the intruder, who really was a TV reporter, up the driveway.

  "You're sure you don't want to press charges?" he said. "That jerk's a free man when he hits the street."

  "No, thank you. I just want him to leave me alone. If he comes back, I'll press charges."

  "Can we go inside and talk?" He took a step toward the door.

  "Of course. Do I need to sign something?" She showed him into the living room.

  "We had ourselves a little coincidence this morning. You called for help getting rid of that reporter, and I called to set up an appointment." He sat down without being invited. "We want to talk to you about Frank Palmer."

  "I met with Deputy Corlette at the Lafourche Parish Sheriff's Department yesterday. I told him everything I know, and he recorded our conversation."

  "Corlette gave us a copy of the tape. But we want to talk to you ourselves."

  "I'd rather not." She was sorry that Frank had died, but she really didn't have anything to tell the police, and she didn't want to relive the weekend ordeal. Taking to Deputy Corlette had been difficult. Repeating everything, knowing that Frank's body had been in the cabin, would be much harder.

  "You don't have a lot of choice."

  "I don't? Really? I thought I lived in a country where citizens have certain rights."

  "You also have certain obligations, and one is to cooperate with law enforcement agencies. We just want to talk to you. You can make a big deal of it and get a lawyer involved, plead the fifth if you've got something to hide. Up to you."

  Lieutenant Breton had entered her home under false pretenses. He was sitting in her living room as if he owned the place and lecturing her about civic responsibilities as if she were a recalcitrant child. In fact, he was sitting in Dorian's chair. Claire was pleased to see fluffy orange and white cat hair clinging to his trousers.

  "Excuse me, please. I'll be right back." She went into the bedroom to look up Paul Gilbert's number. The only other lawyers she knew were real estate attorneys.

  The receptionist put her right through, and Paul began by expressing his deepest sympathy. With a jolt, Claire realized that he thought she and Frank planned to marry.

  "I really didn't know Frank very well," she said, "but of course, I'm saddened by his passing." There was a moment of silence from the other end, so she added, "My condolences go to you. Frank said you'd been friends for decades."

  After another noticeable pause, Paul thanked her.

  "I'm sorry to bother you at a time like this, but I don't know where else to turn." She explained the situation with the police. "Do I really have to talk to them again?"

  Their brief conversation made Claire very glad she'd called for advice. She returned to the living room where Lieutenant Breton was leafing through the magazines on her coffee table.

  "This is the morning for coincidences," she said. "I just spoke to Paul Gilbert. You're meeting in his office at one this afternoon. He suggested I meet you there at two." That Frank's lawyer would sit in went without saying. "Thank you for getting rid of that obnoxious reporter. I'll see you this afternoon."

  She walked to the front door, and held it open, a not very subtle invitation for him to leave. As soon as he was gone, she'd fix herself a cup of coffee and start Monday all over again.

  * * * *

  Several miles away, Paul Gilbert contemplated coffee. He held the cup in hands that were more appropriate to the piano player he'd once considered becoming than to the lawyer he was. He paused to savor the exquisite aroma before taking a sip. Hawaiian Kona, considered by many to be the world's finest. The cup was Limoges.

  Paul rarely mourned the road not taken. Piano players can't afford the daily luxuries that gave him pleasure. The Gilberts, while an old family, weren't nearly as wealthy as most assumed. His practice earned a generous income, and sprinkled among the mundane wills and divorces were enough sins and misdemeanors to keep him amused. He was happily immune to the heedless passions that led others into compromising situations. Nevertheless, life would be boring without the melodrama of his clients' illicit love affairs, inconvenient pregnancies and badly behaved offspring. And this morning...

  He rubbed the hot porcelain against his lower lip and considered the curious conversation with Claire Marshall, a woman who responded to the death of her fiancé by denying the relationship. Small wonder the police wanted to talk to her again. If their interest continued, he'd refer her to a criminal defense lawyer. He took another sip.

  Frank and Annie Lewis Palmer had not been part of his circle, but he and Frank had known each other through Bobby Austin. Several years ago Frank had hired him to make discreet arrangements for Melissa. After Annie Lewis's fatal accident and a suitable period of mourning, Frank had joined the thinning ranks of socially acceptable single men. Their paths crossed with increasing frequency, and a friendship developed, but only within the last few years. Hardly decades. Why would Frank bother to lie about how long they'd been friends?

  Perhaps Claire had misunderstood something Frank said. He couldn't get a bead on her. Paul knew better than most that love is ephemeral. Still, her denial shocked him. He'd review Frank's new will before this afternoon's meeting. If memory served, she would receive a bequest, contingent upon her engagement to Frank, more upon their marriage. Where that stood now was an interesting question. The money could change Claire's mind about not being engaged to Frank.

  She may or may not have seen the draft prenuptial agreement, not that it mattered now. To think that Friday night, when neither she nor Frank could be found, his greatest fear had been that his friend and client would marry without a pre-nup.

  The chime of his intercom interrupted his musing.

  "Yes, Suzanne?"

  "Melissa Yates is on line one. I told her you were in conference, but she insists upon talking to you." His normally placid receptionist, sounded aggrieved, and Paul suspected she had good cause.

  "I'll take the call. But first, let me apologize for Miss Yates. She's received some very bad news." He activated the speakerphone and addressed the trollop who had been Frank Palmer's mistress for longer than anyone cared to admit. "Melissa, my dear, please accept my deepest condolences."

  "What the hell's going on? The paper says Frank's dead. The propane stove at his fish camp exploded. I don't believe it. Frank's careful with stuff like that." She took a ragged breath. "Why are the cops looking for Hatch? Who's Claire Marshall? The paper Frank was going to marry her. That's bullshit. What's going on? I have a right to know."

  Paul didn't share Melissa's perspective on a mistress's right to anything, but he noted that nowhere in her tirade did she mention money, her usual concern. Moreover, unlike Claire Marshall, she appeared genuinely distressed at Frank's passing. He probably should have called her. Captain Robinson had asked his assistance in notifying family and friends. Then again, he'd left a message Friday night, asking her to call him, and she'd ignored it.

  He settled on a semi-apology. "I was waiting until a decent hour to contact you, dear."

  "Frank's really dead?"

  "It's hard to believe, but I'm afraid it's true."

  "What happens now? Is there going to be a funeral?"

  "Arrangements are incomplete. However, unless something changes, the service will be three o'clock Wednesday afternoon at Saint Phillip's." It was a statement not an invitation, but Melissa would miss the subtlety.

  She lacked any sense of propriety, an unfortunate characteristic that had amused Frank. For a man who cared so deeply about his own good name, he'd had a surprising tolerance for Melissa's bad behavior. Paul made a mental note to enlist Bobby Austin's assistance in keeping Melissa and Claire away from each other at the funeral.

  "Last Monday morning--God, was it just last Monday?" Melissa's words tumbled over each other. "Right before he drove me to the airport, Frank bought a watch--a present for a
woman named Claire who was fixing up some cottage for him. He said she was doing a good job, and he wanted to give her something extra. That's her isn't it?"

  "I believe Ms. Marshall is in the renovation business."

  "The paper says they were going to get married." The word married dissolved in sobs.

  Paul tried to erase the ghastly vision of Melissa with mascara-laden tears streaming down her cheeks. Still, he felt a twinge of sympathy. Frank should have told her.

  "I've been with Frank for ten years. I'd know if there was someone else."

  He let his silence say they both knew that wasn't true. Frank had enjoyed numerous liaisons over the years.

  She took a tremulous breath. "Do you know her? What's she like?"

  Relieved by a question that wasn't fraught, Paul answered honestly. "I met her once. She seemed pleasant, but I really had no other impression." One meeting had not been enough to get a sense of Claire Marshall. She was attractive in an all-American, red hair and freckles way--striking green eyes--but hardly the woman he'd have chosen for Frank. She'd been polite but reserved and had contributed little to the conversation until they discussed her work. Apparently restoring old houses was her passion as well as her occupation.

  "Was he really going to marry her?"

  "I don't know what would have happened if Frank hadn't died." Another honest answer. Although Frank most assuredly had intended to marry Claire, her reaction to his death raised questions. If she persisted in denying a relationship, it would certainly raise eyebrows.

  "What about Hatch?" Melissa said. "Where's he?"

  "The police posed that very question earlier this morning. As I told them, I barely know the man and have absolutely no idea where he is. Isn't he a friend of yours?"

  "Why are they looking for him?"

  "Because they don't know where he is. The police have this thing about loose ends."

  "I can't imagine life without Frank." She sounded as plaintive as a lost child.

  "You're an attractive young woman with your life ahead of you." He winced at the cliché. Eloquence had deserted him in the face of a grieving Melissa Yates. Could this tramp have cared more for Frank than for his money? Or maybe that was what she couldn't imagine living without. "I assure you, Melissa, you're provided for."

  "What do you mean?"

  "You should have no financial problems."

  "I don't. The boutique makes money."

  "So I've heard." That profitable status might or might not continue without Frank standing behind her. It didn't really matter. Whatever happened to the shop, she'd still own the building. Frank had deeded it to her last year, and properties in the Quarter were appreciating nicely. Over the years, he had spent thousands upon thousands of dollars keeping Melissa happy--every penny against his lawyer's advice--and the subsidy would survive his death.

  The conversation had become tiresome, and Paul began to extricate himself.

  "There are a few things for us to discuss, papers for you to sign, but nothing you should worry about. I'd like to meet with you sometime next week, once things have calmed down." He transferred the call back to Suzanne and asked her to set an appointment. Half an hour would be sufficient.

  Paul freshened his coffee and considered the issue of Melissa's existence. Eventually Captain Robinson or someone working for him would learn about her. He was weighing the pros and cons of being the one to inform them when Robinson called to say dental X-rays confirmed that the body found in the cabin was Frank Palmer.

  "I didn't realize there was any question."

  "The preliminary identification was circumstantial, as you're aware."

  A slight emphasis on that last phrase made Paul wish he'd mentioned his role in the search of Frank's cabin the first time they spoke. His personal concerns about Frank's welfare had thrown him off his game, and he'd reacted reflexively. Discretion was an ingrained habit, but in this matter, it had been a poor choice.

  "I just spoke to Claire Marshall," he said. "She's meeting your colleague in my office at two. Will you be joining us?"

  "Both Lieutenant Breton and I will be there."

  "I look forward to meeting you in person. Your excellent reputation precedes you."

  Saturday evening, he'd called Assistant Police Superintendent Henry Vernon to tell him Frank's body had been found under circumstances that should be considered suspicious. He'd asked for assurances that the investigation would be competent and discreet. "The Lafourche Parish deputies appear capable, but..."

  Vernon said he'd assign the new head of the homicide division to the case. If there had been foul play, they'd be one step ahead. If not, no harm done.

  "Robinson came to us from the Army. He was an outstanding officer and an excellent investigator." Vernon's review of Robinson's exemplary career--military police, college and law school at the government's expense, the Judge Advocates General Corps--came with a subtle warning. You won't be the only smart lawyer in the room.

  Paul had assured Henry that he would welcome working with someone who knew the law.

  He wondered what had brought this paragon of virtue to New Orleans and how long it would take him to succumb to the local culture.

  CHAPTER 9

  Daniel Doucet saw the Sheriff Department's launch, but not soon enough. They signaled for him to come alongside. When he did, Bill Reese, one of the deputies, leaned over the rail and tossed him a line.

  "Morning, Daniel. You're getting a late start this morning."

  "Life of leisure, that's me."

  "Life of poaching is more like it."

  "You come all the way out here to waste the taxpayer's money, hassling me when I ain't done nothing wrong, or are you actually working?"

  "A cabin burned last week, over on Bayou Perdu. We're looking for a witness."

  "Can't help you," Daniel said. "This is the first I've heard about it."

  "Well, you hear anything, contact the Sheriff's Department."

  "How come the sheriff cares about a cabin fire?" He considered it good riddance. If he'd thought of it, he'd have blown the asshole's place up himself.

  "Owner was inside," Bill said, "a guy named Frank Palmer. He's dead."

  Daniel crossed himself. It had never occurred to him there was anyone in the cabin. If he'd known, he would've tried to help. Then he remembered the loud whoosh, the flames shooting into the sky and the heat on his skin. That cabin and anyone in it were history the minute it blew. He would have gotten himself killed if he'd tried to be a hero.

  "You're not looking too good. Was Palmer a friend of yours?"

  He shook his head. "I don't like to think of bad stuff happening around here."

  "Weren't for bad stuff, I'd have to get a real job." Bill pulled his line back. "See you 'round."

  Daniel watched the launch move away. If deputies were out looking for witnesses, he'd best keep to legal water. Regardless, he'd be staying away from that end of Bayou Perdu. A violent death meant the asshole's spirit might linger looking for vengeance. Palmer's spirit, he corrected himself. He rubbed his Saint Andrew medal and asked forgiveness for thinking ill of the dead.

  He motored over to the closest legal bed, dropped anchor and picked up his oyster tongs, but his mind was elsewhere. Whoever torched the cabin must have killed Palmer. He mulled that over for a moment. He, Daniel Doucet, a man who believed in minding his own business, had witnessed a murder.

  Not that he actually saw the killer. He'd picked himself up off the bottom of his boat, with no thought to anything but getting out of there. But the killer might have seen me.

  With sickening certainty, he realized there was no might about it. He'd sped right up the middle of the bayou. A blind man could have seen him. A deaf man could have heard him. The killer who was most likely up top of the levee by then would have seen and heard. Fear quickened his pulse. No killer wants a witness.

  His first thought was to hole up in the swamps until things blew over. He knew his way around these bayous better than anyb
ody. A second thought said that was a lousy idea. This time of year, the mosquitoes were a plague. He'd have to run into town for supplies, which meant people would know he was around. Hiding wasn't the answer. He needed to put distance between himself and the burned cabin. A quick review of acquaintances who had moved away produced no one who'd be happy to put him up for a couple weeks, and he couldn't afford a motel.

  The solution stared him in the face. He just didn't want to see it. The family shrimp boat was going back out first thing tomorrow. No killer could track him down on the boat. The old man didn't know where they'd be one day to the next--it depended on the catch and the weather. He'd be safe, but sanctuary came at a high price, two or three weeks stuck on a thirty-foot boat with his father and three older brothers giving him orders like he was a little kid.

  He spat into the water. Like I have a choice. He motored back to Ray's, keeping an eye out for unfamiliar boats.

  He winched his boat out of the water, unscrewed the plugs to let her drain and carefully hosed off the salt. His boat was top of the line. A sixteen foot fiberglass bateau, it could float in eight inches of water yet had enough freeboard to handle the Gulf on calm days. His motor was one of the new four-stroke Hondas. It cost more but ran quieter and used less fuel than any two-stroke. He'd worked hard to pay for that boat, and he took good care of it.

  At midmorning, the café was empty, but pots bubbling on the stove said Ray hadn't gone far. Daniel heard voices and checked the back room.

  Ray's fat ass hung out of a booth in the corner, where he was talking to someone. Daniel couldn't see who. He pushed open the bathroom door. The sign said unisex, but that was a joke. Obscene suggestions and centerfolds torn from girlie magazines covered all four walls, and some athlete had drawn a naked woman on the ceiling. If any female had ever walked into this dump, forget used the bathroom, it was news to him.

  The sports page on top of the tank reminded him that the rest of the paper should be out front. He hadn't wanted to seem too interested when he was talking to Bill Reese, but he wanted to learn more about that fire. Like, did the sheriff's department suspect it was no accident? He finished his business and returned to the front room. The newspaper wasn't on the counter.