The specificity of the honeymoon preparations erased Claire's last doubt. Frank must have planned to propose when he picked her up at the airport. He obviously expected her to say yes.
The assumption astonished her. Was it arrogance? Had he confused her desire to do a good job on his cottage with something more personal? She couldn't remember doing or saying anything that could be misinterpreted that way.
"I was so happy for him," Jeanette said. "He'd been through so much, first Annie Lewis's accident and then Annalisa running away. The poor man was just torn up. Some people thought he became bitter, but I knew he was hiding his pain. And then, when he told me you all were getting married, he was happy, the man he used to be."
Claire realized that truth alone wouldn't dissuade Jeanette--not when Frank had told her otherwise. She listened with half an ear and cobbled together an explanation that might persuade Jeanette to see something closer to the truth.
"That would have been quite a surprise," she said.
"Frank loved to surprise people." Jeanette smiled through her sniffling.
"I think he planned to surprise me--and not just the honeymoon. I promise you, Frank never proposed. He never even mentioned marriage." She saw Jeanette's incredulous expression and added, "Really, it was all a surprise." After several more references to surprises, Jeanette came on board.
"I bet he was going to ask you to go away with him for the week-end and then surprise you by proposing when you were in the airplane on your way to Saint Barts."
Claire smiled and nodded agreement, although there was no way she would ever have agreed to go away for the weekend with Frank Palmer.
Once Jeanette accepted the possibility that there was no engagement, Claire introduced the idea that there was no romance. Her first attempt elicited an outraged denial. She persisted, emphasizing her own shortcomings. She wasn't ready for a relationship with any man, not even Frank Palmer. It took several go-rounds until finally, reluctantly, Jeanette admitted that she'd never actually seen any show of affection.
"But Frank said--"
"Frank was a charming man." When it served his purpose. "I think he was used to getting his way with women, and he was confident that I'd say yes. If he'd lived, who knows what might have happened." The answer was nothing, but let Jeanette find comfort in the belief that her beloved boss died on the verge of a new love affair. There could be no harm in preserving that last bit of illusion.
For all her talk, Frank's Girl Friday, as Jeanette liked to call herself, knew surprisingly little about his business. She said the company was experiencing cash flow problems because an important deal was interrupted, but she was fuzzy on the details. She thought Frank's murder had something to do with this mysterious business deal. Claire found that idea farfetched. Botched deals lead to lawsuits, not murder. There was something very personal about murder.
Jeanette knew even less about Frank's private life. She had no idea why Annalisa ran away or where the girl was now. "It's no wonder she left. It was just awful. Annie Lewis's parents acted like it was Frank's fault. Whenever I think about how they treated him at his own wife's funeral, I could just spit."
Any questions about the accident brought only sobs. "I still can't talk about it. "
Maybe Frank bore some responsibility for his wife's death. That could explain the bad relationship with his in-laws and possibly the disappearance of the daughter whose existence he denied. Might it have a bearing on his murder five years later? Neither Melissa nor Paul Gilbert would confide any of Frank's secrets, and she didn't have the heart to ask Bobby Austin, but she knew how to find information in old newspapers.
Claire stayed another hour listening to rambling reminiscences and asking questions. She left with Jeanette's promise of no more interviews. In that sense, her visit was a success, but she'd also hoped to gain more insight into Frank's life and, perhaps, to find something that might have been a motive for his death. Neither had happened.
CHAPTER 20
Bad weather had aggravated the usual Friday night delays, and Flight 583 from Atlanta to New Orleans and continuing on to Dallas was already two hours overdue. Mike and Breton were among a dozen or so people hanging around the gate. People slouched in the rigid seats and stared sightlessly at the walls, the floor, the ceiling. Now and then, one of the more restless walked over to the window and peered out at the wet tarmac. A cowboy napped, ten-gallon hat tilted over his face and blue jean clad legs stretched out so that people had to step over them. Mike noticed he was wearing brown oxfords, not boots. He pointed it out to Breton who muttered, "urban cowboy."
A heavy-set man, wearing a black leather vest emblazoned with a grinning skull and New Orleans Avengers, pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one in blatant disregard of the large no smoking sign. He returned Mike's glance with a defiant sneer and turned to the heavily tattooed woman beside him.
"See those two guys by the window? Five will get you ten they're cops." He spoke loudly enough that several people turned to look. "Bet they're after someone on this flight. That's why the plane's late." His belligerent expression dared anyone to challenge his judgment.
No one did, although two people moved to the other side of the gate area. Breton mumbled something about telling the bigmouth where to put the cigarette. Mike told him not to bother. Several minutes later, the cowboy stood and ambled down the concourse. When time passed and he didn't return, Mike wondered if he'd found another flight to Dallas or wanted to avoid police.
Forty more minutes passed before a disembodied voice announced that flight 583 was in the area and would be on the ground within the next few minutes. People stood and stretched, finished their soft drinks and tossed the cups in the trash. But they kept their distance when Mike and Breton positioned themselves on either side of the jetway door.
"Think he'll be on it?" Breton said.
"Someone's using his ticket."
Hatch exited in the middle of the pack. He looked scruffy in black jeans, a black t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and sunglasses. His arms and face were sunburned, and his nose had peeled raw in spots. Mike nudged Breton. "The man in black."
They fell in alongside their quarry. Breton whistled a few bars of "I Walk the Line", but Hatch didn't notice them until Mike spoke.
"Excuse me, Mr. Hatch. We're with the New Orleans Police Department, and we'd like to talk to you."
Hatch stopped and looked from one to the other. "We've got nothing to talk about."
"Let us be the judge of that," Mike said.
"Have a heart, man. I'm beat. It's been a shitty trip. The flight's delayed, and then we hit thunderstorms. Kid across the aisle puked all over the floor. And now you."
"It'll be a few minutes until your luggage comes up. We can talk while we wait."
"I tell you I'm clean." Hatch walked between them for several steps. "You want a crime? Look at how the airlines treat their paying passengers."
Breton clapped him on the back. "You can file a complaint down at headquarters, amigo."
They walked in silence to the baggage claim. Despite the late hour and relatively low lighting, Hatch kept his sunglasses on.
"You look like you've been at the beach." Mike said.
"I've been visiting my uncle, north of Wilmington. Last I heard it wasn't a crime to visit family."
"Why last week?"
"What the hell kind of question is that? Last week is when my boss gave me time off." Hatch warmed to the topic. "My boss is Frank Palmer. He's a big man in New Orleans, and he's got important friends. Frank's not going to be happy when he hears that cops are hassling one of his employees. Maybe you want to stop asking dumb questions and let me get my own luggage."
"Not yet." Mike saw his surprise reflected on Breton's face. What planet had Hatch been on that he didn't know Frank Palmer was dead?
"Oh yeah?" Hatch upped the ante. "Maybe I ought to give Frank a call--right now."
"I'm afraid you can't do that." Breton said.
"T
he hell I can't. There's a pay phone over there, and I got a quarter."
"You can't do that, amigo, because Palmer is dead. That's why we want to talk to you."
Hatch took off his sunglasses, revealing bloodshot pale blue eyes. "What happened to Frank?" he croaked.
Mike wished Breton hadn't been so quick to spill the beans, but there was no going back. He settled into observation mode.
"Your boss's cabin burned down with him in it." Breton was enjoying himself.
Hatch's stunned disbelief turned into something close to amusement. "You really expect me to believe that?"
"It was supposed to look like an accident, but we know better. Palmer was dead before the fire started. He was murdered. The fire was arson. Now, let's talk."
"You got to be joking."
"We're homicide. We don't think murder is funny."
Hatch opened and shut his mouth like a fish gasping for air. His eyes darted toward the exit.
Mike was certain their suspect would make a run for it if he thought he could reach the door. He put a restraining hand on Hatch's arm. "We're hoping you can help us with our investigation. Do you have any idea who might have killed Frank Palmer? You were with him before he died--did he appear to be nervous or concerned about anything?"
Hatch buried his face in his hands. At each question, he shook his head from side to side but didn't look up.
"Do you know of any reason why anyone would want to kill him?" Mike persisted.
Frank Palmer's driver lifted his head. "I want a lawyer."
They weren't going to learn anything from Hatch, not tonight. Mike recited the Miranda warning and said, "You can call a lawyer as soon as we book you."
"No lawyer worth shit takes calls this hour of the night." Hatch put his bravado back on with his sunglasses. "You want to make me spend the night in jail? Big fucking deal. I've been there before."
Breton carried Hatch's suitcase as they walked to their car, one of a scattering of vehicles left in the pay-by-the-hour lot. They kept Hatch between them, blocking any possible escape with their bodies, prepared to tackle him if he made a run for it.
"What about my car?" Hatch said. "I leave it here another day, I got to pay another four-fifty."
"That's the least of your troubles." Breton opened the car door.
Hatch didn't speak again until they reached headquarters. "You're telling me that you found Frank's body in the cabin?"
"That's right," Mike said. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"I got nothing to say until I talk to my lawyer."
Mike signed the papers and handed Hatch over to the booking officer. "We're done for tonight," he told Breton. "See you tomorrow."
"Tomorrow? It's tomorrow in twenty minutes. We've been on the job sixteen hours straight. Tomorrow's Saturday, and you want to be back here interrogating this clown?"
"If you wanted a nine to five job, why'd you become a cop?"
"I'm just saying that there's more to life. We have our man. Let him spend the weekend in a cell. We got seventy-two hours before he gets a hearing. Come on, Mike, "Breton pleaded, "we can question him Monday morning."
"Ten tomorrow morning. Meet in my office at nine forty-five." He had little sympathy for Breton, who was going home. He was headed back to the office to call Corlette, a late call in more ways than one.
When Corlette picked up, Mike began with an apology. "Sorry to call so late."
"No problem. I'm wide awake, reading a chapter for my abnormal psych class. Seems everyone I know really is nuts. So, why aren't you in bed?"
"We just picked Hatch up at the airport. He's been visiting relatives in North Carolina for the past week."
"Someone spotted him in the airport?"
"We were waiting for him." This was the tough part. "We found out about the plane ticket yesterday afternoon but, frankly, we didn't bring you in on it because we weren't sure he'd be on the flight." He heard himself say frankly and cringed. Every cop knew that people prefaced a statement with "frankly" when they were about to shade the truth.
"You could have mentioned it when we talked this afternoon."
"You're right." He should have informed Lafourche Parish yesterday. He hadn't because Vernon ordered silence until they had Hatch in custody. Mike came from a military tradition that respected hierarchy, but respect was a two-way street, and he'd had a bellyful of Vernon's micromanagement.
"So, what does Hatch have to say?"
"He claims he didn't know Palmer was dead, and I believe him."
"You do?"
Corlette sounded surprised, as well he might. The last time they discussed possible scenarios they'd agreed Hatch was the likely arsonist. Someone had hired him to kill Palmer and torch the cabin and then tried to get rid of him with the booby-trapped Jeep. Finding Hatch alive had seemed like the best way to solve the case. Now they had him, it wasn't looking that way.
"When we picked him up, he threatened us with repercussions, starting with a phone call to Palmer. I don't think he was faking."
"Then what?"
"The news of Palmer's death knocked him for a loop, and he clammed up." Silence from the other end of the line, told Mike what Corlette was thinking. New Orleans had really screwed up. He admitted it and took responsibility for Breton's big mouth. "I wish we hadn't dropped that bombshell so early in the conversation."
"I want to talk to Hatch."
"We booked him about twenty minutes ago. He's tucked in for the night. First thing tomorrow morning, he's calling a lawyer. We're planning to interview him at ten. I thought you'd want to sit in."
"Participate, not sit in, participate. It's our case. The crimes occurred in Lafourche Parish."
"We should have brought you in sooner." Mike offered another mea culpa. All in all, Corlette was taking the news better than he had a right to expect.
"I want a briefing before I talk to Hatch."
"Lieutenant Breton and I are meeting in my office at a quarter to ten. Show up before then and I'll tell you everything we know. Unfortunately, it won't take long."
"I'll be there at nine fifteen."
"Bring anything you have that might help." He told Corlette what he hadn't said to Breton. "I'm not confident we have enough to hold him."
CHAPTER 21
Saturday, October 23, 1993
Claire was waiting on the steps when the library opened at nine. She went directly to the microfiche room, a familiar spot because old newspapers could be a gold mine of information about historic houses. Today's quest was for more recent news. Jeanette had said five years ago, and so Claire pulled the tapes for 1988.
The death of Annie Lewis Palmer made the first page of the March 16 metro section. Frank's wife had died instantly when her car struck a cement abutment on Claiborne Avenue. She'd been alone in the car, and no other vehicles were involved. Police said her car had been traveling at a high rate of speed. Claire knew that stretch of road. Narrow lanes divided by pillars that supported the highway overhead. Frequent intersections and numerous stoplights precluded speeding unless the driver was very drunk or... Did Frank's wife commit suicide?
Claire had thought about suicide when panic attacks began making her life a misery. Death had seemed the only escape. One night she sat in Tom's old Toyota and imagined driving off a causeway or into something hard. She'd sat there for hours. Then she went inside and called her mother, who flew to New Orleans and took her to see Doctor Bennett. He prescribed the pills that blunted pain and blurred sharp edges. She told him about the panic attacks, and he added anti-anxiety meds.
Mother and daughter returned to Michigan together. Her mother rented a house on the lake, and they spent hours walking the beach together, sometimes talking but more often silent. Claire began walking alone, watching the waves and counting them, finding solace in their inevitability. She returned to New Orleans, grateful to the woman who'd given her life--not once but twice.
Annie Lewis Palmer's story had a different ending. Or maybe it was a diff
erent story. Claire scanned the next several days' papers but found no follow-up article. The obituary listed four surviving relatives; husband Frank, daughter Annalisa, and parents Mr. and Mrs. William Fulton of Whitfield, Alabama. The Fultons would be the people Jeanette said were so hard on Frank. Nothing in the newspaper explained why, but if Annie Lewis Palmer had killed herself, her parents could easily blame Frank. They might think he'd driven her to it. Did this have any bearing on his murder? Would the Fultons talk to her? Even more basic, could she find them?
Long distance information had an A. Fulton and a Richard Fulton in Whitfield, but no William. Claire asked for both numbers and started with A. When a woman answered, she identified herself and said she was calling from New Orleans, trying to reach the Fulton family whose daughter had been married to Frank Palmer.
"I have nothing to say." Click.
By the time Claire had returned the tapes and walked back to her car, she'd talked herself into a road trip. If she could speak to Mrs. Fulton face-to-face and explain the circumstances, Frank's mother-in-law might be willing to talk about him. She studied her roadmap of Alabama and located Whitfield, a dot on the map just over the Mississippi line. She could be there in two hours.
The clock on the courthouse said eleven fifty when Claire drove into Whitfield. She stopped at a drugstore and asked the pharmacist for directions to Annette Fulton's house. The mailbox labeled Fulton was right where he said it would be. The moment Claire turned up the driveway, a black dog, taller than her Miata, raced down the lawn, barking furiously. He escorted her up to the house and, when she parked, circled her car, still barking. No one came to the door to see what the fuss was about, and so she lowered her window an inch and tried to make friends.
Patricia Dusenbury - Claire Marshall 01 - A Perfect Victim Page 14
