Patricia Dusenbury - Claire Marshall 01 - A Perfect Victim (15 page)

Claire recognized the young woman who'd sat in the front pew at Frank's funeral. Her
arrival had caused a sensation, and Bobby Austin had hurried away when asked about her. Heat
rose in Claire's cheeks as she guessed why.

"No rush," she managed to say. She walked past shelves holding cross-stitch pillows
decorated with sayings about time and stopped beside a glass jewelry cabinet. The bracelets, pins,
and necklaces inside ranged from trendy to antique and from expensive to very expensive. She'd
been right about the watch's value, but everything else about the situation baffled her.

The men left, and the young woman walked over. "Can I help you?"

"Please. My name is Claire Marshall."

"Hello, Claire." Her eyes widened in surprise then flicked up and down in a quick appraisal.
"I'm Melissa Yates."

"Melissa. This is your shop?"

"That's right."

"I like your window display."

"Thank you."

"I saw you at Frank Palmer's funeral. I guess we both were friends with Frank."

"Friends?" Melissa's eyes narrowed. "The paper said you were getting married."

"That's not true." Claire answered more vehemently than she intended and quickly
backpedaled. "I mean the story in the paper was inaccurate."

"I knew he wasn't going to marry you." Her tone mixed satisfaction with relief.

"I asked them to print a retraction."

"Frank and I have been together for ten years."

They stood, facing off like two gunfighters on the dusty streets of Laredo. If Frank weren't
dead, Claire thought, this would be funny. But if he weren't dead, this wouldn't be happening.

"Please accept my condolences."

Melissa nodded, stone-faced.

Claire broke a silence that had lasted long enough to become uncomfortable "Before he
died, Frank gave me a watch." She pulled the box from her pocketbook. "I was going to give it back,
but now I can't, and so I'd like to return it to you. I'll donate the money to The Children's Home. In
his name."

"You've got to be kidding."

"I thought about giving it to Annalisa, but I don't know where she is or how to contact her.
She didn't even come to his funeral." Claire waited to see if Melissa would say anything about
Annalisa, but the woman maintained a stony silence and so she plowed on. "I don't have a receipt,
but your store's name is on the box."

Melissa opened the box, removed the watch and held it up to the light. "Frank paid four
thousand. Retail is more like ten."

After a brief negotiation, they agreed Melissa would try to sell the watch for a price of her
choosing. When it sold or in three months, whichever came first, she'd give Claire four thousand
dollars.

"If you want to give the money to The Children's Home, that's your business." Her voice
was as hard and flat as her eyes.

Claire searched for words to end this awkward encounter on a pleasant note. "Thank you
for your help and for believing me about Frank."

"Who told them you were getting married in the first place?"

"I think Frank did, but I can't imagine why."

"Well," Melissa drew the word out to several syllables. "Neither can I." Another quick
appraisal. "If he bought you those earrings, I can't help with them. They didn't come from
here."

Claire put her hands to her ears. "My husband gave me these!"

"You're married?"

"I'm a widow. My husband was a wonderful man, a hero."

"Hey. No offense intended." Melissa held up her hands as if warding off an attack.

Claire realized she'd been yelling like a madwoman. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell. I've
been under a lot of stress. I'm really sorry."

"No problem, it's been a tough time for lots of us." Melissa walked over to the cash
register.

Claire followed, being careful not to crowd the counter. "You knew Frank well. I didn't." She
raised her palms in a gesture of helpless frustration. "This phony fiancée business... It's as if
he was playing some kind of a game, but then he died. And now I'm trapped by some crazy chain of
events that he set in motion. I just came from the police station."

"What were you doing there?" Melissa said.

* * * *

Breton called in twenty minutes after he'd left the office. "Talk about killing two birds with
one stone. Claire Marshall led me right to Melissa's boutique. Our victim's fiancée and his
mistress are having a little
tête-à-tête
."

"Where are you now?"

"On the sidewalk outside the shop."

Mike cursed under his breath. He'd wondered why Claire was in such a hurry to leave his
office. Now he knew. He'd also wanted to see how Melissa reacted when told that Palmer was
murdered, and it looked as if Claire had beaten them to the punch. Maybe she was part of a
conspiracy. He'd been fooled before.

"Melissa just slid something across the counter. Could be a key. Claire put it in her purse.
Here she comes."

"Don't let her see you."

"She's not looking anywhere but straight ahead. Our suspect is in a big hurry. Do you want
me to stay with her?"

Mike weighed the options and went with discretion. "No. If she spots you, she'll know you
saw them together. I'll meet you in front of the boutique in twenty minutes. What's the
address?"

When they walked in, Melissa was alone in the shop. She looked up from the scarves she
was folding and smiled.

"May I help you, gentlemen?"

Mike showed his badge. "We're looking into the circumstances surrounding the death of
Frank Palmer and hope you can help us."

"I'll do anything to help the police." She sashayed to the door and flipped the sign to
closed.

Breton spoke out of the side of his mouth, "Showtime. Gilbert said she enjoyed flaunting
her charms. I'm hoping for a lap dance."

Melissa returned and leaned against the counter, one hip outthrust and cleavage on
display. "Now we won't be interrupted."

When told Palmer had been murdered, she neither expressed surprise nor admitted
knowing anything that might shed light on a motive. She responded to questions about their
relationship with a raised chin.

"As I'm sure you know, we were very close."

"When was the last time you saw last Mr. Palmer?" Mike said.

"He drove me to the airport Monday morning." She looked past them. "I was in Atlanta all
week."

"When did you return to New Orleans?"

"Sunday afternoon."

"That's a long time in Atlanta." Breton said. "What were you doing there?"

"I went to the show at the Gift Mart, buying for the shop. I was supposed to come back
Friday night, but I got sick and stayed 'til Sunday. I didn't know anything had happened to Frank
until I read it in the paper Monday morning."

"Can you document your travel?"

"I was staying at the Peachtree Plaza, and I flew Delta. I can prove it if I have to." She
resumed folding the scarves.

"We're looking for Ronald Hatch."

"I'm looking for him myself. I have half a container sitting down at the port. Hatch and
Jimbo usually pick up my shipments."

Mike waited to see if she'd say more without being asked. After folding another scarf, she
said, "Jimbo's a big strong guy who has a truck. I don't know his last name or anything about him
except he and Hatch are friends." She glanced at one of the myriad clocks on the wall. "I need to
open back up. It's almost noon. People shop over their lunch break."

On the ride back to headquarters, Mike and Breton discussed Melissa's behavior, which had
been remarkably cool for a woman who claimed to be mourning her lover. She'd shown more
concern over Hatch's disappearance.

"That's one tough cookie," Breton said. "And nothing we told her was a surprise."

"She had her alibi ready."

"I'll tell you. Seeing her with Claire Marshall made me think."

"They could almost be sisters," Mike finished the sentence. The thought had occurred to
him the minute he walked into the shop. Palmer must have had a thing for tall slender
redheads.

"Yeah. And wouldn't that be a kick in the head? But the resemblance is only physical, if you
know what I mean. I'm thinking Marshall really isn't Palmer's type." Breton tapped his temple. "I
can tell you what kind of a car a man drives by looking at his wife, and this guy drove a Jag. We're
talking fast, sexy and high maintenance."

"Can you tell what kind of car a woman drives by looking at her husband?" He wondered if
Breton remembered that Claire Marshall drove a bright blue Miata, and if so, what the hell he
thought that meant.

"Go ahead, make fun. But I'm right. A guy like Palmer wants a woman other men would give
their left nut to have, not the girl next door. Have you seen a picture of his late wife?" He blew on his
fingers as if he had touched a hot stove.

"A man can look for very different things in a wife and in a mistress."

"From your mouth to God's ear," Breton said. "But I don't think Palmer cared about home
cooking."

In an attempt to pull the conversation back on track, Mike said, "I'd like to know how long
those two have known each other and how well. You saw them together. What's your
impression?"

"Hard to say. It started out confrontational. They passed a jewelry box back and forth, and
Marshall acted excited. Then everything calmed down, and they huddled like they were comparing
notes." Breton snickered. "I think someone should take a good look at Melissa, and I
volunteer."

"You can start by checking with the airline and the hotel, but I'll be very surprised if her
story doesn't hold up. The whole thing feels choreographed."

"How's that?"

"Both women in Palmer's life leave town the day before he disappears. He drives them to
the airport, separate trips. Then they do a little shuffle. The mistress scheduled to return on Friday
waits until Sunday. The fiancée scheduled to return Sunday comes back on Friday. They
shouldn't know each other, but they do."

"They could be in it together--Team Redhead. They find out about each other and decide to
get rid of him. M-O-T-I-V-E." He sang the letters.

"Either or both of them could be working with Hatch."

When they returned to headquarters, the state crime lab report was waiting on Mike's
desk. A cover memo said the analysis had been expedited at the request of the New Orleans Police
Department. Some days, politics pays off.

Lafourche Parish was right. The Jeep had been booby-trapped. A small explosive device had
detonated under the driver's seat. It set off the gasoline fumes in the car and that ignited the gas
tank. In the analyst's opinion, if this had occurred while the car was on the highway, the bomb
would have disabled the driver. The ensuing accident would have finished him off, if he wasn't dead
already.

"That's two," Mike said.

"Are we still talking about redheads?" Breton leered.

"Two almost perfect crimes. Think about it. If Palmer hadn't resisted despite being
drugged, his hyoid wouldn't have fractured--it was barely cracked--and we wouldn't know his
death was a homicide. If some kid hadn't tried to steal the Jeep, we wouldn't know it had been
booby-trapped. One more driver goes off the road, just another highway fatality. No one would have
sent the vehicle to the state crime lab."

Breton scowled at the lab report. "I'll try to feel lucky."

"I don't care how clever our killer is, his luck is going to run out."

"What do you think? Two shots at Palmer?"

"Could be, but I'm leaning toward the Hatch and a partner scenario. The Jeep was
booby-trapped because, once he'd torched the cabin, Hatch became expendable. A liability."

"I can't see Melissa building a car bomb. Did you notice the fingernails? Imagine them on
your back." Breton's leer returned. "Claire Marshall runs a small construction company. I bet she's
handy with tools."

Mike had trouble seeing either woman building a car bomb, but maybe he was being
old-fashioned. "If I'm right," he said, "Hatch better hope we find him before his partner does."

"If his partner hasn't found him already."

A peeling sign identified the two-story brick building as the Audubon View Apartments.
Dark stains beneath dripping air conditioners said no one cared. The flat-roofed structure reminded
Claire of an old motel alongside a highway made obsolete when the Interstate went through.
Numbered doors opened directly onto a cement walkway that separated the building from the
parking lot. At either end, a metal staircase led up to the narrow balcony serving as an outdoor
hallway for the second floor.

Hatch lived in apartment 209, second floor near the back.

She pulled into a space labeled VISITORS and scanned the half-empty lot. The spaces were
numbered, and 209 was empty. She climbed the back stairs and inserted the key. Coming here,
which had sounded reasonable when Melissa suggested it, now felt like a dumb idea. The odds of
finding a clue to Hatch's location had to be slim, but she was here.

There was a mail slot in the door but nothing on the floor in front of it. Either someone else
was picking up Hatch's mail or he was having it held at the post office. So much for that excuse.

She had expected dirty clothes on the floor, a litter of empty beer cans and overflowing
ashtrays, but the apartment was tidy, almost Spartan. A single recliner facing the TV, one chair at
the dinette table and a single bed shoved against the wall testified to a solitary life.
Nothing
wrong with that. I live alone, too.

An opening on the far wall led to a kitchenette. The two other doors, both closed, would be
the closet and the bathroom.

The closet was two-thirds empty, which didn't tell her anything. Hatch might not own
many clothes. She glanced into the bathroom and moved on to the kitchen. The drawer by the
phone held only old electric bills, phone bills with no long distance calls, and rent receipts--nothing
to indicate where Hatch might be now.