Patricia Dusenbury - Claire Marshall 01 - A Perfect Victim (18 page)

"Charges for what?" she said. "They admitted that I didn't break any law by not reporting
the cabin sooner. The fire was out. They practically admitted that everything happened while I was
a thousand miles away from Frank or his cabin."

Felix didn't answer until they were in his car and underway. "I think the police either know
or strongly suspect Hatch was involved in Frank's death. If you were conspiring with him, being in
Michigan when the cabin burned doesn't mean much."

His words hit her like a slap in the face. He was right. That's why the police kept asking
about Hatch. Going to his apartment had been unbelievably stupid.

"Don't look at me like that, Claire. I believe that you had nothing to do with either the fire
or Frank's death."

"Were you and Frank friends?" When talking to the police, Felix had referred to Frank as
Mr. Palmer but, when it was just the two of them, he said Frank.

"Not close, although certainly friends. In many ways, New Orleans is a small town."

She should have known. Paul, who was Frank's friend as well as his lawyer, had
recommended Felix. Paul had called and made an appointment for her when Felix's secretary said
his calendar was full. These men all knew each other. She was the outsider, needing their help and
dependent upon their goodwill. Had Frank told Felix they planned to marry?

"I'm afraid you'll be a suspect until the real criminal's found," he said. "If we need to, we'll
hire our own investigator. It's an expensive option, and I don't think necessary at this point. For
now, you should just sit tight."

Sit tight. That was easy for Felix to say. When he went to the bank, no sympathetic teller
whispered that the police had been asking about his finances. His picture wasn't on the front page
of the newspaper. No reporters lurked at the end of his driveway. He didn't wake up
sweat-drenched and terrified at 2:00 a.m.

The nightmare had recurred last night. This morning, driving in broad daylight on city
streets, she'd kept checking her rearview mirror, afraid she'd see the dark sedan. There was no
point telling Felix any of this. "Why on earth does anyone think I'd want to harm Frank?"

"Why doesn't really matter." He shrugged. "Human beings do all sorts of terrible things for
the flimsiest of reasons. The police know that."

And so, apparently, did Felix. She was still learning.

He dropped her back at her office with a final warning. "Don't discuss anything with the
police unless I'm present. I don't care how innocuous it might seem. And for God's sake, no more
visits to Hatch's apartment."

"I left my sweater there."

"Buy yourself a new sweater. The police are looking for a connection between the two of
you. Don't create one." That warning delivered, he drove away.

Claire changed into work clothes and drove over to the once and future Laurens family
home. She found Jack supervising the removal of lowered ceilings on the second floor, reported that
the meeting had gone well, and set herself up in the foyer. She'd measured every inch of the
bedraggled house and identified the original walls. Her next task was to discover what, if anything,
remained of architectural features that had been covered up. This search for buried treasure was
her favorite part of a restoration, but today she was distracted.

She slid the stud finder along the wall, looking for the fireplace and mantel that, she hoped,
lay behind the wallboard, and tried not to think about the police or Frank or Hatch. Through the
open front door, she saw a police car cruise slowly past. It probably had nothing to do with her. Or
maybe it did, because Felix was right. She moved the stud finder another four inches to the left,
marked where it indicated the beginning of something solid.

She was using a utility knife to cut a peek hole in the wallboard when her hand slipped, and
the blade sliced her palm. For a moment nothing happened, and then blood streamed down her
arm. She wrapped a rag around her hand to staunch the flow. The first aid kit was in her truck. Her
purse was there, too, and her pills.

A tight bandage stopped the bleeding. She lowered the windows and lay across the front
seat, waiting for the pill to kick in and for the queasy feeling to abate. Her new life, a haphazard
reconstruction at best, was falling apart. The panic attacks were back unless she took extra meds,
and then there were side effects. She'd cut herself because her concentration and coordination were
off.

What good were sleeping pills when sleep opened the door to nightmares? Her attempts to
find a witness to the fire had been a fool's game that only aroused suspicion.

Getting a lawyer had been smart.
Thank you, Captain Robinson.
Felix would help
with the police and their interrogations, but he couldn't do anything about the reporters who
waited at the end of her driveway with their cameras and microphones. He'd told her to be patient.
Another scandal would push Frank's death off the front page.

When?
Every day, some new event kept it there. Wednesday, it was the funeral.
Yesterday, the police announced that Frank had been murdered. Jeanette had been on television
every night, going on about the tragic romance and the honeymoon that never happened.

She found Jack and told him she was leaving early. The cut on her hand was nothing
serious, but the bandage made her clumsy. "I'll see you tomorrow morning.".

* * * *

Jeanette opened the door before Claire rang the bell. "I'm so glad you called. I wasn't doing
anything. Please come in. Let me give you a hug. You poor thing, how're you doing? Come in. Come
in. Oh, Claire, it's so wonderful to see you. Don't mind me. I've been crying ever since I saw on the
news last night that Frank was murdered. It was bad enough that he died, but murdered? I just can't
believe it. Are you thirsty? Can I fix you a coke?"

The act of pouring sodas helped Jeanette regain her composure. When they sat down, she
started talking about the honeymoon arrangements.

"I found a wonderful resort in Saint Barts. Frank said it was just what he was looking for.
You had an ocean view from your private balcony, your own honeymoon Jacuzzi, everything. It was
fantastic, right on the beach." The topic unleashed a new flood of tears. She blew her nose and
added the dirty tissue to the growing pile on the floor. "They even had a stable so you could go
riding. Frank said you liked horses."

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.

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.