Patricia Dusenbury - Claire Marshall 01 - A Perfect Victim

by Patricia Dusenbury

  "Him and his buddies are praying we get a flat. They want to watch us sweat while we change it." The Lieutenant chuckled at his own dark humor. "It won't do them any good. Our Firestones are stronger than their prayers."

  A painfully thin girl wearing fishnet stockings and what looked like black vinyl underwear tottered along on stiletto heels. She turned to watch them pass. A credit card imprint machine swung from her waist.

  Breton pointed with his chin. "That sweet young thing is on her way to church. She's singing in the choir today."

  This time Mike didn't smile. The girl looked about fourteen. She might be pretty if she cleaned up, but she'd be haggard by thirty, if she lived that long. There was not one damn thing funny about her.

  Breton caught his mood. "Might as well laugh. Pick her up and her pimp has her out in ten minutes. Whatever it costs, she pays back the hard way."

  Mike's nod acknowledged the truth of that statement, but he didn't smile. After twenty years in the army, beginning as an M.P. and ending in the Judge Advocate Group, he'd picked New Orleans and police work for his re-entry to civilian life. Two and a half months in, he wasn't sure either had been a good choice, but he was giving it a year.

  He liked a lot about this city, its easy-going generosity, the appreciation of life's simple pleasures, the food and the music. But he'd not foreseen the pervasive corruption that was the dark underside of Laissez les bon temps rouler. Thank God he worked homicide and not vice.

  "Vernon said you'd fill me in." Breton pulled up next to a No Parking sign in front of a café. "Long as we're here, what if we stop for beignets? Talk while we eat. Twenty minutes from now, Palmer will still be dead."

  Mike had planned to brief him in during the drive to Lafourche Parish, but Breton was antsy and now was as good a time as any. He waited on the sidewalk while the Lieutenant eased his girth from behind the steering wheel. Both patio and indoors were crowded. Tourists lined up outside the door, laughing and talking as they waited for another famous taste of New Orleans, not noticing the locals who slipped in and out on a faster track. "You order," he said. "I'll grab a table."

  "How many do you want?"

  "Coffee will do me." He caught a busboy's eye, flashed his badge, and was given the next open table.

  Breton returned with the coffee and set a bag in the middle of the table. "In case you change your mind. Why do we care about a house fire in Lafourche Parish?"

  "Someone called Superintendent Vernon Friday night when Palmer missed an important engagement. He'd gone fishing in the Gulf with an employee early in the week and hadn't been seen since."

  "Someone had Vernon's home number?" Breton was surprised enough to talk with his mouth full. "That's a well-connected someone. I assume we rose to the occasion."

  "A patrol officer stopped by the house, found no one home and a note from Palmer's fiancée taped to the front door. She's looking for him, too. That was it until yesterday afternoon when Lafourche Parish called. They're looking for Palmer because his cabin burned and his Jeep exploded, killing a kid who was trying to steal it. The Jeep blew last Wednesday. The cabin fire, they don't know yet. Someone passed the call to Vernon, who got back to the well-connected friend, who leaned on the Sheriff's Office. Deputies searched the cabin and found the body."

  "Two questions."

  "Go ahead."

  "The Jeep blows up Wednesday and Lafourche Parish calls us Saturday?"

  "They found the VIN late Friday. The Jeep belonged to Palmer's company, which was closed for the weekend. They planned to call Monday morning. Follow-up became more urgent when someone reported the cabin fire and the kid died."

  "Does Palmer's well-connected friend have a name?"

  "Not yet." He'd asked for a name but Vernon said, later, if they needed to talk to him. It was a bullshit answer, the implied lack of trust noted and not appreciated. He took a swallow of the heavily milked coffee.

  "Vernon's a jackass, and Palmer's friend, whoever he is, doesn't know shit. Lafourche Parish can handle a cabin fire or a homicide without our help." Breton helped himself to the last beignet. "But that's politics, and this city is full of it."

  "Politics happen everywhere." There had been plenty of politics in the military. There had also been honor and a shared sense of purpose, the belief they were working together for a greater good.

  "If something goes right, Vernon grabs the credit. If something goes wrong, it's your ass in a sling." Rising color in Breton's face suggested both anger and high blood pressure. "The Vermin, that's what they call him. Palmer's a big deal. There's going to be a lot of heat. The Vermin wants me on the case because I'm two months away from retirement. If someone has to be thrown to the wolves, I'm expendable."

  Surprised Mike held up a calming hand. "A. I assigned you to the case. B. We don't know yet if Palmer's death was homicide. No need to go off the deep end."

  But Breton was already there. "What about the employee? Anybody ask what happened to him? And the fiancée, anyone talk to her?" When Mike raised an eyebrow he added, "Sir."

  "We've tried, so far without success, to locate both Ronald Hatch, the employee, and Claire Marshall, the fiancée. We'll encourage Lafourche Parish to have an arson team go over the cabin. There'll be an autopsy on Palmer's body. If they don't want to do it, we will. Vernon wants all possibilities covered."

  "Vernon wants to cover his own his high-ranking ass. Everything else comes second."

  "Let's go." He'd heard enough. "We can talk about details on the way to Thibodaux. Palmer had a fiancée, but he lived alone. His housekeeper is waiting for us."

  Frank Palmer had lived in a neighborhood of quaint, well-maintained homes. Fresh paint and window boxes overflowing with colorful flowers created a festive air. The heavy wrought iron that guarded every exposed window, door or driveway told another story. Graceful curlicues interspersed with sharp spikes did the same job as razor wire. Number 43 was the largest house on the block and the only one with a real front yard.

  "Look at that place," Breton said as he pulled up to the curb. "It's a goddamned fortress. Palmer should've stayed home where he'd be nice and safe. Hell, I should stay home where I'm nice and safe. Being a short-termer makes me nervous. You know what I mean."

  "The housekeeper's name is Rosa Taylor." Mike climbed out of the car and walked up to the front door without waiting for a response.

  A dark wraith in a maid's uniform answered the bell. She looked to be a hundred years old and thin enough to slip through the spaces in the ironwork.

  "Mrs. Taylor?" He showed his badge. "We're from the police department."

  She eyed them suspiciously. "They told me you were coming, but like I told them, Mr. Palmer's not home."

  "We have some bad news, and we're hoping you can help us. May we come in?"

  She pulled a ribbon necklace from under her dress. Two of the several keys threaded onto it unlocked the deadbolts on the security door. She stepped back to let them enter and waited, expressionless.

  "We're here with bad news." He said it again to give her a chance to prepare herself. "Would you like to sit down?"

  "I'll stay standing."

  "Mr. Palmer has passed away."

  Her expression didn't change, but she swayed on her feet. He put a supporting hand under her elbow, a bone so delicate it felt like holding a bird.

  He helped her to a chair. "Can I get you a drink of water?"

  "I don't want nothing. What do you want from me?"

  "We're hoping you can help us locate Mr. Palmer's next of kin." The mysterious well-connected friend might have informed them already, but Vernon wanted to make sure the Department did its part.

  "There's none that claims him." It was a flat statement, but when he didn't respond, she amended it. "Miz Annie Lewis passed five years ago, his mother and father before then, and he didn't have brothers nor sisters. The only ones still on this earth are Miz Fulton, Annie Lewis's mother. She's got no use for Mr. Frank." She paused for two breaths that ended
with a sigh. "And Annalisa, who don't want nothing to do with no one."

  "What about Claire Marshall, Mr. Palmer's fiancée?"

  "Never heard of her." A flip of her hand dismissed Claire Marshall.

  "Do you know where we could find contact information for Mrs. Fulton and Annalisa?"

  "His phone numbers are in a box on top of his desk, but I expect you want to talk to Mr. Gilbert."

  "Would that be Paul Gilbert the attorney?" Breton joined the conversation, his short-timer disease temporarily cured by curiosity.

  Rosa nodded assent. "Mr. Frank always said the first thing to do when trouble strikes is call Mr. Gilbert."

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

  "Tuesday morning at breakfast. I left him dinner in the icebox, but he didn't eat it."

  "Did he sleep in his bed Tuesday night?"

  "Not that I could tell. You want those phone numbers?"

  She led them to a room at the back of the house. Heavy shutters closed against the heat of the day kept the room near total darkness. Rosa flicked a switch by the door, and several lamps came on, revealing walls covered with hunting trophies and furnishings that looked as if they'd come from a nineteenth century barrister's office.

  "In there." She nodded toward a large Rolodex beside the phone, and then pointed to a brass circle embedded in the floor. "Mash that when you're ready to leave, I'll come show you out."

  "We'll just be a minute," Mike said. "Why don't you wait here." If Palmer's death was a homicide, they'd come back with a warrant, and he didn't want any questions about what he and Breton had done today.

  "I'll wait in the hall."

  "Bet she doesn't like all the dead animals." Breton nudged a footstool made from an elephant's foot. "Is this thing real?" He started to turn it over.

  "Don't poke around," Mike said. "We're looking for phone numbers, period."

  "Rosa talking about Annie Lewis rang a bell, but I'm not coming up with anything."

  "Palmer's late wife. She died five years ago. Annalisa, their only child, was fourteen at the time."

  Breton did the math. "Which would make her nineteen."

  "She ran away the day after her mother's funeral. Vernon said rumor is Palmer found her. She didn't want to come home. She was safe, and so he agreed to let her stay gone. See if you can find her contact information--Annalisa Palmer. Estranged or not, someone has to notify her of her father's death. While you're at it, check for Mrs. Fulton and Gilbert."

  Breton's search of the Rolodex produced numbers for Annette Fulton and Paul Gilbert but nothing for Annalisa. "Two out of three ain't bad." He sang a line from a popular song.

  "We'll call Gilbert first. He might have contact information for Annalisa. If we're lucky, he'll want to notify the family." Mike wouldn't mind if Palmer's lawyer took over that dirty job. Informing a person that someone they loved had died, not of old age or in their sleep but suddenly and violently, was difficult no matter how many times you'd done it.

  "Gilbert is Mister fix-it."

  "Do you know him?"

  "Only by reputation. They say Paul Gilbert knows where every skeleton in New Orleans is buried and how many teeth it has." Breton's tone conveyed a mix of disgust and grudging respect. "He helped bury most of them."

  CHAPTER 6

  Claire slept late and would have slept later if Dorian hadn't run out of patience. He sat on the floor just out of reach and meowed until she gave up.

  "Okay, okay, I'm hungry, too."

  She crawled out of bed and staggered into the kitchen. The number scrawled on the pad beside the phone brought her fully awake. She fed Dorian and went outside to check on her car.

  The trip to Frank's cabin hadn't resulted in any dents or scrapes, but Felicia's dirt-encrusted grill and mud-splattered sides called for more than a hosing off. She fixed herself a piece of peanut butter toast--she was starved--got dressed and went looking for a car wash open on Sunday morning.

  By the time she returned home, it was almost noon, and there were no new messages on her answering machine. She tried without success to reach Frank, decided she didn't want to talk to Bobby and called the Lafourche Parish Sheriff's Department. The switchboard operator put her through to Deputy Jason Corlette, who recognized her name and said he'd been planning to call her.

  "I think I recognized the man in the drawing, the man who was driving the Jeep. It looks like Hatch, Frank Palmer's driver."

  Two hours later, she sat across from his desk. The deputy looked young and very Cajun, with dark hair and sharp features. His voice had sounded harsh on the phone, but in person, it was deep and twangy, like a country singer's.

  "Thank you for coming in, Miss Marshall. Or is it Mrs.?"

  His eyes slid down to her left hand, and she tucked it under her arm, hiding the band of pale flesh that was the ghost of her wedding ring. "Claire is fine."

  Although she'd agreed to let him tape the interview, he also took notes. She told him about recognizing Hatch, adding the caveat that she wasn't absolutely certain because she'd only spoken to him once. "I don't really know him." Nor did she want to.

  She'd seen Hatch sitting behind the wheel while he waited for Frank, but they hadn't spoken until the first time she and Frank went out to dinner. Frank had suggested they take his car and introduced his driver. Hatch, who responded to Frank's orders with squared shoulders and immediate obedience, had flicked a dismissive glance in her direction and grunted a hello. He'd pulled away from the curb while she was reaching forward to shake hands.

  At dinner, her inhibitions loosened by two glasses of wine, she'd asked Frank why he employed such an ill-mannered chauffeur. He laughed it off, but that was the last time she saw Hatch. From then on, when they met at his cottage, Frank drove himself.

  "It looks as if your identification is on target," Deputy Corlette said. "What else can you tell us about Mr. Hatch?"

  "He works for Frank Palmer, drives him around and runs errands. That's all I know."

  "All you know about Hatch," he qualified her statement. "What about the cabin that burned? What were you doing there?"

  "I wanted to talk to Frank--Mr. Palmer. My company is renovating a cottage he owns in New Orleans, and he's been asking me to look at his cabin--the one that burned. He wants to fix it up. Yesterday was a nice day for a drive." She shrugged. "I had some free time."

  Each statement was true, but together they obscured the truth. At least she hoped so. She wanted to avoid the complicated and ridiculous story of not being engaged to Frank Palmer, especially because she wasn't absolutely sure he was the one telling people. But if not Frank, who else?

  "You called us from a restaurant in Grand Isle."

  Claire nodded. The sheriff's department must have traced her call.

  "You drove all the way to the beach before reporting the fire?"

  His question could have been an accusation, but his sympathetic tone made it sound like an effort to understand. Would he understand if she told him that she suffered a panic attack and ran to the water the way a wounded animal runs to its lair? She'd have to admit that taking too much Xanax had clouded her judgment. She'd driven when she shouldn't.

  "I didn't see any other cabins," she said, "and once I was on the highway, I just kept going. It wasn't far."

  He tapped his pen on several papers that were lying face down on his desk. A half frown raised his eyebrows and gave him a puzzled expression. "What did you do the rest of the day?"

  "I walked on the beach, went swimming. It was a spur of the moment trip. I had to buy myself a bathing suit and a beach towel." She tried a little joke. "The store was having an end of season clearance. I bought a new outfit too. Can't resist a sale."

  He ignored her weak attempt at humor, and Claire put herself in his shoes. A deputy sheriff would see nothing amusing about a woman who ran away from a burned cabin and went to the beach. What would he think if he knew that at least four hours elapsed between the time she discovered the fire and
the time she reported it? Did he suspect she'd delayed calling about Hatch because she hoped someone else would call first? She wasn't like Tom, who saw a house on fire and ran inside because he could help.

  "Claire?"

  "I'm sorry, what did you say?" She brought herself back to the present.

  "What did you do with the clothes you were wearing?"

  "I threw them away." When he looked surprised, she said, "They were filthy and torn. I fell in the mud on the path to the dock."

  "You said this was your first visit to Mr. Palmer's cabin." When she nodded, he continued, "Your first trip, and you drove alone from New Orleans to an isolated cabin on the off chance that he'd be there?"

  "It was more than an off chance. His secretary said he was there or out fishing." She raised her chin and looked him in the eye. "I drive alone to lots of places."

  He made another note and asked several questions about what she'd done after finding the burned cabin. Then he just sat there, as if he had all the time in the world to listen to whatever she had to say and to wait for her to get around to whatever she wasn't saying.

  "I'm worried about Frank. I've been unable to reach him. I thought he and Hatch had gone somewhere in the Jeep, but the news said Hatch was alone. Do you know? Has something happened?"

  Deputy Corlette put his pen down and picked up the top piece of paper. His eyes flicked from whatever was written on it to her face.

  "What?" Claire said, alarmed by his solemn expression.

  "I regret to inform you that we found a man's body in the cabin. From all indications, it is Frank Palmer" He put the paper down and placed his notepad on top of it.

  "Oh, no. That's awful. I'm so sorry." Frank's body had been there the whole time. No wonder that clearing had felt haunted. She shuddered. If she'd gone inside that burned cabin, she would have found him.

  "I know it's a shock. Are you all right?"

  "I'd convinced myself they weren't there," she said, "that they were out in another boat or off in the Jeep. Even after I saw Hatch on TV... I don't understand what could have happened. Why he didn't get out."

  "We're trying to understand, too. So, can you tell us anything that might make our job easier?"